Stonehenge

Word Count: 998



         The letter had been a complete surprise.  I had won first prize in a contest—a three-week tour of the British Isles, for me and the companion of my choice, culminating in a private visit to Stonehenge.  The funny thing was I didn’t remember entering any contest.  But after all, a free trip was a free trip.

         I called my friend, Shari, and told her to arrange for some time off.  We were going on an adventure.  And perhaps, we’d meet some interesting men along the way.

         We flew from New York to Dublin, and spent four hectic days seeing Ireland.  Then we took a day trip to the Channel Islands, before beginning nearly two weeks of touring England and Scotland.  And our guide, Tyra, seemed to have all the really great guys marked out on her map.

         Gorgeous men appeared where ever we stayed, wining and dining us, but remaining perfect gentlemen, all the while.  After the first week, we were beginning to believe what we’d heard about English men being sexually ambiguous at best.  By the end of the second, we were wondering what was wrong with us. 

         It’s not as if we were expecting to meet the men of our dreams.  But sometimes, defending your honor—or not—isn’t such a bad thing.  Besides, what’s a fabulous vacation without a romance?  Or at least a little bit of flirting? 

         And throughout the trip, or Tyra kept raving about Stonehenge.  Now, Shari and I had ‘Googled’ it before we left, so we had an basic idea of it’s age, and some of the theories about what it was and why it had been built—not that we really cared.  After all, the trip was the thing.  And apparently a private viewing of the site was a very BIG deal.  At least that’s what everyone we spoke with said.

         The morning of the ‘visit’ dawned foggy and cold, which was surprising, since it had been unusually pleasant and unseasonably mild. Tyra handed us each a travel cup of cocoa along with two long black capes when we complained of the cold.  We wrapped ourselves up well, and started walking the perimeter, taking pictures and reading information plaques.  Neither one of us really liked cocoa much, but the wind was bitingly cold, and at least it was hot.  It tasted pretty bad, but it was hot.

         What was even weirder was when she came away from the van, she was wearing her own cape—only it seemed fancier, with embroidered letters or something all around the edges.  We were just starting the long climb up to the actual stones, when several charter buses pulled up.  Tyra urged us on our way and walked back. 

         We thought she was sending them away…or at least telling them that they were going to have to wait until we were through.  But when we glanced back over our shoulders, the people from the buses were gathering around her. 

         We looked at each other and then back at Tyra.  She didn’t look uncomfortable and they didn’t look like they were rioting—and after all, that was her job, wasn’t it?  I took another sip of hot chocolate.  It still tasted bad, but I was suddenly thirsty.  And when I turned to Shari, she was drinking her’s too. 

         And icy drizzle started, making us even colder, and finishing the chocolate seemed to be our only hope of warmth.  Just about the time we both look up from our cups, the already iron sky darkened even more—it was almost as if we were experiencing an eclipse.  Really, it was that dark.

         Suddenly Tyra was standing between us, which was strange, since I don’t remember her moving from down by the buses.  The fog whirled around our feet as it thickened and a wind kicked up.  In fact, the fog was so dense, I couldn’t seem to focus correctly, and kind of stumbled up the last few feet to the ancient circle of stones. 

I think Shari said something to me, but everything was muffled and fuzzy.  And I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was something funny about the way she was moving.  Tyra was walking just behind us, urging us on into the circle.

Miraculously, as soon as we entered inside the ring of stone, the rain stopped, the fog disappeared as if a fan had blown it away, and the leaden sky brightened.  People encircled the stones, holding hands and chanting.  And Tyra was taking the capes from us.

There was something wrong…  Well, maybe it wasn’t ‘wrong’…  But something was definitely not right.  The stones seemed straighter, newer and cleaner.  And as I stared over at Shari, she looked older.  She seemed to be looking at me funny.  I went to turn, but a twinge shot through my back, and I reached up to steady myself on the nearest stone. 

It was then I saw the back of my hand.  I’ve always been proud of my hands—of my long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails.  But the hand I saw was leathery and covered in age spots.  And my nails were yellowed and broken.

I felt weird—as if my skin were shrinking around me.  I felt drier and drier, and as I looked over at Shari, I could see flakes of her skin blowing away.  My skin felt tighter, closing in on my bones, and my skin began flaking off too. 

The chanting was getting louder and louder.  Shari was getting older each second and I could feel my bones crumbling.  Hell, I could hear my bones crumbling—or maybe it was Shari’s I heard. 

Everything was getting fuzzier.  I actually felt I was dissolving.  There was just a pile of rags where Shari had stood minutes before.  And the last thing I noticed was that all the men we’d met along the way were in the crowd of now dancing revelers…and then, I was gone.