Two stone monoliths gather moss in the English countryside.
They aren’t calendar constructions. Ancient, hairy druids didn’t erect them for inscrutable purposes of archaeoastronomy. They aren’t puzzling, iconic heads on Easter Island. No aliens buried them to deliver a mysterious message when light struck them at sunrise.
They’re just a couple of big, eroded blocks of granite. It’s likely that the last glacier that passed through this area rudely dropped them off. The closeness of the smaller stone is just bad fortune for the larger of the menhirs.
You just can’t ditch an irritating little brother who’s always tagging along.
100 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt: