Following Yonder Star by Jane Bidder

Forget that “field and fountain” rubbish. Desert and scrubland, more like. It’s no joke traipsing after yonder star for nights on end with sand in every crevice and a corpulent king on your hump. No prizes for guessing who got saddled with the gold. My two so-called chums who aren’t carrying gold are so smug I could spit. 

Hullo, we’ve arrived. Call this a barn? Barely a shack. Stuffed with kneeling humans, confused sheep and incontinent cows. Mmmm, hay smells fresh, though. 

Blimey, one measly mangerful won’t go far. Bags I first dibs. 

Waiter! There’s a baby in my supper… 

Published in Issue #23

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