This story was placed third in a Short story Competition.

My mother used to say: If you wish upon the first star that appears at night, whatever you wish for will always come true.
I believed her once. But she's been cold in her grave now for nigh on thirty years. Me? well, I've become a grumpy old cynic, one who no longer believes in magic.
When does that happen exactly?
I don't recall going to bed one night believing in magic, in fairies, then waking up the next morning, thinking: Ha! Today's the day I Grow Up. Today's the day I don't believe in Once Upon A Time anymore, I don't believe in Happily Ever After.
No...it doesn't work like that.
It creeps up on you all unawares: bit by bit; stealthily; leaving you dry and arid like a desert.
The day after my mother died back in 1976, I tried again. I went out in the back garden as dusk was gathering, hugged my thin cardigan to my body - inadequate protection against the chill November air - and stared wide-eyed up into the darkness...waiting.
I stood there for fifteen minutes, teeth chattering. The neighbour's Jack Russell yapping at me from the other side of the fence. She came out once, Old Mary, to tell Trixie to stop making all that noise, then saw me standing in the shadows and hurried back indoors. Probably to tell her Bill that the death of my mother had addled my brain - why else would I be standing in the dark, in nightie and cardie, on a cold winter's night.
Anyway, I wished on that first star - the pole star I believe it's called - but my mother stayed dead: taken before her time. All I succeeded in doing was catch a chill which laid me up in bed for three days. Doctor Harker said it was a combination of stress, depression and under-eating. Bah...what do doctors know? I was up and about again within a week.
Lately I've felt the urge again. To wish upon a star. I think my mother, God bless her, got it wrong. I don't think it is the first star you wish on. No, I think it's the last...the very last star that appears in the night sky. After all, any-ole-body can easily spot the first star: there's nothing special about that. But the last star...ahh...now there's a completely different kettle of fish.
You try it.
You have to be a dedicated star-gazer to spot the very last star that winks into existence among the millions and trillions of other white twinkling dots.
Two weeks I've been trying. Two weeks I've been watching...waiting. When I eventually spot that last star...then I know my wish will come true.
The trouble is, my wish has changed. I no longer want my mother to become mortal once more; the days without her no longer pain me.
I am old myself now: old and tired of life.
Now I wish for the knight of death to carry me away on his ebony black stallion.
My mother was wrong.
I must keep searching for that final star....

Gone Fishing.....

MACKENZIE'S COTTAGE (part one).

It was Johnny's idea to go fishing in Spindle's Creek. It was also Johnny's idea to take the short cut back home through Mackenzie's wood. And it was Johnny's idea to shelter in Mackenzie's Cottage when the weather broke. The first idea was a good one, the second idea a bad one, and the third idea...well, the third idea was the last idea Johnny ever had.

We were at one with the world that summer: Johnny, Marty and me. I know that sounds trite but it was true. we had all reached and passed our fifteenth birthdays so considered ourselves more adult than child, and the summer was proving to be a fine one. School had let out two weeks earlier and we were determined to enjoy the long awaited freedom that lay uncharted before us.

'Youth is wasted on the young,' proclaimed Oscar Wilde, via Mrs Morris our Engliah teacher on the last day of term. Far be it for me to contradict such a great man, but I think old Oscar got that one well and truly wrong. Youth was most certainly not wasted by either Johnny, Marty or myself. Not that summer anyway. We lived our lives to the full, each and every day.

As we strolled along the road that led out of Parish, fishing rods slung over our shoulders, Johnny thumbed his baseball cap back on his forehead and began to whistle into the cloudless blue sky. It was that kind of a day.

On the outskirts of the village we passed St. Michael's: our school. Mr Townsend, the caretaker, was cutting grass. He raised a hand in greeting. We all waved back. Smiling. Happy and carefree.

Spindle's Creek lay just beyond the village. There were two routes we could take, both of which led us down to the riverside. The first, the way we were going now, took just over an hour. It meant walking a couple of miles along Bosun's way: the main road out of Parish, and then branching off to the right and walking another three or four miles down Spindle's Lane until we arrived at the cool shady banks of the creek.

The alternative was to go through Mackenzie's Wood.

The way through the wood was barely two miles. You entered the trees at the back of Randall's Orchard and popped out twenty minutes later at the bottom of Spindle's Lane. Right beside the water.

But we didn't go that way.

Ever.

The wood was said to be haunted by the ghost of Old Man Mackenzie himself.

...TO BE CONTINUED...