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FORWARD
This is a story about The Fountain of Youth, a heavy handed allegory; there are many like it, but this one is mine -although it can be disassembled relatively quickly, military training is not recommended-  Many, many years ago this was a subject of great importance for lunatics and ponce-off-ers, what an affront to The Big Guy, right?

CHAPTER ONE
                  The fact is, the facts are, a distilled crock of effluence (poop!) and we are, you is, water-boarded with the like. In case you didn’t know, water-boarding is a form of torture, which, in case you didn’t know, is a not very nice thing that not very nice people do. It involves the obvious components, plus one victim and one stereotypically hooded tormentor -mine were both men and women (they still are I think)- The water is poured onto the poor bloke’s block (face) until the perpetrator of the punishment gets what they want. To say that crap is poured down our throats is an overstatement and an understatement since crap, literally first, figuratively second, is the sum of what it’s made of and the product of whoever makes it. Tortura del agua, torture of the water, they did it in the Inquisition too, bastards, I am afraid of drowning.
         
CHAPTER TWO          
Scene 1 (A scene is a peopled-place, this one is no different.)
                “My name is Miguel, I live by a well. If the well runs dry we will all die.” Idled lymericking as children do, when it’s hot out, when it’s cold out. Besides, his name was Emilio not Miguel.
                “Ay, Ni ño! “ “Boy! Do not say such things, they are bad luck.“ Emilio said (the man, not the boy-there is arrogance, to name your progeny after yourself like you are some kind of winning racehorse. My children will be named after ideals, hah! That was another joke.) He was as superstitious as any old catholic.

                “Padre, tengo hambre”  “I’m hungry, when is dinner?”

         “We will eat when your mother finishes making the tortillas. Do you want to play soccer?”

         “No, the ground is too rocky.” He kicked a rock, sometimes they were loose and would come out of the earth. Then he could kick the rock around, until he lost the rock or got bored.

         “Don’t be foolish, the ground has always been rocky. We will play soccer until the tortillas are ready.”

         “Bien”

CHAPTER THREE          
         Well. Now what, I found it and it is here and now I don’t know what I want to do. I looked for it and I found it, that is all, that is what I expected, I guess, what else could I expect. A small fissure in the red clay-rock, there are trees here, there is a mountain here. The clay is red because there is so much iron in it, I bet –I don’t bet, gambling is a silly thing, you always lose!- The color reminds me of the taste of the water from the fountains at school when I was younger and the color of the walls at that school reminded me of hospital walls. Hospital walls aren’t sad, they are angry walls. The maintenance staff paint with muted colors, like they mix in too much white; sea foam green sick, slathered, up from the floor, a mind numbing uniform coating to placate the patrons. It only covers the walls and makes them angrier, makes me angrier. I am alone here like I was then, nobody wants to be alone in a hospital but everyone is. Que triste.
         I should store some of the water in my bottle; I brought it along after all. I brought two bottles, one to keep my drinking water in of course, but then again its all drinking water, isn’t it? It’s a long way back and I will be thirsty again and again.
         
CHAPTER FOUR
                Remember when folk didn’t have air conditioning? That was a long time ago. Fat people still sit on their couches, sweating sticky, salty, squeezing into their cottons. It is uncomfortable to be, there; so they buy big ugly boxes and sticky them in their small ugly windows to cool their big ugly butts. Their couches stink, they stink like them and people notice but don’t say anything. Remember when folk didn’t have couches? I don’t.
                Too bad George Carlin was wrong, but it’s so obvious when you think about it. He wasn’t wrong, really, so much as ass backwards -we used to say bass ackwards, I always thought that was funny but nobody else did, to be honest. They just gave the obligatory chuckle or ignored it, but I always thought it was funny- A place for our stuff is not what is important, (is given importance, like a thing) but taking up space, there lies the unicorn! Think about it, people do everything they can to take up space; hah space, like outer space, that too. Make babies! They fill baby-shaped holes in the world, and diamond rings fit diamond ring holes. Heavens! There is a HOLE in the OZONE! We need that to breathe right? Cut down the trees to make more cow shaped holes to fill the hamburger shaped holes. Plant more trees, (to fill the tree shaped holes, duh) to fill the purpose/duty/make-a-difference shaped holes. Holes are space, intangible, but fillable.




CHAPTER FIVE
Scene 2
         He liked the corn tortillas that his mother made, best of all. He liked the feel of them in his hands, flippy-flop, back and forth.
         “Stop playing with your food.” She would always say to him. His mother had fine lines running from her eyes around her cheek bones, she was never very pretty, never very ugly either. The age spots on her skin looked like the spots in her tortillas. He would think about her spots sometimes, even though he was young he thought he would remember those when she died. Everybody dies and he knew that. His tio had. His abuela had. He was twelve then, and not sad anymore, other people had died too but he didn’t care, he wondered if they would care when he died (they would get over it). When his abuela was alive they used to say a long prayer before eating, he couldn’t remember it or he didn’t want to, he forgets. They didn’t say prayers before they ate anymore, except a simple Dios bendiga la comida, it was a mumbling, though.

CHAPTER SIX
         There is always a test, like a trial of worthiness, whenever the hero reaches the treasure. It’s not enough that he proved himself throughout the journey, he has to stand before a make or break decision and chose the correct course of action or suffer the end-all mooting. It’s fair and it’s not fair I think; for me to reach that point, now, is not poetic justice but just poetics (see I can do it too). Both of my water bottles are empty, the one is useless, the other insignificant, both are crucial to my survival.
         I turned back towards the “fountain.” Isn’t that what brought me here in the first place?
Sí.