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There was an old man, sitting by the fire. A pale rug tucked into his chin, long folds and creases resembling his aged face snaked away into his seat. He rocked slowly, listing to the faint chimes of the wireless, turned to full volume. Outside, a nurse knocked. She waited, then knocked again while entering. She brought a young man behind her, his face gleaming with youthful exuberance.
 "You have a guest Max", she explained
 "Are you my grandson?" Max asked the young man.
 "No," I replied. "Not quite."
I don't know why I said that. I wasn't nearly his grandson, after all. After fussing for a few moments, the nurse left us alone, and I poured Max a drink. He drank it slowly, a few drops trickled down his chin and dropped onto his blanket. As they spread out, the colour returned to the aged knitwear. When I looked back to Max, his youthful countenance looked back at me. He smiled, turning his hand this way and that in front of him.
 "Wow, thanks for that!" He exclaimed. "Are you my grandson?"
My smiled faded away. Throwing the rug over Max's head, I threw him out the window, and jumped after. Bundling him into my waiting van, we fled before the guards could catch us.
 I'll never know why Max was in that place, or what they wanted of him, but I can live with that for now. Behind us, the sirens started and the giant old man burst through the wall again, smashing aside the cars in the car park and ripping up lamp-posts.
 But that wasn't my problem any more. I look to the future now.
 My show's on at nine, for one thing

It's nearly all over, don't worry.

Image by B Tal via FlickrDawn's early light caressed our tired faces. We'd started climbing early in the morning, guided by the light of the moon or something, arriving on the final plateau several minutes ago. In front of us, the fountain. It was like a fountain of some sort, with water coming out of the top. In fact, the water was spraying out of the upturned hosepipe of a stone gnome. Nearby, other statuettes of the little people frolicked happily - one gnome tricked another with a joke flower, dispensing splashes of youth-restoring water in his friend's astonished face. Another gnome, his trousers dropped, engaged in an activity not fit for the eyes of ladies or the young. A third dispensed waters from a tiny watering can, and so on. The overall effect was one of stupidity. Despite the many healing abilities the water could offer, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to destroy the ridiculous fountain in front of us.
 Around me, the party gathered. Looking sadly at the scene in front of us, they captured their fleeting thoughts and prepared to talk.
 "That. Is ridiculous."
I looked at Pinball Ed. He was right, of course, but I didn't like the way he punctuated his sentence.
 "Wait!" The Red Baron yelled, "Where is ze Rat-like one?"
Ze. I thought to myself. You're just saying "ze" instead of "the" occasionally. You're not German at all. Then my anger dissipated as I probed his exclamation - Sergi was no-where to be seen.
 Adventurer Ed flicked open the holster to his revolver, pulling the antique weapon out and searching behind nearby rocks. I approached the fountain, it seemed a good idea to see if it worked.
 I reached out my cupped hands.
 I scooped up some water.
 Then I drunk it and got young again, and things began to go back to normal.
 Emerging from behind a rock, Sergi approached us, bearing a treacherous-looking tray of smoothies. Quickly, Adventurer Ed turned and began to take aim.
 "I found a smoothie bar" Sergi called out, his happiness suddenly evaporating as a bullet punctured his chest. Stumbling, clutching dramatically, he reached the edge of the cliff. Adventurer Ed took aim and fired again, sending the dirty, foreign-looking chap to his death. We all cheered, then bottled up some water and went home.

Why am I still doing this?

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"Didn't you used to write a blog? One with short, unconnected stories?"
 Pinball Ed, his eyes aglow with curiosity, and possibly a little dysentery, was literally on the edge of his seat. Well, rock. In his aglowed eyes, his curiosity burned like a forest-fire, his question the last monkey to escape, filled with wonder and horror.
 "Yes." I replied. It was cold, the nights seemed longer the higher up the mountain we got, and my nipples had hardened and chaffed on my top. I didn't feel like talking, and I was still old and my hearing failed like the brakes on a car that had had the breaks cut so the breaks failed like the hearing of an old man up a mountain.
 "What happened?" He asked, his eyes still curiously lit up.
 "I started to write stories that spanned several days. It was fun at first, I enjoyed the change. It let me talk about selling oranges in the desert, and bears. I liked to talk about bears, back then."
 I turned from him melodramatically, the cruel wind whipping the tear from my eye and hurling it from my face into the maelstrom around us.
 "The stories though. They got out of hand. Too long, spiralling. Strange and stupid."
 "How?" He asked.
We were on a mountain, I was old and we were searching for the fountain of youth. All that had happened was that Max, one fateful day, answered the door. Poor, stupid Max. On these cold mountains, even his wrinkled face was one I missed. I wondered what he was doing, while I scaled mountains to bring back waters to restore our youth.
 Around me, pterodactyls flew in the winds. They didn't come near anymore, we'd shown them off at least. There never used to be pterodactyls...

A small update

Image by sir_watkyn via FlickrThe fountain gleamed. I'd never really seen anything gleam before, not like this. The gleamingness of the whole situation was made all the more impressive by distance. The distance, in this case, was the same distance as one would have to travel to climb a large mountain. This was because the Fountain of Youth was at the top of a large mountain, the bottom of which we were gently fondling.

 The rain had eased up as we approached the centre of the island. Falling around us lightly, forming a fine mist, the waters no longer troubled us. We had climbed a little of the mountain, finding a flat area and setting up camp for the night. Sergi had retreated into a corner, his face not quite hidden from the light of the campfire, planning some foreign trick to betray us for his own benefit. In the morning, provided we haven't been rolled of a cliff edge or force-fed Marmite, we will continue the trek. With any luck, we can traverse most of the mountain tomorrow. But I still feel worried. Perhaps it's nothing, just a nagging doubt I'm slowing the group down.

 Damn my elderly incontinence. Damn it!

In the jungle, the mighty jungle...

Image via WikipediaThere are fucking dinosaurs!
 Musical numbers aside though, our situation looked dire. Fleeing from the dinosaur of dinosauric proportions and attributes, we had made our way through a vast tract of jungle. Eventually, chancing upon a mountain ridge, we had taken shelter in a small cave, the entrance to which was too small for an unlubricated dinosaur to enter. With the rains still battering down, and the the threat of being battered and eaten still raining down in our brains, we decided to spend the night in the cave. It seemed safe, and a good thing for adventurers to do. However, as the sun rose and we awoke uneaten, unmolested and unfit, we find ourselves unable to find our location on the map.
 Shouting in Welsh, further throwing doubts on his apparent Barony of the colour red, the Red Baron made his anger clear on the subject. Sergi, his ratlike, untrustworthy foreign features (I'm still old, I have to be a bit racist and not realise that it's racism) contorted into thought, retreated to a corner like a rat. A foreign rat.
 Myself, wizard Ed and Adventurer Ed exited the cave and climbed to higher ground, hoping to survey the area. The others, after finishing their tantrums, followed us. We surveyed, but did not learn.
 The jungle spread out around us, vanishing into the horizon. Remembering the island had been only a mile-and-a-half wide from the plane, it was certainly impressive view. Adventurer Ed shook his head, his compass held in one hand and the map in the other.
 "Something's wrong with the compass, can't get a direction."
He was right. The compass, while very ornate and shiny, was actually a pocket-watch. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the competence of our expedition leader. Nearby, holding the other copy of the map, Sergi poked at something in his bag. I don't know what it was, but it was probably insidious.
 After a few seconds, he raised his head and pointed off to the right.
 "That way."
We asked him how he knew. He replied he had Sat Nav. This didn't make much sense, but we decided to go with it. Picking up our things, we headed in the direction Sergi pointed, towards the setting moon.

So I'm drunk...

...Let's see where this goes.
 "Erotica for the elderly?"
 Max was still here, sitting on my fridge, talking about his job. His dream job, in fact. Me, I was looking for a job myself. I'll admit, my last job seemed perfect: Professional alcohol finisher: Basically, I'd hide under a table, and finish other people's drinks, so they wouldn't lose face in front of the lads, or whatever. Essentially, this had gone badly wrong: After a week of drinking from a straw, I realised it wasn't linked to alcohol. In fact, it was a catheter.
 "How does the the whole thing work then?"
 "Well." Max began, "I get an erotic work, and read it to the old people, obviously. I mean, usually, they can't really hear me, so they have no idea what's going on. But I think they like it. Well, I have no idea what they think, but I slip them a few Viagra pills, so they think they enjoyed it."
 No, it was no use. I didn't care for Max's stories at the best of times, and this was just ridiculous. I'd subconsciously blanked out Max's words, but he was still talking. In fact, he was reliving his erotic tales - many of which featured the high seas - and using expressive, disturbing hand motions.
 Worried, I edged towards the fridge. There was a cucumber in there, and I wanted to destroy it before Max found the bloody thing...

I've been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit...

Well, OK, I did commit it. But how was I supposed to know the elderly were still people in the eyes of the law? It wasn't like there was a lot of forced transvestism anyway...
 The prison isn't too bad: 4 walls AND a ceiling! I see why right-wing nuts are complaining, it's like living in a palace. Except, you know, there's no freedom. And a man called Pete won't let me have a go on the pool table.
 "Go on, make me." He says, "I've killed 14 people"
I'm not scared. I've killed more people than that selling timeshares. Max sent me a big cake, all covered with pink icing and little flower things. Normally, I don't really care for gender-defined foodstuffs - I've always felt a man can eat what he likes, as long as it isn't a baby - but right now, I feel he could have sent something more manly, to boost my image a little. You know, some roadkill wrapped in Neo-Nazi newsletters, perhaps.
 He sent a note the next day, apologising for forgetting to hide a file in the cake. He said he gave it to the guards to deliver instead. Remarkably, they brought it straight to me. Things are looking up: I've filed my nails into sharp points, and started the long process of digging my way out of jail.
 It would probably be easier if I wasn't on the fourth floor...