The Fountain of Youth

By Sergs Nino Samson

“Heave!”

A cry broke the silence. “How ironic would my death be if we would just die here,” echoed another. The pair struggled to ascend the climb. “We’re not living if we aren’t trying,” the first one answered. “What’s a little hike for your last day on earth?” Both lowered themselves down the last few feet of rock and began to pick their way through the dense greens.

“

Are we there yet?” asked the second one.

“Almost,” the first one replied.

The pair emerged from the undergrowth. Thorns, creepers, and broken twigs latching onto their skins.

“Death by a thousand cuts, now that would be a great title to my autobiography. Yep, that would pretty much sum up my life,” exclaimed the second one.

“So dramatic, it’s just grass, not real blades,” heckled the first one. “Besides, can there really be a cut so severe that the cut in your heart pales in comparison to it?”

“Right, poke fun at the dying,” jokingly replied the other.

“I had always imagined my death to happen in hospice. Where I watched media outlets recalling my scientific achievements on TV as the general public mourns. For a day, I could live like God.”

“Alas, that is not the path paved for us both,” replied the first one.

“But hold that thought,” the first one added. “We’re here.”

The pair reached a massive opening in the mountain face. Its sheer scale dwarfs the two

Mariel sat alone in her empty room, surrounded by the remnants of Eula's life that she had torn apart.

She had also confessed that she had been working secretly with the rebel group, hoping to change things from the inside. But she had been discovered and was now imprisoned and facing certain death.

As Mariel sat there, drowning in guilt and sorrow, she suddenly heard a loud banging on her door. She knew immediately what it meant - the union had come for her too.

She had no time to think, no time to feel anything except terror as she scrambled to hide the letter from Eula.

It was not the soldiers but a representative of the awarding committee. She received a loaf of bread and a framed certificate with a red ribbon below. The lights flashed, and she had become everything the union wanted her to be, a pawn willing to betray even those closest to her in the name of loyalty. A model citizen.

As they forced open the door, the stench of decay and the sound of scurrying feet assaulted her senses. As she stepped inside, she couldn't believe what she saw.

It was Eula's house.

Her heart sank as she took in the familiar furnishings, the framed pictures on the wall, and the stacks of books on the shelves. This couldn't be happening. Everything was thrashed and ready for rummaging.

Mariel could pinpoint every corner from where they used to chase each other, but she pretended to be a stranger to the house where she spent half of her childhood.

The team started with the backyard and the kitchen. Mariel quickly sprinted to Eula's room. As she entered the room, everything was a mess though one thing stood out. Her eyes fell on a crumpled letter lying on the floorboards. The address on the topmost envelope caught her attention - it was her own name and address. She was sure she'd seen that letter before. Mariel's heart started pounding in her chest as she clutched the letter from Eula tightly in her hand, tears streaming down her face as she read and reread the words.

In the letter, Eula had written…

"How are things there?"

"Did you get the job at the records?"

That is the part she never read.

The beginning part of the letter was…

"In concern of rats..."

Mariel felt a wave of nausea wash over her as she realized what she had done. She had been so brainwashed by society's propaganda that she had reported Eula without even realizing it, driven instinctively by what the law dictated. And now, the woman she had admired and loved as a sister would die or is dead already.

At night, the whole country enters a different world as the rat-catching begins.

When she was young, she would cower from the distressing shouts and gunshots outside their house. Now it felt numb as she has heard it time and time again.

And as daylight approaches, the wind is shrouded with the smell of gunpowder, and the tang of blood always leaves a distinct aftertaste on the tongue.

It was the usual. More rats being disposed of, more possessions to abolish. She couldn't get the hang of it, as she was aiming for a job at the records where you just click and hit delete to a list of names given. And she was stuck moving around, hearing, seeing, and smelling the same thing in circles.

Morning took her by surprise as she was there was a house for them to abolish. Summit Vista is a strange place to do an abolishment, for it is a den of loyalists. That is where most families of high-ranking officials in the union reside. Among those was Eula, a close friend of hers. Eula's family was known for their staunch support of the regime, and their status was evident in every aspect of their opulent lifestyle.

Mariel couldn't help but notice the air of privilege surrounding her, a scent of entitlement and superiority that seemed to cling to her every move. She would often speak such terms in their speech class, where they write statements against rats:

“Down with the rats. May the rat catchers dispose of them. They shall squeak until they no longer can in the kennels or in the streets, may they rot, and rot.”

She could easily become one of those squabbling voices speaking aloud in the PAS speakers placed at every corner announcing propagandist speeches and policies. The speakers were broken in at where she lives, so she could not appreciate it though she would want to listen to Eula's voice.

As they approached the house, she couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that crept up on her. This wasn't just any other rat's house; something about it seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Ylaga, The Rat

By Andre Amar

Anywhere near the town smells of wet rags and rot. The air is thick with the stench of decay. Mariel is part of the abolishment sector, they don't have an official name for their job, but the folk just call them Rummagers, for they are tasked with collecting through the belongings of former civilian's houses who'd been abolished.

In this world, those who speak against the government are reduced to rats, vermin, disposable creatures to be hunted and exterminated. "Rats" is a term coined by an unnamed political writer whose name has been erased from the records after his works were labeled a threat to the collective.

Those suspected of being rats are rounded up and disposed of, and those who serve under the wing of the union are subjected to mind-altering culture to dehumanize the ones who speak up against the regime.

Slogans were being flashed on the high walls with their projectors, enough for half the city to see.

"No grave for the rats." It is one of the policies of abolishment where they destroy every record of your existence, and mass graves are not the option to dispose of the bodies.

"Cleanse our streets of the rodent plague." Loyalists are rewarded if they ever tip or point out rats and their hiding places. They are then awarded a model citizen title and a free loaf of bread from the local pastry shop of the area. Even rats would rat each other out for a loaf of bread.

The first row of houses was finished, and there was nothing too significant in their belongings to be collected or pawned, especially in the lower districts where barely anyone could afford anything.

At dusk, they stop operations and return to their designated housings.

searchedhispocket,showinghimtwomoresachetsofshabu.Anotherpocket.Marijuana.

Romar'svisionstartedtoblurashewatchedhisgrandmotherclutchingherchest,trying to get a hold of him. "La," his voice was muffled as he started sobbing. "Believe me, I didn't do it."

"La, I didn't," he shook his head intensely. "La,"

One last gulp, and he's done. He pushed the plate and glass away.

Taking the paper out of his bag. He read it carefully.

Release paper from the Supreme Court.

Parole after serving 27 years in jail.

Romar chuckled a bit.

27 years for something he never did.

Only if he never went out to buy cansi and sisig that night. Only if he listened to his lola that they could just have bihon for her birthday.

His grandparents would have never died because of him.

Romar's eyes looked around. He wonders what else has never changed.

Only ifs.

He looked around as he tried to analyze which part of the carinderia stayed the same.

From its interior, which used to be so crowded and cramped, to its high ceilings and massive windows.

"Sus, that's probably a lie," a customer near his table uttered as she watched the news flash on the TV.

It was an interview with an anonymous policeman who reiterated that there was a minimum quota for drug addicts they needed to arrest during tokhang.

"Some were really addicts that have been on the watchlist but we could not find anything on them for a long time. Meanwhile, some are just innocent civilians that "

Bam!

A bowl of batchoy scattered arouned the floor as the waitress dropped the tray she was holding.

Bam!

The plastic bag filled with cansi and sisig dropped on the road as 2 policemen tried to restrain Romar.

"What? Why?!" His lola stood in the middle of the road, struck and stunned.

"Romar De Jesus, you are arrested for carryingillegal drugs."

"Drugs?!Crazypolicemen!Whatareyoutalkingabout?!That'snotpossible.Apo?"His loloheldhislolawhentheoldwomanshovedthehandsofthepolicemen."No!"

Drugs. Illegal drugs. He never even had a single taste of a cigarette.

One of them blocked his lola. The other, held the back of his neck harshly as the other revealinga20-pesobillthattheywouldusefortheirridehome.

"30 pesos, Sir." That expensive? It used to be 5 pesos per cup before.

The waiter excused himself.

Shhweet. Shhweet, whistling as left.

Shhweet. Shhweet. The cold wind blew into Romar's face.

It was a windy afternoon. The sun is still scorching, but the breeze can be heard as it comes and goes.

Hislolosatdownontheirbamboo-madepapag.Theyjustfinishedplowingthelandand weretakingarestintheirlittlekuboontopofthehills.

"IherebyagreetoraisemylandrenttoMr.GregorioLizaresby5%.Thus,Iagreetothe leasingpriceofP2,685.00perhectareeverymonth,"Romarreadthepaper.

Thedocumentwashandedtothemearlierbyalawyer.Itwasfromthehacienda,where hisloloandlolawouldplant.

"P2,600? They're buying our palay for only 12 pesos per kilo, and they're asking us to raise our rent? Unbelievable." His lola heaved a sigh as she sat next to his lolo. She took the document and eyed it as if she understood a thing, even if she was a no-read, no-write.

"Isthereawaywecoulddisagreeonthisone?Maybethecooperativecanhelpus."

His lolo just nodded and took the paper. "I'll try raising this concern to other farmers." His lolo smiled a bit and tapped Romar's head. "Good thing our intelligent apo is here. Remember Vilma, when we would just instantly sign every paper the hacienda would give us because we could not understand whatever their lawyer would say?"

Romar burped as he finished the sumptuous meal.

How he missed it.

The rich flavor of batwan mixed with chili made the soup even more familiar.

A waitress stopped in front of his table and said, "Free sabaw, Sir."

Using a metal cup, she poured more soup into Romar's bowl.

Romar squeezed the sliced calamansi on top of the sizzling sisig. He mixed it thoroughly with the egg. Then, together with the garlic rice, he spooned the right amount of it and munched. The small bits of pork was chewy and tender. He wonders how many hours it took them to simply chop such a meal.

Tak. Tak. Tak, the sound of his utensils.

Tak.Tak.Tak.Hislola'sknifemadesoundsassheslicedthepork.

"Lola, when I grow up, I will buy you a two-storey house in a subdivision!" Romar exclaimedashewatchedtheirneighbors'housesbeingchoppedtopieces.

"Really?Oryoucanjustrenovateourhouse.Hmm,maybejustreplacethesewornout woods with cement?"

"No,Lola.Iwillbuyyouahouseinabigsubdivision!Sothatwewillnotalwaysworry if our house will be demolished if there's a road widening," Romar exclaimed.

"Well then, I want a house with a biggarden."

ThepansizzledasLolaVilmasauteedtheonion.

Romar raised his hand to signal the waiter. "One extra rice, boss." The waiter nodded and came to his table with a cup of freshly steamed rice.

"How much is this?" He wonders as he stares at the white jasmine rice.