I did not know where I was. From the minute I opened my eyes, I could tell something was terribly wrong. The light coming in through the tall square window hurt my eyes and my head felt like it was on fire. I was almost convinced that I spent my previous night gulping down shots of tequila. But no, it couldn’t be. The last memory my mind could reach out to was my feet boarding a plane to Italy. My best friend was in the hospital and I had made a promise to visit her the following week. I remembered boarding the plane at around twelve at midnight and falling asleep in my seat. But I couldn’t remember how or when I got off the plane.

After minutes of arguing with myself, I decided to go out of my room and question the hotel clerk. I jumped out of bed and walked over to the door. As I was about to open the door, I looked down at my outfit.

“No,” I drooled incredulously.

Black ripped jeans, a plain back t-shirt and black boots. The last time I wore jeans was on my tenth birthday party. I detested jeans, t-shirts, and dark colors, especially black. My instincts told me to look in the mirror but I couldn’t to bring herself to do it. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Hi,” I said in a croaky voice to the clerk.

The clerk looked at me and smiled.

“Good morning Miss. Eva. How can I help you?”

“Where am I?” The question sounded daft coming out my mouth.

“You’re at a hotel. One of the finest hotels in Mexico,” she replied with a honeyed voice.

“I know that,” I sighed.

A few minutes of scanning the room led me to believe I was in a hotel. The food, small lotion bottles, and fancy pens were all the proof I needed to confirm my hunch.

“I mean,” I added. “Where am I? What country, city, or place-“

I stopped halfway through my sentence and lightly shook my head. It was as if I had only heard the ‘Mexico’ part right then.

“Mexico?!”

“Yes ma’am.” The clerk smiled and looked at me strangely. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” I replied more to myself. “And why did you call me Miss. Eva?”

The clerk looked frightened. “I thought you said we shouldn’t call you Eva.”

“My name is Elena Parker!” I ran my hand though my long, wavy hair and clenched her hands into tight fists. “What happened last night? Did you see me coming in?”

“You came in last night at around two in the morning. You were really wasted.”

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“How do you even know my name? I’m sure you get like a thousand visitors.” I forced a smile on my face to ease the clerk. I couldn’t understand why she was frightened by me.

“You own this hotel ma’am. Actually, you own a lot of hotels here in Mexico. This is the finest so far and everyone knows who you are.”

I was too tired and confused to ask more questions. I was too scared to find out the answers.

Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any more complicated, I found a man looking out the window in my room.

“Let me guess, we’re married,” I mumbled. I hoped it wasn’t true.

“Can I help you sir?”

The figure slowly turned around. When he was facing me, he smiled.

“Eva.” He stuffed his hands in his huge black coat. “How stubborn are you?”

“W-what?” I stuttered.

“I told you to leave Mexico last night.” His voice was flat and spine-chilling. “Stubborn child.”

Before I could say anything, the man pulled out a gun with a silencer and pointed it at me.

“Come with me.”

That’s what he whispered to me that night,

The night when my world was falling apart.

He offered an escape.

When everyone else

Dug their claws into me,

Dragging me down,

He held out his hand,

Willing me to take it.

And I wanted to.

Oh God, did I want to.

Yet, I knew if I tried escaping now,

All I would do was run.

I would run as far away and as fast as possible.

Never looking back.

Never processing what happened.

Never working through the pain.

The escape he offered was more an instant gratification,

Something to keep myself from feeling.

But...

It would only be temporary.

I could keep running.

Away with him,

Then away from him.

Away from my old life,

Never claiming it as my own.

I would leave it behind,

Talk about it like some fictional story,

A nightmare that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

No matter how much I wanted to leave now,

I knew I couldn’t.

So, I don’t take his hand.

He nods,

As if in understanding,

Then leaves me behind.

I do the best I can for myself,

Even if I don’t realize it at the time.

But at some point,

I will look back,

And I will know,

That I did the best I could with the cards I was dealt.

I will realize I stayed true to myself,

Even if it was painful,

So that I could learn and become better.

Because that is what I must do, now and forever.

Til the end.

The angry Mexican sun sizzles the retina with hot tamale rays. Dry eyes scan the dry landscape beyond the structure’s lone window. Bloodshot and boozed up, I struggle to my feet with a guttural groan. My skull pounds with hangover drums and visions of a woman I once loved, the acidic brine of vomit and blood loitering on my tongue.

It’s some little adobe, hidden in the arid innards of the Sonoran Desert. I limp out of the bedroom and into the only other room. Sparse. Barren decor, no hanging frames, a single piece of furniture. Atop that otherwise empty table sits a milk bottle vase sprouting a single black rose.

The doorknob turns and even before the intruder reveals himself, I know why he’s here. The fury of woman scorned, he is, sent by my brown-eyed baby to stop my heart. His form is that of a dead-eyed assassin notorious for putting gringos in graves. He doesn’t flinch when the light hits him, illuminating that leather prune face battered by incessant sun and straight tequila nights.

He takes no pleasure in this. Stoic, he raises an antebellum Colt revolver and croaks, “De tu amor.” When he cocks his pistol, I hurl the vase in adrenaline-charged desperation. It crystal-shard shatters across his face, and he hits the deck. He gropes around blindly, finding only glass. I take the revolver and point it at his chest.

We both have holes in our hearts now. I run my fingers through his blue-black Navajo hair, comforting him as he leaves this world. He dies as he lived, in a cloud of pistol smoke. When I leave him, he is clutching that black rose for eternity.

The desert is quiet; there is no sign of a partner. This man’s only partner was Death. His horse is calm and needs no coaxing. Accustomed to carnage, she is content long as she rides with a renegade. I climb her near side, and we bareback book it out of there in a dusty clomp.

Saguaros and ocotillo rush by in a frenzied blur, the unfriendly flora reminding me of her, the way they carve scars with their razory spines. Soon, the Arizona border is nothing but a tired-eye memory. Tumbleweed roads eventually give way to civilization.

There is a house, an industrial design of concrete coolness wedged in a craggy mountain crevice. Where the red rocks meet the muted gray there is a door. I know this is where I’ll find her.

She’s a mess. Black-bagged and pink-tinted eyes stare straight ahead. A semi-automatic handgun is pressed to her temple. She greets me with a sad little smile and releases the safety. “Hello,” she says as her manicured finger slides toward the trigger.

Oh I’m sooooo thirsty,

My tongue stuck like crazy glue,

And people say,

“welcome to Mexico, asshole”.

How did i get here, i don’t know.

But for sure, there was some mistake.

There i was, doing the breifing,

With Pompeo and Bolton,

They were talking about nucular arsenals,

And preemptive strikes, yawn.

And the guy came with the hamburgers,

And next thing i know,

I’m here.

Where is here?

If only I could speak Spanish.

I try to call the guys,

That called me asshole,

But they left,

All i have around me are just Mexicans,

And somehow they don’t understand.

What’s not to understand?!

Can’t they recognise?

I feel cool at the top of my head,

And feel with my fingers,

The rug is missing.

How could i possibly attract respect, without it?

I stand up,

brush the sand off of the suit.

A young Mexican is holding the hairpiece,

Which has washed up by the waves,

He looks at me amused,

“Is this yours?” He asks, almost no accent.

“Yes. Give it back.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes. Please give it back”

“Fine, but i want a job,

maybe secretary of state or something”

The kid demands.

Nogatiating..

“Tell you what, I’ll give you a dollar”

“A dollar, senior, this is Mexico,

Not some shithole...now..job or i take this and give it to my father, tell him you tried to touch me..he really loves you already,

Since NAFTA...”

I dig in my pocket and find nothing.

Nothing.

I guess I’ll have to give him a cabinet post.

“Fine, give me the rug..I mean tupee and a bottle of water and you got a deal. I can do secretary of education. How about it?"

The kid runs away ,

For a moment i fear the deal is off,

But the kid comes back with a bottle .

Everything is going to be all right...

Come with me, there is time

A song is about to start.

Through a haze of screams, laughs, and overwhelming indifference,

Your hand is firmly holding mine: yet I feel it stretching, infinitely,

And slowly loosening grip is loosening still, sweat and cigarette ash is all

I feel now in my empty hands.

In a crowd of people, I lost: my hand is still warm and wet

With sweat, sweet and bitter - sweet and bitter are the words of this

Miserable dawn,

That creeps over this wasteland, once called a city.

And times, yes, they jest and jest and mock and ridicule,

And you, me, yes, we try to forget, to wash our hands

To live and breathe, to serve and rebel,

And yes, maybe there is sweet oblivion in the end,

Or maybe there are a whirlwind of memories,

Sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet,

That keeps on churning, spinning and turning

Till the end?

Till the end.

The floral shirt I donned the day before was now drenched in an aroma of scents. What's that? A hint of gin? I don't drink gin. And um, rum? Wait- no, more specifically, coconut rum? Oh no! The scent of the devil's choice drink stung my nose.

"Tequila" I groaned as an instantaneous headache crept up and I rolled over till I was on all fours, peeling myself off the springy mattress.

One at a time, my eyes opened to a bright, nauseating sun striking through thin white curtains which blew gently with the wind. Past the glare, I began to focus on the scenery outside. A baby blue sky with tiny clouds scattered unevenly across the expanse gracefully kissed the majestic cyan oceans, whose waves rose and fell in symphony.

As I regained my vision, my hearing returned and I could hear the sounds of a vibrant group of musicians playing cumbian music mixing with the talk and chatter of crowds of people. I patted the ruffled sheets for my cellphone and opened the screen to twenty-seven missed calls and fifty-four messages. The weather app pinged.

"32 degrees. Scattered clouds, Precipitation: four percent..."

Wait. What is that location?

My eyes widened as I read the letters at the top of the screen.

"Cancun, Quitana Roo, Mexico"

I flew to my feet, temporarily struggled to keep my balance, and then ran to the windows. I flung open the curtains and stared, beyond the balcony, at Playa Marlin glistening before me. I looked around the room, which I probably should have done sooner, to find my best friend sprawled out on the floor, a giant straw belonging to a long drinking glass hanging out of her mouth on one side and drool on the next. I shook her till she woke up in a panic.

"What? What? What happened?"

"I don't know, you tell me, Sophie."

She looked at me dazed and confused, and obviously hungover, possibly more than me.

"Where are we?" she asked, although not fully aware as yet to her surroundings or the real puzzle surrounding that question.

I shoved my phone in her face and after several hard blinks to gain some focus, she blurted out loud,

"How the eff did we end up in Cancun!"

Like a genie responding to someone rubbing its lamp, a soft knock emerged from the door. We both looked at each other, telepathetically discussing whether to answer it or not. I mean, we did not know how the hell we ended up there, nor if we were supposed to be there. We both took turns nodding at each other, each trying to pass the responsibility of who was going to answer the door to the other, as the knock repeated itself. Finally, I grabbed her by the hand and figured, if I must go down, I'm not going down alone.

"Buenos dias, senoritas and how are we enjoying our morning?" a short, stocky man dressed in a blue blazer, black and white striped shirt and khaki pants with brown shoes and a brown belt welcomed himself inside the room.

He looked around the room and the cups and bottles tossed around it and with a smile, he said,

"Ah, I see instead of conquering Cancun, Cancun conquered you" and then he laughed, and shaking his hands in the air said he would send housekeeping up to clean up, before attempting to leave.

"Um, excuse. If you don't mind me asking, do you know how we got here?" I asked before he could reach the door.

He spun on his heels and, with that same friendly smile as though my question did not shock him at all, he answered, "why, Bingo, of course. How about a little less tequila today, verdad?" and then he was off with a flash.

I looked at my best friend and after a brief moment of silence, we both erupted with laughter as the foggy memories began to clear up. That Thursday, I had attended my grandmother's funeral. My grandmother who had raised me most of my life after I lost my mother and my father was still stationed overseas. The woman who was the centre focus of my life for many years, and I, hers. The angel who worked well beyond retirement so that she can help fund my university studies.

That evening, it was my brilliant friend, Sophie's idea to go have a drink, or two. We then found the place where my grandmother would go to play "Boozy Bingo" and after several rounds and several drinks, we still didn't win. Then, the cutest old man approached us. My grandmother, in her old age, had found herself a secret lover, who no one noticed had attended the funeral that day. He handed us two tickets to Cancun that he had planned to gift my grandmother with that weekend, for her birthday on Saturday.

Our skepticism over what transpired that led us to the shores of Playa Marlin turned out to be misplaced, and instead I found out the truth was a lot more comforting than expected. My grandmother never missed an opportunity to live life without any safety harnesses, and in her true fashion, I spent the hours after her going away ceremony doing just that. As I sat on the warm sand, recovering from possibly the worst hangover I have ever experienced, I felt a peace overtaking me watching the waves as they rose and fell in symphony; the sounds of their crashing like music to my ears. One drunken night in Cancun was definitely how my grandmother would've wanted me to celebrate her life, and how she probably would've celebrated her birthday that weekend, because that's how she lived her life - spontaneous, vibrant and mostly drunk.

#cancun #mexico #tequila #gin #coconutrum #inlovingmemory #drunkennights #playamarlin #cumbia

The story ends in Mexico. At least, I wish it did.

I'm hungover, sitting outside of a gas station trying to decrust my eyes while my basic Spanish fails me, unless I wanted to find a library selling apples for a woman to eat.

Someone has pity on me, an expatriate by choice, not by force, like I think I am. She's very pretty, but, more important, she seems nice and speaks English.

We walk (her) and stumble (me) to her beat up van. She helps me up into it.

That's when a high class English accent stops me by speaking up.

"Mr. Harrison," he says, "please tell me we don't have to knock you out again to get you to come with us? That would be a very unpleasant start to our relationship, not to mention messy."

The man begins by introducing himself as the van starts up and we pull away.

"Mr. Harrison, my name is Lionel, and that's all you need to know about me. What you really need to know about your situation can be gathered by looking to my left and right."

To his left and right were two guys who came right out of central casting for the pillars Samson knocks over. Both of them wore the same suit, dark, the same sunglasses, dark, and the same expression, dark.

"Now, at the moment, you are far too valuable to rough up, and how long you keep that value is entirely up to you."

"Fine, I gather you're threatening me," I cut in, as loud as my aching head would allow, "Would I be pushing my luck to ask how I got here and why I feel like I'm hammered when I know I only had soda?"

"We needed to separate you from your family without any scenes. A fast acting sedative did the job there. Don't worry, there's a cover story in place for them. Something about business needs."

"I'm a hardware store associate! What did you tell them, a hammer emergency came up?!"

I guess I flinched too much, because the pillars pulled guns on me. I slowly put my hands up and levered back down to the seat.

"No idea who your father is, do you?," Lionel said, pulling a handkerchief and mopping his forehead. I took note that his courage seemed to sit next to him.

"OK, let's see," I said, "You're probably not going to tell me it's the man that's at the same house I lived in all my life, and I'll probably be out of line to guess it's Zeus, so I'll go with....Ron Jeremy."

"You use humor to deflect stress, Mr. Harrison, don't you?"

"Much like you use your personality to deflect sexual partners. What is the point of all of this?"

"Well, if you're going to be sarcastic, I'll just be quiet and you can find out for yourself in about an hour."

I looked at the pillar to his left. "Is your boss always so sensitive?"

He just shrugged, and that was the last peep any of us made until we arrived.

They brought me into a room where a man lay in a hospital bed. Machines clearly did everything for him at this point. Other than a bit of graying at the temples, though, he could've been my twin. No need for a paternity test.

"OK, do I need to apologize, or will you just tell me what's going on?," I said to Lionel.

"That would be nice, but we don't have time for niceties. You have to be in a courtroom in two hours."

"I'm sorry, I have to be where?"

At gunpoint, I had to get myself showered, slightly dyed, and poured into a suit that, were I in any other situation, I would be very impressed by. No one said a word.

"At some point," I said, "I'm going to have to be told something about this, you know."

"All you need to do is show up," Lionel said. "Sit at the defense table, shut your mouth, and let the lawyers do their jobs."

"Can I at least know the charge?"

Lionel said, "We don't have the time to go through them."

"Wait, hold up!," I said, "You're sending me to face a trial for someone else?"

"Calm down, it's all circumstantial, Mr. Harrison."

The pillars had to pick me up to keep me from wringing his neck.

So, there I sat, in a car between the pillars, each of whom had an arm in their meaty grip. One of them, with their other hand, keep fanning me. I got a dirty look when I asked for a grape.

Lionel sat across from me now, visibly sweating now. His courage was keeping me in my place.

"Why aren't we doing the reasonable thing here, Lionel?," I said, "Show the authorities the mechanical man back at the house, he'd probably appreciate the execution order at this point, everything's over."

"That's right," Lionel said, "Everything's over. Including all of our safety. They think he's alive and well and the fear keeps them at bay."

I asked "Who's they?," but no one had a chance to answer when the car smashed into the side of our car.

We all went for a tumble as the car flipped a few times. When we stopped moving, my extraction, the pumping of bullets into the pillars and Lionel, and the torching of the car happened in very short order.

A couple of very strong men put me on my feet, and I faced another stunning woman with impeccable English. She wasn't as nice, though.

"If you're not hurt, you're coming with us," she said.

"I think I'm fine. And no, I don't think--"

A needle stabbed me in the neck and nothing was clear to me as I hit the dirt.

I came to with the woman in my face.

"He's awake, Father," she said, her voice coming to me like we were underwater.

A man swam into view, balding, middle aged.

"Can I talk to her instead?," I found myself saying.

He chuckled. "Everyone says that. Sorry I'm not more attractive. Just know we're not going to hurt you."

"There's some dead body charcoal and my drugged up mind that says otherwise."

"We had to go to extremes, Mr. Harrison," the woman said, "But we mean you no harm. We just want the syndicate to pay for their crimes. And if the jefe doesn't show, action will finally have to be taken."

"If I tell you the jiffy is dying anyway back at that house I was in," I said, "can you just let me go like sense would dictate?"

"He is?," the man said, "Well, let's just go--"

A door burst open in front of me.

Annnnnd everything was black again a few seconds later.

Back at home again, not missing explosions, car accidents, or even exotic women, but still wanting to know what the hell was going on.

All I was told was "special arrangement with the US government," and "national security" and "you should feel lucky."

"What if I decided to go to the press?," I asked the person who dropped me off at my house.

"Go ahead," they told me, "Who would believe you?"

So I started to, until I got a call at work a couple of days later.

"Mr. Harrison, this is a courtesy call," the voice that sounded like authority said, "Please don't ruin your service to our country's interests in Mexico and national security as a whole by telling your story. Things...could get bad."

They hung up. I got the point.

The next day, I was at the flooring desk, tedium gloriously setting in. Someone approached me with a carpet sample, set it in front of me with a pale, shaking hand.

I started to greet them until I saw my own face and began to run.

"No....wait," he said, with the strength of a newborn pup.

It was enough to stop me.

"You want to know all of the truth," he said, "Don't you?"

‘Come with me’, I told you once

what feels like a million years ago.

You’d follow me, smile on your face

We saw the city lights aglow.

When the clouds would start to weep

We raced home like rabid dogs.

We huddled around the muffled heat

On the stove, burnt garlic cloves.

I told you about Far Eastern dictators

You told me how you rioted for Catalonia.

We’d travelled far and wide accross the town

For beer and good conversation.

I don’t remember the bars or the music

Just us laughing over something stupid.

So was it you or was it me

That first gave in to apathy?

When was the exact moment

We lost all hope in good fun?

The only thing worse than blaming you

Is admitting my own part.

In souring what was once so

Wholesome, fresh and pure.

When milk spoils

There’s no turning back the clock.

The curds, the stench, the sickly hue

Rancid, till the end.

I strive to be a superhero, a saviour of the galaxy, with my hero name: LA STAR. Like the power of stardust, spontanious creativity runs in my veins. Extremely reactive, my superpower ignites and sparks into a chain reaction that can’t be put out until it burns itself up. A certain angle, a stream of light, the way the leaves twirl just so as they fall, the faintest song of a distant bird... any captured moment, no matter how small, leads to a supernova of explosive imagination and colour...

With great power comes great responsibility

That famous catchphrase that every hero learns rings true in darkness. With training and practice, this power of mine can grow strong and mighty. Hopefully, I will save the hearts of humanity and remind them why they beat, with nothing but sheer imagination and a few simple words on an ivory page.

***However it also stems from my real name as well. L.A. are the initials of my first and middle name, and STAR is my last name translated into english. The 28 at the end is just my birthday: August 28.

I am a writer, and in one of my stories the main character is a kid named Giovanni Herald. There’s no question as to why he might go by an alias with a first name like that, but the reason behind why he is called Ghost shall remain a mystery until I eventually publish the book.

So please don’t steal this name!