Miguel A. Rivera Jr

Father O’Malley’s eyes were fixated on this man. The hairy, tattooed, beast, that had committed any number of heinous acts. Knowing time was of the essence and that the Governor himself had denied his last appeal, he still moved with the calm of a man on a tropical vacation. Rinsing his face in the iron sink that was attached to a lidless toilet, in a drab, windowless, 5’ by 8’ cell. He then turned and provided the toothy grin with a gold cap at the front. His eyes were shove

The Butterfly tattoo. Brad sat playing with his eggs and staring into the air. Sips of his black coffee were all that he could handle. His mind tried to dance around what had to be done today. He could feel “it”. The thing that always haunted him before one of his episodes. It was like a caged monster pounding on a wooden door, cracking and shaking with every blow. He also knew that the feeling had to do with what was about to happen today. He’d deliberately chosen a seat at

The echo of high heeled boots bounced off of the walls in the near ancient halls of a Mexican Monastery. It was a special place provided by a combination of funding from The Vatican and the Mexican government itself to provide a resting community for retired Priests and Nuns. Upon reaching a very specific door, a tall, young woman, clad head to toe in leather gear, wrapped gently on its ancient wood. An elderly woman in the garb of a Nun opened the door and her face was insta

Once upon a time in the “hood”, there was a young woman named Natalia Perez. At least that was her current name. She was a woman whose youthful and exotic beauty portrayed her as being in her early twenties. She owned a laundromat and drycleaners, no small feat for a person so young. Every day she sat at its counter, folding clothes and handing out quarters for those whose hasty lifestyles rendered them ill-prepared to launder. “Good evening, Mr. Mayford. Here to pick up your

Anna’s vision was still a bit hazy when she came to, but the smell was unmistakable. The pungent, rancid, odor of rotting meat. It brutally assaulted her nostrils. The kind of smell only generated when protein products have been left out too long following a period of refrigeration. She found herself in a long, coffin-like, metal box with the decaying remnants of food products. It was August and yet steam rose from her mouth every time she exhaled. Still in her cheerleader’s