Pablo Angel Castro
Bio
Attorney by day, martial arts by night. I am the head grappling instructor for former UFC Heavyweight champion Stipe Miocic.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To give someone something to behold is beautiful in it of itself.”
-PAC
Stories (17)
Filter by community
Apartment 401
“Wake up!” my mind tells me, as I am partially paralyzed by last night’s activities. The Dream realm keeps pulling at my ankles, as my eyes use every ounce of its strength to open. Even my cheeks, nose and the muscles around my eyelids lend a hand towards the effort. I silently root for them to open, as the struggle to wake is my toughest opponent today so far.
By Pablo Angel Castro 4 years ago in Fiction
The Apple Thief
“Hey, Stop!” he heard a voice shout frantically. With the taste of sweet red deliciousness, fresh in his mouth, this young runaway sprints to avoid the shouting man and the rest of the authorities now approaching. Bobbing, weaving and as swift as a mustang, he viciously flees the small town of Braxtonville. With a population of nearly twelve hundred and only two churches, hiding in the small town would be futile. Whether this nameless runaway took that into consideration was probably unlikely. Rather running as fast and as far as one could, was probably the only thing this youngster was thinking.
By Pablo Angel Castro 5 years ago in Fiction
"Fight Night"
The paint chips fall from the ceiling, as the basement shakes from the thunderous arena we warm up directly beneath. The acoustics of the blood stained concrete walls that entrap the most desperate, echo each strike landed. The rhythm of the arena’s concussions, with vibrations so deep, they penetrate through my ribs like xylophones. It’s difficult to catch my breath. I can feeling my lungs trembling on every other breath, or it may be from the anxiety of the expected.
By Pablo Angel Castro 5 years ago in Fiction
"Fight Night"
The paint chips fall from the ceiling, as the basement shakes from the thunderous arena we warm up directly beneath. The acoustics of the blood stained concrete walls that entrap the most desperate, echo each strike landed. The rhythm of the arena’s concussions, with vibrations so deep, they penetrate through my ribs like xylophones. It’s difficult to simply catch my breath. I can feeling my lungs trembling on every other breath. Or it may have been from the anxiety from the expected, and especially the unexpected.
By Pablo Angel Castro 5 years ago in Fiction
