Writing Projects:
Media Reflection
This project was done at an attempt to perform and self-evaluate myself as both a media producer and consumer. The goal of the project was to explain my self-assessment in a way that was both engaging as well as innovative and steered clear of a traditional MLA paper report. Below is the project I turned it. I cannot draw to save my life, but I really wanted to create the project to look like a sort of graphic novel. I did not have a chance to really look into software to be able to do that, so when I found a simple to use software, Unfold, I decided to use the closest thing I could use for my images, Bitmojies.
For my media writing course, I was tasked with the goal of creating a “new” media. I was to find a new way to communicate information whether that be through a new YouTube channel, Twitter account, Twitch account, podcast, etc. Considering I already spend most of my time on Instagram, I wanted to find a new way of bringing my stories to life outside a traditional word-on-paper format. I decided to combine my use of Instagram with my love for audiobooks to create an Insta-stories to promote my writing. Please enjoy and comment what you think on Instagram by clicking the link above.
Publications:
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Broken Cycle.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2019; 105-113.
Broken Cycle Excerpt
I stared out at the freshly mowed lawn, sweaty from the labor I put myself through. I hated mowing my own house’s lawn. It was always so annoying to me. Yet, I loved the smell the mowing secreted. A freshly mowed lawn always seemed like the beginning of something new, as if a fresh mow would mean a new beginning and forgiveness of all the bad that had happened up until the lawn was mowed. The continuous cycle of chopping off the ugly and making it pretty was what I admired of the process.
I also admired the intelligence of the birds that stalked my work, waiting for their opportunity to strike. They were smart enough to know that the sound of the lawnmower brought them one step closer to their next meal, and so they waited for an insect’s daily routine to be disturbed. Little did those poor critter know the fate that awaited them, being yet another cycle that fascinated me. I loved nature. It terrified me: the power it had over humans. And so, I did my part to respect it as much as possible.
A bird swept down and landed on the broken lawn gnome, attacking the worm that I awoke when I “accidentally” ran into it with the lawnmower. Ever since I read R. L. Stine’s Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes, I had had my suspicions on the creatures. The only reason I kept it and didn’t throw it away was because my mom had a fascination with the dam things. I didn’t want to depart from the last things that she cared about. But I couldn’t stand the mocking stare of the evil little bastard as I worked, plotting how he would kill me in my sleep. Well, joke was on him. I finished him off before he ever had the chance.
I started the lawnmower once more and did one final victory lap around the lawn, looking to disrupt a happy family of crickets for my buddies flying in the sky. As I reached the run-down front gate, my focus shifted to an approaching police vehicle. Instead of driving all the way to his house, Officer Alvarez stopped in front of mine. I halted my work, giving the poor cricket family another day of life, wondering why Officer Alvarez decided to stop in front of my house instead of going straight to his. It wasn’t until I noticed the man sitting in the backseat that I realized why he had stopped.
For more information, visit Pulse.
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Old Marg.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2019; 113-120.
Old Marg Excerpt
“Porque tenemos que ir?” I asked my dad, wondering why out of all the lawns in Texas he had to mow Old Marg’s.
“No tiene a nadie,” he responded. “Desde que se murió su esposo.”
“Lo ha de a ver envenenado la vieja loca,” I answered.
“Ya no hables así,” my father responded.
“Pues no entiendo por qué lo haces,” I answered. “Porque dejas que te vean la cara de menso.”
“Alejando, ya,” my father responded as he grabbed the gas can and loaded it in the back of his 94 Chevrolet S-10. “Ándale ve traite el lonche. Ya pa irnos.”
I knew I had overstepped. I decided to listen to him before I really pissed him off and he told my mom. I had to learn to watch my mouth. I wasn’t very good at that, but then again neither was he. Out of everyone in the family, he had the foulest mouth. And my mom wondered why I always got in trouble. At some point or another, I was always sticking my foot in my mouth. I said what I thought, and nobody really liked what I had to say. I headed back toward the house to see what my mother had prepared for us. There was no doubt in my mind it was tacos de huevo con frijoles. I didn’t even have to walk inside before the smell of our predictable meal hit me as I reached for the screen door.
I heard the clicking of my mom’s chanclas inside before I even turned the knob. Just the sound of their coming my way put me over the edge. At times, I had to go over in my mind what it was I had done wrong before I convinced myself that I hadn’t done anything. So many times before had I confessed to things that weren’t even in question. For that reason, I had to learn to weigh her emotions based on her walk. The louder the chancla clicked, the more pissed off she was. She was about to start her Saturday cleaning, so her pace was rushed. We were having company over later today, so naturally it was time to hide all the crap she didn’t want our guests to see. I knew I would return home to the cleansing smell of Fabuloso. It was such a refreshing smell, so pure and natural. I was mesmerized just thinking about it.
For more information, visit Pulse.
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Avoiding Marg.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2019; 120-127.
Avoiding Marg Excerpt
Friday afternoons were amazing. Well, they were until I came home, and my mom came out of the house and told me my dad wanted me to go mow a lawn that day because it was going to rain the following day. Part of me was excited: no lawn mowing the following day. But the other part of me knew what that meant. I didn’t have to ask her who my dad wanted me to visit. After the strange encounter two weeks ago, I knew exactly who he was referring to. I hated him for being able to pick up on that encounter and coming up with some bull crap excuse to not mow it himself. It wasn’t the first time my dad sent me to mow lawns on my own, but this one was a special case. I could not do it alone.
“Okay, ya voy,” I answered my mom as I walked inside while she continued to ramble on and on about doing what my father told me to do.
I threw my backpack on the living room floral sofa, and grabbed the keys to the pickup sitting on the key holder on the wall by the door. I had to load the mower, weed eater, gas can, and pray that I could find some last minute backup to tackle that case.
“¿Qué onda?” I heard from the sidewalk by the front gate of the house.
Perfect timing. “Nada. Me ayudas?”
Miguel walked over to me, and the two of us headed to the garage. I pulled out the weed eater and handed it to him to carry over to the truck. I, in turn, pulled out the lawnmower. I couldn’t believe my dad was letting me do that. He still did not let me use the mower when the two of us were together, but having me handle both was so much greater. I would have been thrilled if I didn’t know who the special client was.
“¿Onde vas?” Miguel asked as he smacked on some gum.
“With that vieja loca,” I answered as I rolled the lawnmower up to the back of the pickup.
“The one that . . .” he began.
“Yeah, that one,” I said, not wanting to spark another conversation about Old Marg.
Last time I had spoken to him about Old Marg, he thought I was over-exaggerating how racist she was. There was no way to exaggerate racism. It was what it was. The last thing racists are concerned about was censoring or “toning down” what they said. Yet, we weren’t supposed to “over-react” or get angry at what they said. My mom had told me many times before: ignore them because you’re never going to win. I was tired of ignoring it. I was tired of Old Marg.
For more information, visit Pulse.
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Eidolon.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2018; 83-87.
Eidolon Excerpt
Office Alvarez
He stood there at the edge of the bridge looking at the rushing water underneath him.
“Dispatch, this is Officer Alvarez on-route home,” I said as I pulled over. “I’ve got a possible 10-56A on Willow River Bridge. Going to check it out.”
Another suicidal civilian. Just what I needed on my way back to base. I took a long drag of my cigarette as I stared out at the figure standing by the bridge’s railing. Suicide bridge, the townspeople called it. Haunted by a ghost who made people do strange things. At least, that was the tale. That was what everyone always said to scare the kids. But the statistics added up, and that’s why everyone chose to avoid this route. It was an abandoned road with only the suicidal making their way here to enter their eternal sleep. Twenty or so a year jump off this bridge. That was enough to keep townspeople a mile’s distance from this place. No one wanted to get sucked in by the voices calling out to them. Me, I didn’t really care for such nonsense.
After a final drag of the cigarette, I open the cruiser door. The damn rain would extinguish it, and I had just lit the damn thing. I had to act fast with this guy. I didn’t know who he was; the rain blurred his image even with the headlights shining on him. The lights alerted the man staring down the bridge. He stared, and as I drew near I could hear a faint mumbling.
“Sir,” I said. “I’m Officer Alvarez. Step away from the railing.”
“War. Death. Bombs. Bullets,” said the man to himself, not acknowledging me but staring past me toward the cruiser. “Bill. Dead. Death. My fault.”
A distant siren sounded, causing the man to go into a frenzy. He thrashed on the ground, as if the sound of an incoming siren was his cue to completely lose it. Pounding the ground with his fists, he couldn’t take it. The noise. The lights from my cruiser. The rain. It was all too much for him, and his panic forced me forward. I rushed forward while he was distracted. Until I recognized him. His behavior.
Read the Entire Story Here.
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Immersion.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2018; 88-91.
Immersion Expert
“I told you to stay away from them Wetbacks,” I heard Charles say from outside.
I dried my soapy hands on my apron and rushed toward the door. Not again. I couldn’t stand it. Not my Charlie. Not today.
“Charles,” I shouted as I pushed on the screen door.
Only, Charles had placed my flower pot in front of the door, preventing me from running to my boy’s aid.
“Charles,” I shouted, as I struck the screen door with my hands.
“Stay out of it, Nancy,” he responded without even turning to face me.
The two stood out in the gracefully colored front lawn, adorned with my flowers, lawn ornaments, and bird feeder. Charlie stood with his back facing the street, his eyes watering as they called out to mine. Charles, belt in hand, did it once more. Again and again the leather struck my boy’s delicate back as his father scolded him for having different friends. They were only boys. He didn’t know any different. I didn’t raise him to hate because of the color of one’s skin, a parenting choice opposite his father’s. Charles didn’t understand. Ever since he was young, Charles has had a problem with colored people, a trait forced upon him by his own father. I knew his past. His father’s abuse on him for doing just as Charlie had done. A cycle repeating itself.
“Charles,” I shouted once more, pushing desperately on the door. “Stop!”
Read the Entire Story Here.
Ortiz, Jorge H. “Solace.” Pulse Literary Magazine of Lamar University. 2018; 92-98.
“Solace” Excerpt
“Hey, Amigo!” my father said to Miguel. “Speak English! You’re in America!”
“Bye,” Miguel whispered to me.
Miguel turned from my father and walked back toward the sidewalk. We didn’t expect him to be home; he never was. We had just gotten out of school, and usually at that time of the day, he was at a bar or with some whore. We tended to avoid my father as much as possible. I knew he didn’t like Miguel, but Miguel and I had been friends since kindergarten. Our friendship had endured all of my father’s shit from kindergarten until middle school, and he was still somehow my friend. I sometimes thought it was out of pity.
My mom had liked his family. She always talked to Miguel’s mom, behind my father’s back as well since she too didn’t want to set him off. I didn’t see the problem in hanging out with him. My mom had understood my father’s dislike but never explained it to me. She just said that he didn’t know them and was cautious.
“Why do you have to do that?” I asked my father as Miguel took off.
He laughed, took a deep drag of his cigarette, and continued to harass anyone that walked by our house. Our neighborhood had been ‘tainted,’ as he liked to called it, by immigrants over the past several years. We lived here our whole lives. Well, he had with Mom. She died in a car crash about a year ago. My father got worse after her death. It should have been him instead of her. He was the drunk. The asshole. And the one responsible for her death. As far as I knew, they were both dead.
“Ain’t I told you not to hang out with them Wetbacks?” he said to me.
Read the Entire Story Here.
H. J. Ortiz 