Aimee Ortega
Bio
My biography is a verb. Travel through my drops of short stories with your vivid imagination to reveal The Big Sea that is attached to my pupil. I am new, eccentric and just downright unorthodox. My suggestion for the reader: be open. -AO
Stories (3/0)
Emancipation Of Mental Felo De Se
Words seem to have failed me from the moment I was born. I was barely a year old when I refused to speak and be heard with my own voice. If I was hungry or needed something from the kitchen counter for example, I would sign an adult with my body expressions for assistance or I would just climb a chair myself to fetch whatever it is that I was wanting to obtain. Memories of my early years are sometimes faint but are still embedded in my flesh and bones well enough for me to feel them again and believe it did come to past. Fast forwarding to my last year in high school, the least effort I had put into a subject was for my English class. I almost did not graduate on time if it were not for the supplemented grade bump our teacher generously offered to his students who barely scored a D+. And if I am truly being honest, I did not want to complete that extra task either, merely because I just did not care for this subject at all. But I turned the assignment in anyway because I was in need to save myself from beatings I was sure to encounter at home if I brought more shame to her and the family. My name is Aimee Ortega. I am using my least strongest attribute to tell a story, Our Story. My mother once angerly advised me, while crying my 7 year old snot out after being scolded by her, “if you can’t say it, write it down!”. I was not sure whether to take this advice as a stepping stone or if it was only meant to stone me to the ground, but I was, to say the least, very angry at her for giving me mixed signals from the moment I was challenged to question what it means to be home. I wrote what I thought I needed to write at that moment of emotional distress but I have not written anything like it since, at least, not for a very long time. Now, at the age of 35, I managed to make the most of my experiences and I now write for personal healing from my past and free myself from my own mental prison that I have locked myself in for a very long time. This is my tell-all-tale and I will begin at my first end.
By Aimee Ortega3 years ago in Motivation
A Turtle Telling Time
Sea turtles were once regarded as the time-keepers of the ages by the sages and mages. That is, perhaps, why they live so long. These patient reptiles stay to record the times of its beats and measures on the scutes of their shell spines. Turtles in general are catalogued as 'slow' travelers. I beg to differ. Soil or sea, they migrate according to magnetic force of resistance and flow. By phenomenon of weight and matter, they balance time to the numerical state of zero. 'Slow' (or 'fast') is reserved for both the objective and subjective.
By Aimee Ortega3 years ago in Psyche
The Eye Induction to the Pink Tendril
Chapter 1 The Violet Rain (Queendom) Dawn is flowering above the horizon. The cool air is crisp, yet dewy, with a whisper of Palmarosa and Vetiver scents, floating by to greet the Queen “Good rising”. She saluted with a smile. Serene is her front but her presence is invincible. Cloaked with the finest of veils, her bare flesh welcomes the aurora of the alpenglow. Perched upon her sovereignty, she sits still with her arms at rest. She is silent. Gazing beyond her fastidious dominion, her Hawk eye detected a Doppler blueshift beyond the rim of her Othala. Shortening of wavelength are delivering counsel of an incoming promiscuous gale. She is vigil. Her ringed gems of Emerald and Ruby did not clink a clunk as she grips her digits high around the shaft of her gnarled Wōden Quartz staff. From the bare balls of her soles pressing firmly on her Queendom’s moist soil to the Capricornus calves erecting her feminine skeletal design, arranging every bone and joints to a precise symmetrical stance, she mounts her stature to fovea the Eye of the Tempest. Fueling with a fierce focus glare, on a spot that is not there, she receives it all. Unyielding to the gust that is beginning to dry her optic globes, she sharpens her theory. Inhaling, she breathes in her Norse coded sky, reading the contingency of the impending electrical Chaos that will soon take place on her sacred grounds. Rolling in like wild bovines racing through the insipid clouds, thunder cracks revelations through the vista of her peripherals. She sights her sounds intently as purported tenets aimed directly into her visible hearing. Unruffled, she plants tall, rooting her Aries Ascendant in deep patience. “Justice is halting the Wheel. Karma is settling. Just pass the Third to be fixed within the Fourth” the wind averred. Pattering violet rain saturates her auric corium. Her solar-sacral plexus is sensing and rehearsing every thought powerful enough to have written her story as an emulated reality, a reality that had already taken place in this now time-and-space, an experience heralding a reconfiguration of her deepest psyche. Her sword is sharpened. “I am ready to under-stand” she voiced.
By Aimee Ortega3 years ago in Psyche
