Today in Creative Writing class we had to pick a scar on our body and write a short story about it. Then we will have to pick a paragraph and utilized Magical Realism in the new story. I don’t have any scars so I picked a tattoo, my celtic cross on my right calf. I’ll first give the original short, followed by the Magical Realism rewrite. The names have been changed to protect the guilty (and the author!). Enjoy my readers.
The summer sun was hot, as was the mobile home. The mobile home had its doors open wide in an attempt to catch a breeze. J had placed the drawing on the Celtic cross on my calf, in preparation to tattoo it in. He was in the process of firing up his homemade, which was hardly anything more than a spoon, battery and a needle. Thankfully J always used new needles. I only knew this man for a day.
You might ask why I was willing to get a tattoo in a mobile home with a homemade gun by a man I didn’t really know. I was convinced by my sleazy redneck of a best friend that this man was the guy to do all our ink. This was also the third time S made that claim! Even more so I was convinced by my dimwitted yet busty ex-girlfriend who always seemed to creep back into my life. Ever so more dimwitted and bustier than the last time we see each other. Looking back now, I wonder if I’m the dimwitted ex!
So the gun is fired up and J begins to do the outline. S and T sat in front of the action, waiting for me to cry out in pain (which I never did, by the way). Then, of course, J hits a tender area and I had to wince. When I opened my eyes after the outline was finished, S and T were already gone. It’s no secret that T had the hots for S (even when she met his girlfriend!). I guess this is the emotional scar of this story.
I’m sure you think you know the reason I chose the design of a Celtic cross. You might think because I’m a Christian and you’d be wrong. J thought the same thing; S and T knew different. The Celtic cross is associated with the Aryan culture. Being just 19 I was prone to very stupid ideas (have you guessed yet?).
Why not me? I was all white and enjoyed Skrewdriver and thought governmental cradle to grave care was the cats’ meow.
Thankfully I didn’t put too much detail to the cross. So when I did convert to Christianity and shed my racist skin it became a symbol of faith and redemption. I no longer associate myself with S, T or J. Sometimes, though, I still see their faces every time I see my calf.
***Now it’s time to spin this with Magical Realism!***
“And that is why country music is dead,” finished the ghost of Hank Williams Sr.
An Adonis of a teenager blinked, “So Taylor Swift killed country?”
“What? Who? Ain’t you been listening boy?”
Before the teenage Adonis known as W could respond, he was pushed to the front of the mobile home. The tattoo artist known as J held his homemade tattoo gun in hand.
“Your ferret won’t stay out of my bra!” bellowed a busty blonde in the front. It was T, W’s ex- girlfriend whom introduced J just the other day. What impressed W and his best friend S was not just the skill of art but the fact that J can channel the ghosts of dead country stars. Which is the reason why Hank Williams Senior is ranting in the mobile home at the moment.
“Where Waylon go?” whined Hank Sr. “He said he went on a beer run. He best not be leaving tears in my beer again! Ain’t my fault his woman had a cheating heart.”
“Stop with the puns!” whined W.
“Speaking of cheating hearts,” T whispered to S while J dug the needle into W’s skin. “You want to help get this ferret out of my bra?”
W opened his eyes after the pain subsided, to see his best friend and ex-girlfriend gone from the trailer. Hank Sr. looked around. “I wanted to hold that ferret.”