New Fiction: into Magical Realism with Tattoos & Divine Trees

​We kick off the New Year with two new pieces of flash fiction: Ascension by Laura Alexandra Hunter and The Gods' Tree by R.J.Jacobs. One story from a New Zealand writer and the other from Namibia however both share an air of magical realism.


Ascension 
by Laura Alexandra Hunter

Monday
Amy could feel the throb of her new tattoo on her thigh. A navy blue pencil skirt covered the anchor adorned with a carmine climbing rose. A light gauze dressing kept it clean and although the pain was continuous, it wasn’t intense.

The meeting was interminable. Something about who was allowed to take the reception flowers home on a Friday. Amy’s mind wandered back to Sunday afternoon. Her jeans lying on the ground. Her legs open, the tattooist, big and hairy, leaning close. His gun beating out a rhythm on her skin.

Wednesday
Before her shower, Amy looked at her body art in the full length bathroom mirror. It seemed different. The edges of the crossbar curled down. She was sure they were straighter before. As per the tattooist’s instructions, she showered in cool water.

Friday
The tattoo started peeling. As the skin flaked away, it revealed an unblemished heart. The roses had disappeared with the remainder of the anchor. She called the tattooist.

“They can fade - if you don’t look after them.”

He was abrupt as if there was another client in his chair waiting to be punctured.

Monday
Three bulldog clips were in a row on her desk - blue, red and yellow. The stationery clerk only bought black ones, but occasionally Amy was able to recover coloured clips from incoming documents and she kept them, even a pink one from an ad agency. But she kept that one right at the back of her drawer so nobody could find it. She hadn’t looked at her thigh for three days.

Tuesday
Amy woke up to find four turquoise spots on the heart.

Thursday
The stall door was open so nobody entering the bathroom could see her when Amy showed her colleague. Her pantyhose pulled her ankles together, her skirt bunched up against her virtue

​The heart was now split down the middle; the two halves morphing into butterfly wings. The butterfly looked away.

“It used to be an anchor”.

“You should get your money back.”

Friday 
Amy stood outside the parlour during her lunch hour, watching the tattooist work on a sleeve. His head bent in concentration, his own skin surprisingly free of ink. Her fingers fiddled with a bulldog clip in her pocket, her mind willed him to look up. To see her.

Sunday 
She went inside. All her courage caught up inside her.

“I didn’t ask for a balloon.”

“You still have a tattoo, don’t you?”

Amy put her hand on his forearm, holding him back or drawing him closer. She didn’t know which.

“But what if it bursts?”


* Laura Alexandra Hunter lives in New Zealand, has a degree in English, and has had pieces of flash fiction published in http://everydayfiction.com. Follow her on Twitter at @LauraLxHunter



The Gods’ Tree
by R.J. Jacobs

There is a tree at the end of a forest you never heard of. Its leaves are polished silver and there are living flames in its branches. Faces are carved into its trunk, and they stare at you with interested eyes.
     
The woman who looks after it is pale and sickly. Her head is bent over her lap, her mind wrapt in her needlework. You may pass her freely, for a while.

You do. You creep through the undergrowth, your mind set on the tree. You have travelled through mountains and dragons' caves. You have battled nightmares and slept with dreams. Your tongue can still taste the Moon's milk.
     
But there you are now, three years of adventure almost drawn to an end. You have come to the place the gods' leave their years and you see the faded skins that are fallen on the ground. There is prize waiting for you when you return to the Kingdom, that was never named. They are waiting to marry you, my sweet.
     
You pass the sickly woman and she looks at you once, for a moment. But she smiles and you are bitten by those pale lips, the colour of curdled cream. You pass her silently.
     
You reach the Tree. A face - that of a beautiful young man - watches you. He is giggling, softly. You reach for the carver's knife lodged in the silver wood. It comes out red, as if covered in blood. You run your finger along the dry blade. You are about to put into your bag, when you think of the place you came from.
     
There you see your Mother. She is sleeping in front of the fire, her cloth spilled on the floor. Your father is reading a book, his forehead furrowed at the words. You see the neighbour yelling at her children, and the butcher is crying out about his wonderful meat. The candlestick maker is lounging in his shop's doorway, yawning. A few ladies in pale dresses walk by and giggle at a gentleman watching a shop window.
     
Then there is the King and your prize. They both look so sad and miserable. You know you are signing yourself for the same fate.
     
You move the knife back into the wood and it slides in without resistance: the Tree knows you are not leaving. You turn back and smile at the sickly woman. She doesn't look up but she is nodding and making happy sounds.
You turn back into the forest and walk into the dawn, never thinking of what you were there for, again.


* R.J. Jacobs is a writer from a largely unknown country (sometimes he suspects even the people living here don't know about it) called Namibia. Look it up on an atlas. It's in Africa. However, despite the lack of bookstores, he loves science fiction and fantasy and eats, no, reads, a lot of it.