Sorry nothing is capitalized. Also this is an excerpt from a larger body of work I am writing, so it may not be totally clear in terms of plot. I am mostly wondering about my writing style, whether it has any original voice, or how I can improve/change things. Thanks for reading!
◙ ◙ ◙ ◙
during the summer you see legs. you see sweat on calves, the deepness of a girl’s skin. you can look at her and exaggerate the roundness of her breasts, and every moment of solitude grapples at your self control.
it is september and marcus is seeing women everywhere he goes. a small town in Oregon holds the fantasies of a seventeen year old boy. legs that he can venture upon, dresses that are accessible, slits nearly up to the waist line, to allow circulation. marcus understands circulation, the blood in his body concentrating, as if the vessels are in a constant race to get to his crotch. his sweat.
he lays in leaves and weeds and dirt. the trees are blocking him from the sun, and marcus is left with his thoughts, with the image of angus’ wife, her hardened face. could his basket be close? or had the men simply discarded it years ago? the latter was more likely, but he still hopes. and even as his arms are stretched about his head, lazy on the forest ground, he knows he will have his revenge. and he is feeling that buzz, a kind of intruder into his psyche. something james had placed there perhaps, or maybe the chemicals one’s brain emits when they have become a killer.
he rolls to his side and sees the face of the asian man. his second. it was retaliation of course, a justified punishment james had called it. they had needed to act quickly. it was not even really morning before they had made their way back to the building, the moldy wooden siding nestled somewhere in china town, shingles that are loosening with the rain, the wind of the city. marcus is more aware of these things during his second visit to the opium factory. the way the door does not make a sound when he and james are forcing their way inside, past the storefront of green tea variations, the smells of the east. the lighting is dark enough to become a danger, one false movement may upset a table of glass, or boxes with wood shavings that marcus can smell as he is closely following james. and even their own scents are a danger, a betrayal of their stealth, because you sweat cruel intentions, like a thief will perspire his love of gold, the way a jeweler will catch someone by just using his nose.
but they make it into the back room, the false door behind the rudely constructed bookshelf. it makes quite a bit of noise as they are squeezing into the open air of the factory, the remnants of smoke, of opium. but no one is alerted, or aware of them yet. it is the awkward transition of night to morning, so no one is here, not even in the back office. but james had noticed stairs outside of the building, leading up to a separate apartment above the façade. it is padlocked, a few tricks, minutes where marcus realizes he has to pee, his bladder only now warning him, minutes where tinkering with a loose nail allows something to click, james’ hands moving quickly now, and they are inside and marcus is forgetting about relieving himself.
james is handing marcus his pistol as he is pulling out a small blade for himself. james with a knife going forward, into further darkness, into further danger.
marcus had seen him seconds before his movement. the chinese man hiding in shadows. because he must have heard them downstairs, must have been waiting for them. and the old man is moving, slowly, as if through water, a rifle that is bigger than his body. james does not react, because he does not have time, has barely had enough time to detect the third person in the room, but marcus is quicker, has had the preface of shadows to warn him. the boy’s hand firmly around the pistol, not really aiming, just raised in front of him, in directionless darkness.
a shot. the man tumbles down to gravity, his rifle banging with him. and marcus is moving not of his own accord, but by some other force as he approaches the weakened body, can smell blood and other fluids. he shoots until he cannot shoot anymore, cementing his second murder with flying blood, some of it on his own face.
he thinks of this now even as he is thinking about killing angus. about getting his basket back. because a boy loves his mother. in ways that are frightening, a loss of identity involved somehow. but his life with his mother had been one where his life had capsized. and when she had been taken from him, she had become the basket. because that was all he had of her. so now it was natural for marcus to desire nothing but the basket, or to avenge it.
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 3