History
“Wake up, Lee,” Professor Adams was standing in front of the desk, on which Marcus had chosen to rest his head. The professor’s huge hands were held firmly against his hips. His back was fully stretched, aligned with his thick neck that supported his down tilted head. His foot was tapping the floor in a loud, echoing beat. The posture showed that he was unsatisfied, waiting and angry with the student who had fallen asleep during his lecture.
“No, I won’t,” sounded Marcus’s response, muffled through the fabric of his shirt. The sleeve was wet with saliva, so he shifted his head a bit to find a dry spot. Marcus’s classmates laughed loudly as they watched the spectacle unfold. The professor’s eyes grew large, and a frown spread on his face, creating wrinkles and creases all over his forehead. He spoke with his teeth clenched together:
“What was that, Lee?”
“You heard me, mom,” Marcus mumbled inaudibly as a response.
The professor rammed both of his fists onto the table with a perceptible bang. Marcus quickly sat up, eyes as wide as the professor's, ready to pay attention to whatever was on the blackboard, whatever subject it was that he had been sleeping through. Or so he thought in his drowsy state, until he saw it, written in bold on the blackboard: “Everything you need to know about the Cowlitz Tribe”. His classmates were laughing at him.
He heard the professor’s angry voice, telling him that he can’t expect to learn anything about History unless he pays attention during class. The letters of the word C-o-w-l-i-t-z began to taunt Marcus with their presence. The roaring laughter from the others in the classroom slowly faded, but the professor kept ranting. Marcus pulled his chair back and slowly stood up in front of the professor and the rest of the class. His act was surprising to the other students; he wasn’t expected to stand his ground against Professor Adams. No one was allowed to; it would lead to being expelled, or worse. They all gasped as Marcus opened his mouth to speak:
“I know more than enough about them!” He grabbed his backpack and walked out the door, slamming it behind him. Marcus tried to dry the tears from his cheeks, but they kept coming back. The thought of those savages he was expected to call brothers was sickening to him. They had stolen his father in the worst way possible, murdered him in cold blood. Marcus found it strange that he missed him so much. He had only seen pictures of him.
Maybe it’s the things you’ve never had that you miss the most, he thought while quickening his pace, leaving the Toledo High School grounds behind him.
There was hardly any people in town, which was good. He didn't want anyone to see him cry. He had to walk it off; he couldn’t come home with tears gleaming in his eyes, hands shaking from anger and sadness. He was the man of the house; he owed it to his mother to stay that way. Marcus would never want his mother to know that he had often had nightmares about the Cowlitz tribe, and how they might have killed his father. He began recollecting one of the dreams in particular, and his steps slowed down.
He could see an eerie, blood red moon hovering above a village of the Cowlitz tribe, casting its light over a ring of huts. Amid them, fires were burning; sending sparks through the chill of night-time. He could hear the echoes of crying warriors as they were burning their brother; his father, alive. Marcus could almost reach out and touch his father’s hand through the cage which he had been thrown into. When he had stretched, using all of his will to approach the hand that was cramping in pain; he managed to touch his father’s knuckle. As he did, the hand and arm with it collapsed and turned into ashes in front of Marcus’s tear-filled eyes. The tribe danced in the dust, howling and chanting, louder and louder until he had awoken from the dream with a violent pain in his chest.
Marcus was standing still with his hands pulled towards his face. He was crying, trying desperately to stop. He dried the tears off in the same pace as they reappeared in his eyes. Someone walked faster as they passed him. His red hooded shirt was already drenched with darker spots, both from the snow and the tears. How long had he been standing there? He looked up from his misery and saw his mother rounding the corner from Helens street, one block away. She was apparently taking Dog out for a walk, and they were heading straight toward him. Marcus looked around him, looking for a place to hide. Most of the shops on the street were closed during lunch.
I can’t let her see me like this, he thought, quickly the first shop he could see that was still open.
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"Shaman" is a novel I'm writing, following the adventures of Marcus Lee. During his second year in high school, Marcus finds a book with a peculiar symbol engraved on the cover. As Marcus digs deeper into the mysteries of the book, he learns about controlled reincarnation. The book becomes important to him, so when it is stolen, Marcus is committed to find the thief, no matter what.
So, this was very well-written! However, to be honest, something about the narration seemed a bit stilted to me. Your flow is fine, and you have a pretty equal balance of sentence length, but I couldn't find myself relating to the character or being immersed into the scene. I think this was largely because you've established such an indifferent tone. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it was noticeable to me. For example, when Mr. Adams (would a High School history teacher really be considered a professor?) was ranting and yelling at Marcus, I couldn't feel any of the anger/frustration/hurt that you were trying to convey. The words were there, but the whole set-up seemed too calm. I'm not sure why that is-- third person might be a factor in this, but I'm not really sure. I'm sorry; I know I'm being unhelpful. >_>
) but I don't think the hook is strong enough for an opening. That's just my opinion, of course, but just keep that in mind. ^_^
