/lit/ - Literature

Going to submit this to a magazine I think. Do you think I've got what it takes?

http://pastebin.com/Tz4YfyMN

I intend on writing a low-fantasy series that will hopefully include a nice Lovecraftian influence permeating the series, the first instalment will involve a small cult and a group of Jedi-like knights who are not quite zealous but are more and more being seen as the Church's lapdogs, they will struggle with their identity.

Anyway here is the opening of the first chapter, I want to post more but only if people care. Just seeing what people think of it.

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He thought of the inside of the forest might as a cave. The trees withheld their oxygen greedily and he had not taken an unfought for breathe in a long time (nor had he seen the sun or felt a breeze or spent any length of time not drenched in sweat). Like all the others he had eventually given up the idea of modesty. He lived naked in this twisted growth of fauna and at the sudden sense of any cool pocket of air he huddled against the moss of the forest floor and rolled in the dirt like a pig. Rainfall was bitter-sweet; during he would go to the stream (his own, the one he knew of, not so much a secret just nothing he spoke about to others and so on and so forth, let them find it if they did) and lie in the mostly empty creek bed and enjoy the fresh flow of the new rain that came from somewhere north if his understanding of north was not mistaken. It was pleasant to pair the undeniable sensation of the chilling temperature with the idea that the water was fresh, it came from the sky and brought with it a new air that was still imbued with the essence freedom and if not that (platitudes could drive a man mad in the forest) then just some welcome spaciousness or something worldly anyway. If this lasted a day he was happy until tomorrow when humidity had sunk inside the place and in waves its heat emanated through the forest, routinely propulsed by some heartbeat through each of their bodies which they felt in the same the way a deaf man still senses the thrum of music. In this aftermath he returned to his tree (his own, the one he knew about etc.) and burrowed deep into its ancient roots grown from an earth that was so fertile here that its moisture had begun to decompose the still living wood. He could tolerate the heat there and if he was patient enough he mostly just sat until it passed.