Johnny Cruel is born with strange appendages on his back and
ends up in a freak show traveling the South in the 1930s. Is he an angel or a
devil? What does it mean to be different?
Boy With Wings
by Mark Mustian
Genre: Historical Fiction, Magical Realism
“Vibrant and
alive, the kind of book where the blood pumps mightily.” —Kristen Arnett,
NYT bestselling author of Mostly Dead Things
What does it mean to be different?
When Johnny Cruel is born with strange appendages on his back in the 1930s
South, the locals think he’s a devil. Determined to protect him, his mother
fakes his death, and they flee. Thus begins Johnny’s yearslong struggle to find
a place he belongs. From a turpentine camp of former slaves to a freak show run
by a dwarf who calls herself Tiny Tot and on to the Florida capitol
building, Johnny finds himself working alongside other outcasts,
struggling to answer the question of his existence. Is he a horror, a wonder,
or an angel? Should he hide himself to live his life?
Following Johnny’s journey through love, betrayal, heartbreak, and several
murders, Boy With Wings is a story of the sacrifices and
freedom inherent in making one’s own special way-and of love and the miracles
that give our lives meaning.
(From Ch. 1)
Voices rise, high ones like children, and he listens but they go away. They could be near or far, and maybe he knows them, though he knows almost no one. They’ve moved a lot, and at his few times at schools the others laughed at or turned away from him. Or called him names: “Ogre!” “Freak!” He had to ask her what these meant. Some wanted to touch his hair, even one of the teachers, Mrs. Wickham, rubbing her hand through it: brushing and lifting his shirt. “I’ve never seen anything like . . . Your eyes are like emeralds. Are you an albino?” A rhino? He shook his head.
Others asked of his powers—other children, some adults. “We heard you have powers,” they would say, their faces scrunched. He fell from a cupboard the one time he tried to fly. He’s not strong like the soldiers in the picture books she brings home. He can’t spit far or whistle or jump high or even swim. So he asked her. She answered calmly, in her softest voice: “You are yourself, only. Don’t worry on what others think. You’ll do more when you’re older.” But if he were older, he’d break the box, lift the boards off like his toys, and toss them up and far away, and he’d have powers then, like a bird that gets bigger and flies. Maybe. Sometime, when he’s older. Or after a while, or maybe not. He doesn’t know.
He cries again, loudly. She won’t like him crying. He has friends, pretend friends—Robert and Buster—and for a time they talk. He asks what they are doing (Buster: listening to the radio; Robert: playing with his toys) and he tells them of the darkness, his hiding and the box, at least until he grows tired. They don’t care that he peed.
He won’t be . . .
He won’t let . . .
He won’t stay . . .
He tries to hear more but he can’t, his breath loud and he screams some, gasping for air until his throat feels raw and red, banging his arms and feet till they’re numb. It’s as if he’s under the water in the tin soaking tub, everything pressed around him and squeezing, making things blurry, the sound soft then gone, and how could she leave him, alone here in this cage?
He was cold before but is hot and things stink, and maybe he sleeps or dreams. He knows that things die and maybe now he’ll die, too, and he bangs on the box again, pushing each side of it. A spray of dirt washes in that he flicks his tongue at and breathes. His coughs rise the way hers do, a crumpled tail to them, and when he closes his eyes this time the dots fade, smoothed to thin ribbons, black and forgotten like something from long before. From far off a clink comes, voices again in the dirt and the dark, and he trusts and believes none of it, calmed now by the darkness, the closeness, until something heavy strikes the box. There’s a tilting and scraping, the low sound of grunts and the hiss of breath blown. He stays still as she told him, waiting and not waiting, and when the top is ripped open in a flash of light, he is quiet still, cooled, saved. Seen.
Revealed.
Winner, Grand Prize
for Fiction, Next Generation Indie Book Awards
Winner, da Vinci
Prize for cover art
Winner, Bronze Medal
for Historical Fiction from Independent Publishers Book Awards (IPPY)
Finalist, Hawthorne
Award for Fiction
Finalist, Cross-Genre
Fiction, International Book Awards
Finalist, Literary
Fiction, National Indie Excellence Awards
Shortlisted, Shelley
Ward for Paranormal Fiction
“…a magical, highly imaginative tour de force… Boldly original and unexpectedly
profound…”
—Readers’ Favorite Reviews
“Mustian’s story is a study in acceptance, diversity,
kindness, and the possibility of marvels in life… Vibrant with discovery, Boy With Wings is a winner.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Boy with Wings is a lyrical, mesmerizing blend of the magical—feathered wings—with
social realism…”
—Historical Novel Society Reviews
“…riveting… An
evocative historical novel that celebrates distinctive individuals in the
Depression-era South.”
—Foreword Book Reviews
“In this imaginative
novel filled with magical realism, religion and morality are turned inside
out and upside down.”
—Southern Literary Review
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Writing Advice
From Mark Mustian
From time to time I’m asked, by strangers, students, colleagues and friends, for advice about writing. My responses (after “What do I know?):
- Read good stuff. Read widely, even things you think you won’t like. Make it a challenge. Read more.
- Write a little bit every day. The hardest part for me is getting it down to begin with. Start, even if it’s crap. Even if it’s just a sentence. Begin.
- Revise again. Again and again and again and again. You can tell who does and who doesn’t. Try setting it aside and picking it back up after a week, a month, a year. You’ll be surprised by yourself.
- I can’t tell you the number of people who’ve told me: “I’ve got three chapters of a novel written…” Just get it done.
- One thing to avoid, if you can: sex. Not the act, but the writing about it, even if you’re very, very good. Most writers aren’t—that’s why there’s a Bad Sex in Fiction award (I’m not making this up). Be forewarned.
- Another thing to avoid, or at least by hyper-aware of: humor. Humorous writing is great—in fact, it’s one of my favorite things about a book. It’s also hard to do. Few things are worse than a book that tries to be funny and isn’t. I rarely quit on a book, but I’ve tossed more than a few that just don’t hit the humor meter with me.
- Enjoy yourself. No one is pushing you but you. Make writing a pleasure if you can.
Mark Mustian is the author of the novels “The
Return” and “The Gendarme,” the latter a finalist for the Dayton
International Literary Peace Prize and shortlisted for the Saroyan
International Award for Writing. It won the Florida Gold Book Award for Fiction
and has been published in ten languages. The founder of the Word of South
Festival of Literature and Music in Tallahassee, Florida, his new novel,
“Boy With Wings,” is the winner of the Grand Prize for Fiction from
Next Generation Indie Book Awards and has received numerous other honors,
including winning the Bronze Prize for Historical Fiction from Independent
Publishers Book Awards (IPPY) and being named a finalist for the Hawthorne
Award for Fiction.
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This does sound so fascinating. thanks
I love the cover. This book reminds of the Disney film Dumbo.
I like the excerpt. Thanks.
I think this sounds like a really good read. I like the cover art. Looks great.