This is what I've been working on lately, it's called Sullivan.
In all the ancient stories
and legends angels are not born but are created, well I am here to
prove that wrong. Let me introduce my self, hi, my name is Sullivan.
I am an angel, and I was born. Some people might think that a baby
angel would look like a Cherub, but no they don't look like those
cute, snooty, holiday hogging, little naked babies with tiny white
wings, that in truth would never keep them airborne. When I was born
I looked like any other little baby with pudgy limbs and big cheeks
except that I had two ugly, featherless, chicken wings poking out of
my back. The doctors labeled them as extra limbs, a twin that never
separated. They offered to have them removed, I would say their
hearts were in the write place but they weren't. All they saw was
another deformed baby from a careless mother who smoked or drank
during pregnancy. To them it was a routine procedure like clipping
the feathers on a bird to keep them from flying, or the beaks off of
baby chicks to stop them from fighting, but my mother knew. She knew
why there was two little nubs protruding from between my shoulder
blades, she declined the offer amid scowls and confused looks from
the doctors, she told them it was for religious reasons. When I was
young and growing up I sometimes wished that they were removed, just
so I could fit it, be a normal kid, have a normal life, but other
times I was undeniably glad I had them.
When I was seven years old
my wings had grown to a span of ten inches, and had brownish, black
fuzz on them. My mother had cut holes in the back of all of my
shirts, except my church clothes, to accommodate for my wings. When
we went to the grocery store she always had this big over sized
jacket she would put on me to cover my wings. I hated that jacket so
much, I would always fight her when she tried to put me in it, the
loose threads in the coat would always catch on my down and pull them
out. In the end she would give me a piece of chocolate to bribe me
into wearing it. We lived in one of those small town's where gossip
would travel fast, and morph quickly into contorted lies and twisted
stories. Once while in the grocery store my mother was down the isle
looking at deli meat for my lunches, when I decided that it was too
hot for the jacket. I made sure mother was turned around then slipped
it off, tossing the article into the back of the cart. Stretching my
wings I flapped them experimentally churning the air around me. I
thought that if I could fly then I would be able to reach the jar of
chocolates on the top of the cabinets. I heard a soft squeak behind
me and whipped around, Mrs. Isabella Damian, the priests wife who I
met once at church when she gave me a cookie for being quiet during
the service, was standing there at the end of the isle. Her eyes were
as big a saucers and her mouth was open as if she was silently
screaming, I waved.
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