Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Boy With Wings"

Book Title: Boy With Wings

Series: n/a

Author: Mark Mustian

Publication Date: March 15th, 2025

Publisher: Koehler Books

Pages: 322

Genre: Literary Fiction / Historical Fiction

Boy With Wings

by Mark Mustian

Blurb:

 “A brilliant fever dream of a novel, a haunting coming of age story reminiscent of both Franz Kafka and Charles Dickens.”

~ Chris Bohjalian, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of The Jackal’s Mistress

Next Generation Indie Book Awards 2025 First Place Winner

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.

Buy Link:

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mdxEoR

Author Bio:

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 out in 2025.

Author Links:

Website: https://markmustian.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/@markmustian

Facebook: https://facebook.com/markmustianauthor

LinkedIn: https://linkedin.com/in/mark-mustian

Bluesky: https://markmustian.bsky.social

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Mark-T.-Mustian/author/B0CSF8JY2Y

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3463600.Mark_Mustian

Book Excerpt:

(from Ch. 2, from the point of view of Johnny’s mother Lena)

The death-faking scheme in response wasn’t mine. They claimed there was no choice, that it was for the boy’s sake, that nothing else could stave off this harm. Only two people know of it: Tom, who built the box and dug the rigged grave, and Paul, my sometimes lover. They’re brothers: the Rowans. Tom had done this in a show. I don’t imagine they’ll snitch, but as I think on it now, do I wholly know this? It brings forth the terror from when the deed was finally done, the worry then of whether the ruse and lie after would work, the faith required in it, the fear and crippling shame. It should have been me in that box! I say this over and over and over to myself, a hymn sung or promise. I prayed enough to hurt my head. The relief on its opening brought me sobbing to my knees—him sweat and piss-stained, big-eyed and silent—and I swore to myself after that we would never part for long again. J has been quiet and mopey ever since, stuck in his closet and indoors all the time, unable to run around and play in fresh air. It’s unnatural, I know it; I hate it, but he’s alive. But for what we did, I don’t know that I could make that claim.

A car purrs outside, its tires swishing like insects. Paul? I motion J to his cupboard, which he enters with a duck and frown. I think to freshen myself or at least brush my hair, but steps come and a knock sounds that strikes a coldness inside me. Paul or Tom wouldn’t stop and knock. I cough my way to the door, the floor tilting so that I must hang on to the wall to stay upright, the grooves worn there, the rot and stains. There’s a space between boards we’ve stuffed with socks to block snakes. I peer out at a tall man, a stranger. I crack the door.

“What is it?”

The man holds a hat in one hand. The other hand, and his arm up to the shoulder, is gone, the light falling strangely around him, slanted somehow and made shiny, bright. He’s taller than me by at least a foot, thin-mouthed and staring like a bird looking past its beak. I think of the preacher, but this isn’t a preacher, no collar or cross or spec of kindness to be seen. The preacher put his hands on me at the burial, my tears drained away then, my questions boiled up unasked: What is God to be more than this love? Is a miracle to you one to me? Who is it that gauges sin? I hate preachers, you see—hate them every one.

“You Lena?”

I squint. I haven’t seen him before, and I’d remember a man with no arm. He isn’t one of the neighbors. I don’t open the door.

“May I come in?”

“What do you want?” The chill works its way to my spine, across to my chest. I draw back.

“I’m from Tallahassee.” He smiles or tries to, but it comes off as hurtful. His eyes are as gray as a cat’s. “I’m a friend of your friend.” He nods at the door again. “Please.”

I make no move to open it. “Friend?”

He pushes past, not rough but quick enough to get by me, creaking the floorboards in the pitched and beaten shack. He spins around. “I hear you got a son. Johnny.”

I’m unable to speak. Then: “I did.” I swallow. Sniff. “He’s dead now.”

The man turns back, eyebrow raised. “Hhmm. That so?”

I’m struck dumb, unable to blink or to breathe. What if J makes a sound? He’s done that before and I’ve heard it, the walls here are so thin—he’s only six years old. Seven.

“When did that happen?”

I sigh. “A month back.” My legs bend and I sway with it.

“What did he die of?”

“Same thing I got.” I cough to show him, long and with hills and bumps. He takes a step back then.

“He buried here?”

I nod. Tears form and fall in plops. I hear scuffling from the cupboard or twitching or breathing, and surely the man hears this, too. I sniff the tears back.

“Where?”

“Back of the church down the road. The graveyard.”

“I’ll stop by.” His eyes take in the walls, the small room, the scuffed and bulging cupboard. He pushes the room’s only door, his body slanted without the one arm, looks at the bed there, the clothes scattered. “I’m sorry,” he says. But he doesn’t sound it.

Another coughing spree spirals, long and with color. I notice a toy, a tiny train, left on the floor as if spun off its rails, misplaced there and glinting.

The man seems to stare at it. “You take care now, okay?”

“I will.” I shift and murmur, cough. I want to dance and wave my hands at him, distract from the rest.

“You know,” he says, turning. “We heard he was . . . special. That so?”

I look up at this man who wants to take something from me, something vital and heavy and much more than his missing arm. The thought comes to hurl punches or insults or slit his throat. “Course he was. Special as the moon and stars.” I should shout this up at him, flinging my anger through his nose and to his brain, but instead my voice is soft, still and emptied, cold. I would give up my life. “He was my son.”

The car door slams. The motor snorts like a dragon, the tires swish again in the grass.

My back heaves and tears slide down my throat. I cough brownish clots into a crumpled and gritty rag.

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