A nibble: Missing Wings 4

Dear Invisible Friends,

I need your advice.

As requested, I'm turning Missing Wings into a book. However, I need your help deciding what kind of book:

1) A traditional book sent to a traditional publisher or possibly an agent. Timeline: 6 months plus, depending on anyone picks it up or I get noticed through one of my other books.

2) I could do a book just for you, dear Invisible Friends! And you could help. Here's my idea: I could write the book and post various chunks for you to comment/ vote on, discuss plot ideas with you, etc. It would be like a book guided by you! However, once I do this, it could never be "professionally" published. I could print it on Lulu.com (check it out) and ya'll could buy it off my Web site (when I create it). However, if I give it an ISBN, it's like Allie said. Very few publishers will pick it up. It'll be considered a self-publish piece of crap, even though I would have it edited by a professional. I'm a magazine editor--it's not like I'd put my name on something that looked like I wiped my butt on it. But in the literary world, I'd be slightly above those crazy people that write novels at Starbucks and spend years writing the Great American Novel.

But publishers haven't exactly been noticing me anyway, so who the hell cares?

And as I always say--don't fence me in!

Here's the thing, dear Friends: I write because I have to. I write because I want to. Missing Wings was supposed to be a single blog entry and is now consuming my every thought. The book will probably end up being done (rough draft form) in a few months. So one way or the other, the book will be written. Whether five people see it or five thousand, I want to share it.

So my idea is, maybe we could work this out. Maybe with ya'lls help and support, I could fufill my dream of being published. I could create my own alterna-publishing universe, even if only a hundred people ever know my name and buy my stuff.

Or I could churn out hundreds of more query letters and read rejections. I've still got to send my stuff out on my dolphin book (more on that later) so I'm sure I'll have more of those soon.

Put your eyeballs back in! I'm finished rambling! Read part 4 of Missing Wings and leave your votes below! I need your help!

Biting-my-fingers-in-anxiousness-and-twitchingly-yours,

The Blonde Duck

Missing Wings, part 4

Bryant stared at Callie's pale, drawn face. She stared behind him, her eyes growing wider. Absently, her pale fingers drew the straps of her shirt back over her shoulders, hiding the pink marks that matched his.

“Didn’t you hear me?” She whirled around. Her whisper had the ferocity of a shout and chilled him to the bone. “Run!”

Grabbing the remainder of his hamburger, Bryant bolted out of the booth. He skidded across the floor and raced toward the door, nearly crashing into the kind waitress. “Sorry,” he gasped as he rammed his shoulder into the door. Spilling out on the sidewalk, he whipped his head around and blindly picked a direction to run. Meat and cheese flopped in his fingers as he scampered towards a grove of trees peeking out from the back of a building. He heard shouts behind him and a piercing scream, but didn’t dare stop. He only prayed the scream didn’t belong to Callie.

The second his feet reached the roots of the trees, he collapsed. His muscles were shaking with exertion and fear. Clutching the remainder of his hamburger to his chest, he panted and leaned against a tree. His throat burned and he longed for his Coke back at the diner.

Orange and amber streaked across the sky as the sun slipped beyond the horizon. Tears sprung to his eyes and he shoved the rest of the hamburger in his mouth. It was stupid to cry, he told himself. You’re a baby for crying. As soon as you get your wings, you can go back home. He chewed loudly, cursing himself for not telling his mother where he was going. He should have known he couldn’t find his wings in a few hours. Now he was alone, hungry, thirsty and would have police and Roach following him. All he had was a head full of unanswered questions and a jean pocket with $15 in it.

“Pity doesn’t suit you.” Bryant shut his eyes and groaned.

“If you’re another mysterious weirdo, I don’t want to talk to you,” he snarled. “I’ve had quite enough of that, thanks.” He braced himself for a reply. None came. Cautiously, he leaned away from the tree and looked around. There was no one in sight. The trees blew in the breeze and dust swirled at his feet. There was nothing but silence and the crust of his cheeseburger.

“Great,” he muttered. “I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy,” the voice said. Bryant’s eyes flew open. A tall man with golden hair, blue eyes and a white suit was perched on a dumpster in front of him. Against the wall of the grey building, he almost glowed.

“Oh God,” Bryant blurted out. The man raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

“I’m dead aren’t I?” Bryant moaned. “The hamburger meat was full of Mad Cow disease or salmonella or something like that.”

“And why would you think that?” The blond man was smiling.

“Because you’re the angel of death.” The blond man burst into laughter. Bryant’s cheeks flushed and he snarled, “This isn’t funny!”

“It is, really.” The man was laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. “If you knew what I am, to think I’m the angel of death…” He burst into giggles and kicked his white shoes against the dumpster.

“Listen, moron!” Bryant snapped. “What kind of nutjob walks around wearing a white suit and sitting on a dumpster at night? No one wears a white suit except Colonel Sanders and he’s dead.”

“A nutjob that you need to help you,” the man said, hopping off the dumpster. “Do you want to find your wings or not?”

“Duh,” Braynt said in a surly tone.

“I can see you’re going to be helpful,” the man muttered. “I can’t tell you anything until you find Callie. It’s imperative you two do this together.”

“Do what?” Bryant asked. “I barely know her. How do I know she’s not a freak or just trying to skin me?”

“She is what you are,” the man said, his blue eyes piercing Bryant’s. “It will take two to finish what one began.”

“You’re crazy,” Bryant said, turning around. He threw down the crust of his hamburger and started to stalk away.

“If you want to find your wings, this is the only way,” the man said. “Don’t you want the itching to stop? Don’t you want to know the answers to all your questions?” Bryant slowly turned on his heels. The man’s brilliant white teeth glowed in the dusk.

“Who are you?” Bryant said, looking at the man suspiciously. “Why do you look so familiar?”

The man smiled and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by a scream. A familiar scream that set Bryant’s back burning with a fiery pain.