Growing Wings

I feel like I am growing wings.

Surely this is what it must feel like: shoulder muscles moving and shifting under my skin, pulses that push at the skin that holds them back. A deep throb at my shoulder blades where I can picture wings with iridescently feathers sprouting forth.

My shoulders are like rocks today. Each time I move my arms, my shoulders respond with another deep throb, another tattoo of rythm. I can feel them move even when I am sitting still, the muscles dancing today, asprin having no effect on them.

That’s the trouble with muscles; most times, they won’t listen.

I picture my wings, full and feathery and light and wonder if I will fly to work tomorrow morning using the wings that have sprouted over night. I take a sip of coffee with two more Tylenol and hope that, this time, the wings will remain quiet and underneath the skin.

I am already enough of a freak being an Elephant Man. I don’t want my wings to add insult to injury.

About Jamieson Wolf

Jamieson an award winning, number-one bestselling author. He writes in many different genres. Learn more at
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