One day, Michael woke up with a problem. He got up as he did every morning, stretched, and noticed two small bumps on his back. They itched and annoyed him, but he just accepted them as another weird part of puberty. When they had grown too large to ignore, he told his parents about them.

"Mother," said Michael, "I've got something wrong with me."

"That's nice, Dear," said Michael's mother.

"What's nice about having something wrong with me?" said Michael, visibly perplexed.

"It's nice that you have friends to play your games with," his mother said.

With that, Michael realized that his mother was completely oblivious to his troubles. He was deeply disturbed by this and thus decided to speak to his father who was on the other side of the room.

"Father," said Michael, "I've got something terribly wrong with me."

"Way to go, Champ!" said Michael's father.

Again, Michael was confused. "What's so great about having something wrong with me?"

"I'm real proud of you, Son. I'm glad you accomplished something productive. Keep it up, and, one day, you'll be productive like me."

Michael realized that his father wasn't paying any attention to him at all. He decided to take matters into his own hands and do something he'd never considered before--something so radical it might change their lives forever. He unplugged the TV.

"Oh, hi, Son," spoke his parents in unison. "How long have you been home?"

Michael explained his difficulties to his parents. Before leaving the house, Michael's mother said to her husband, "He's grown quite a bit since we've seen him last, hasn't he?" and off they went to the hospital.

Michael had never been to a hospital. It was a large, grey, emotionless building filled with frantic people in white coats, scurrying hurriedly about this way and that as aimlessly and frantically as panicked cockroaches. They told him to wait in a small white room as they checked out his records and insurance. He squirmed about on the cold metal table in the room for what seemed like hours when, finally, a doctor arrived.

"Hey, Little Buddy, what seems to be the problem?" said the doctor to Michael. He was a faceless, middle-aged man, filled with false humor and dead jokes. The smile he gave Michael seemed as plastic as the gloves he was wearing. Michael told him of the swelling, and how the bumps had a painful habit of randomly twitching under his skin. The doctor told him that they'd have to run some tests and that he'd be right back.
 

Forty-five minutes after he left the room, a group of seven medical personnel burst into the room and snatched up Michael. As they were leaving one spoke rapidly over their shoulders, "We'll have him back in a few days. We're going to run some tests!" Michael's parents smiled at him and left.

In the following days in the hospital, Michael was poked, prodded, stabbed, sliced, gouged, stretched, X-rayed, M-R-I'ed, CAT scanned, ultra-sounded, injected, probed, and most thoroughly examined. After it was all over with, they called Michael's parents in to explain the results.

"Your son has quite a remarkable condition," said the doctor to Michael's parents. "He seems to be growing wings!"

Michael's parents were shocked, but took the news rather well. "So, he's going to be okay, then?" his mother asked.

"Well," said the doctor, "other than the wings, he's in perfect health. If the wings mature at the rate we've postulated, they should be grown and fully operational in about five weeks."

"Will he able to fly?" asked his father, hesitantly.

"We don't know, Sir. No one has ever had wings before," said the doctor.

"Can they be removed?" asked his father.

"No, the wings are too deeply imbedded in his shoulders. We couldn't take them without removing a great deal of muscle mass and part of his shoulder blades. I'm afraid they are there permanently."

Michael and his parents thanked the doctor and left.

That night Michael stayed awake staring at his eyelids and listening to house noises. Flashes of his horrid experience in the hospital mingled with anticipation of flying. As he rolled over, he wondered if he would have to sleep on his chest for the rest of his life. He fell asleep and dreamed that he was an owl chasing a sparrow with bumps where its wings should be.
 

Five weeks passed. Michael had to quit school and he stopped going to the health club. He'd lie in his room, sweating and screaming, lamenting the birth of his wings. On the third of December, they finally tore through his skin and touched the air. His old skin fell to the ground like paper, whispering under his screams. The wings were, for the most part, un-feathered and infantile. They would take about a week to molt. The feathers itched as they grew. But once they had grown, he knew that he would never have to feel that sort of pain again. Cloaked in his wings, Michael looked like an angel. He could no longer wear shirts, and his wings had caused his musculature to advance greatly. The wings were majestic, iridescent things, feathered like a hawk's or some other swift bird of prey.

However, as beautiful as the wings were and no matter how special they made him, he was very resentful. Many people who didn't like him before liked him after he grew the wings because he had become beautiful. There were also those (mainly the religious) who thought of him as a freak and hated him for being an abomination. All of a sudden, poor Michael was the subject of much controversy. No one understood that he couldn't help being the way he was.

The worst of the experience was that his wings were useless. All of the muscles in his wings worked and, by flapping them, he could create a cool breeze. But that was it. As hard as he tried, he couldn't generate enough lift to take off. Everyday, Michael would spend several hours standing in his backyard hopelessly flapping and flapping. He was quite a spectacle, standing there, fuming and screaming, alternately praying and cursing, slipping in and out of a frustrated insanity. He snapped angrily at people, even if they were offering him words of encouragement.

Finally, Michael decided he was weary with his boring suburban world. He was tired of the ignorant, judgmental, self-righteous people who were always over him one way or the other. He was tired of trying. He was tired of trying to be accepted, of trying to trust people, of trying to fly. Mostly, Michael was tired of being Michael. So, he walked out of his backyard and into town, past the people alternately pointing and laughing, gasping in shock or sighing in awe. He found the tallest building (which was a bank) in his town. He stared at the building, curious as to why the bank was almost twice as tall as the neighboring church. As he began his climb, knowing full well what he was doing, he was perversely happy that something was finally changing. He looked down and saw a huge crowd gathering on the street. People were panicking and screaming, lights were flashing. It looked like one of Bosch's paintings of hell, the twisted figures being his distorted view of his parents, the doctors, and his teachers. He stood on top of the bank, allowing a moment's hesitation, took a running start, spread his wings, leaped into the air, and