TTITLE: Martin’s Wings
AGE & GENRE: #Adult #Romance
WORD COUNT: 104,000
Martin flies—away from Podunk Pennsylvania, away from his kooky family’s hypercompetitive holidays, away from his fiancé waiting at the altar. This commitment-phobic pilot’s abiding M.O. = Move On. But, when a winged runner waves her wand, his own wings may land. The cute girl offers Martin a taste of her cotton candy and a taste of his own medicine as she plays flirt and flee with him.
In pursuing the pixie, Martin faces flak from his wedding walk-out. His enormous family barrage him with unsolicited love advice and disparaging nicknames—all while he endures toddler tantrums, barren buffet tables, and cheap beer. Worse yet, Martin’s smiling ex parades through parties on the arm of his old football teammate.
Will this California pilot fly solo forever? To earn his Happily Ever After, Martin will need to stop running away from love and start running to it—if only he could get that fairy to stick around for longer than a New York minute.
Like Martin, I grew up in the boisterous warmth of a large family. I, too, fled Pennsylvania’s rain and ragweed in favor of the sunshine and fish tacos of Southern California. With a past career in Museum Anthropology, I hold degrees from Brown University and Carnegie Mellon University. Martin’s Wings is my first novel.
FIRST 250 WORDS: Martin’s Wings by Nat Mumpower (Excerpt)
“There’s only one way out of this room, Marty.” Uncle Lars pointed to the altar doorway. “Whether boon or doom awaits you there, no one can know.”
Thunder rattled the sacristy’s stained glass. Martin jumped. High. That’s when the rain started. Sheeting. On Martin’s wedding day. Full on roaring thunderstorm. Deluge, really. One that violently morphed into the rapid, crackling ping-ping of dropping hail.
Squinting out the yellow-tinted stained glass, Martin discerned a flurry of suits and dresses charging the cathedral gates. Icy munitions poured down, riddling car roofs, dinging hoods, and pelting wedding guests. “You know,” Lars said, scratching the skull underneath his erratic Einstein hair, “some cultures consider hail good luck for your nuptials.” Good luck? “There are others, however,” he continued, “who view hail as God’s retribution on the iniquities of humanity.” Bad luck. “Sin lately, Marty?” Ummm… “Did you remember your Mother’s Day gift?” Shit. “Marty! Marty! Marty! Any dick off the street can tell you Mother’s Day is the single most important 24 hours in your Mother-in-Law’s existence. Women who selflessly wipe poop off baby butts and open rent-free basements to socially backward thirty-something sons need to have some kernel of joy in their otherwise bleak lives.”
“She’s not my mother-in-law…yet,” Martin croaked, deep voice catching in his throat.
“She will be. She will be,” said Lars, pitifully attempting a Yoda-ish voice. Drawing no response, Lars shrugged. “At least you’ll get laid tonight. Another thirty years, you might not be so lucky.”