The Last Book of Weirdos
“IMG_212613” - Nasta Martyn
Weirdo #32: Grassie (human/plant)
Origin: Ancient race of tree spirits
Power: Can make any form of plant life grow instantly
Good/Evil: Good, only hurts people who harm the earth or animals!
Carter said making plants grow was a stupid power, and what good would it do in a battle, so I drew a comic with a bad guy face down on the ground with tree branches pinning his legs and arms, a choking vine curled around his neck, and grass growing into his open, screaming mouth. I was especially proud of the grass, how I’d drawn each blade, long and sword-shaped, and colored them in two shades of green.
Carter agreed making plants grow was a good power. He said we should add the drawing to our book. It was called The Third Book of Weirdos and it was going to be our best yet. Carter had the Stompasaurus, half dinosaur and half boot, and we were working on Inside-Outside, a weirdo whose hollow body held another, smaller weirdo, with a little chair and a canopy bed and walk-in clothes closet, like I wished I had.
Carter was spending the whole night. My mom said we could sleep in the camper. My dad grilled hamburgers, and we made s’mores after. We’d rented our favorite movies and my dad had bought a new game, Jenga. It felt like we’d have enough to do for a whole year, but all I really wanted was to finish the Third Book of Weirdos so I could give it to Carter before he left.
Carter’s family was moving to Texas. He didn’t know why. Something about his dad’s job, and “family values.” I didn’t know when we’d see each other again. Carter said he would run away and visit me. He’d take a bus, or hitchhike. I said he shouldn’t, because serial killers, but Carter said he knew kung fu.
That night we sneaked out of the hot camper, sprayed a blanket with OFF!, and lay in the backyard, springy grass underneath us, softer than the bunks in the camper. Crickets and bullfrogs sang all around; fireflies fizzed in the grass, little pops of light. We looked up at the stars. Carter said if one fell, we should wish on it so his parents would change their minds and not go.
We’d only had time to watch one movie, but this was better. We fell asleep as the deep night cool broke the sultry air, soft breeze rustling through leaves.
When I woke up the sun was hot and Carter’s dad, Mr. Bost, was standing over us, hollering what in holy hell was going on in this house.
Which I didn’t get, because we weren’t in the house.
My mom came outside, said Mr. Bost should come in, she’d make some coffee. He ignored her. Carter was curled up, asleep or pretending to be, but his dad yanked him up by the arm.
“Get your clothes on this minute,” he said. “What kind of little freak are you?”
I remembered we’d traded clothes during the night. Me in Carter’s pajamas, him in my shortie nightgown. He said it was cooler. I didn’t mind. Carter had been trying on my clothes since forever.
When my dad came out, Mr. Bost yelled at him about permissiveness and allowing us kids to get up to what all, out in the yard where anyone could see.
“What’s anybody going to see? Two kids sleeping,” my dad said. “Didn’t you ever sleep out on a hot night?”
Mr. Bost said he never slept dressed like a girl, and no son of his was going to turn into a fruitcake, and thank the good lord they were leaving this state. He stood outside the bedroom door with his arms folded while Carter changed, then marched him to the car.
I told them wait, I forgot the book. I ran to the camper to get it, then back to the car, but Mr. Bost was already pulling away.
“Carter!” I yelled. His father didn’t stop.
I closed my eyes. I became Grassie. I summoned shrubs and trees. I called the grass, and the grass answered, growing thick and tall, tangling the wheels of the car. Tree roots burst through asphalt. The road bubbled.
I gave the book to Carter. “Finish it,” I said.
Carter climbed out of the sinking car. Vines parted to let him go. “We’ll finish it together,” he said.
My eyes opened. Mr. Bost’s car stalled, then lurched forward, Carter waving from the back seat. We did the sign language salute we’d learned. “Best friends forever!”
I never saw him again.
About the Author
Kathryn Kulpa is a New England writer with stories in Blink-Ink, Claudine, Flash Frog, Ghost Parachute, Smokelong Quarterly, Trash Cat Lit, and Wigleaf. Her stories have been chosen for Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and the Wigleaf longlist. She would stay up all night reading if you let her.
About the Artist
Nasta Martyn is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, poet, and writer. She graduated from the Academy of Slavic Cultures and has a bachelor's degree in design. She is currently pursuing a master's degree in art history. In 2005, she created a series of graphics dedicated to the Chernobyl disaster, and in the same year, she wrote the series The Red Book. In 2022, she participated in international exhibitions in China, Taiwan, and the United States. In 2024, she received the Jury's Special Prize for her poster in China.