Weslandia

Through. Of course he's miserable. Moaned Wesley's mother. He sticks out. Like a nose. Snapped his father. Listening through the heating band Wesley knew they were right. He was an outcast from the civilization around him. He alone, in his town, disliked pizza, and soda, alarming his mother and the school nurse. He found professional football stupid. He refused to shave half his head. The hairstyle worn by all the other boys, despite his father's bribe of $5, passing his neighborhood's two styles of housing, garage on the left, and garage on the right. Wesley alone dreamed of more exciting forms of shelter, he had no friends, but plenty of tormentors. Fleeing them was the only sport he was good at. Each afternoon his mother asked him what he'd learned in school that day. That seeds are carried great distances by the wind. He answered on Wednesday that each civilization has its staple food crop. He answered on Thursday. That school is over, and I should find a good summer project. He answered on a Friday. As always, his father mumbled, I'm sure you said that knowledge often suddenly Wesley's thoughts shot sparks. His eyes blazed. His father was right. He could actually use what he'd learned that week for a summer project that would top all others. He would grow his own staple food crop and found his own civilization. The next morning he turned over a plot of ground in his yard, that night a wind blew in from the west at race through the trees and set his curtains snapping Wesley to lay awake. Listening. Listening, his land. Was being planted. 5 days later, the first seedlings appeared. You'll have almighty bedlam on your hands if you don't get those weeds out. Warned his neighbor. Actually, that's my crop. Replied Wesley. In this type of garden, there are no weeds. Following the ancient tradition, Wesley's fellow gardeners grew tomatoes, beans, Brussels sprouts, and nothing else. Wesley found it thrilling to open his land to chance. To invite the new. And the unknown. The plants shot up past his knees. Then his waist, they seemed to be all of the same sort. Wesley couldn't find them in any plant book. Are those tomatoes? Beans or Brussels sprouts? Asked Wesley's neighbor. None of the above replied Wesley. Fruit appeared. Yellow at first, then blushing to magenta, Wesley picked one and sliced through the Rhine to the juicy purple center. He took a bite and found the taste and entrancing blend of peach, strawberry pumpkin pie, and flavors he had no name for. Ignoring the shelf of cereals in the kitchen Wesley took to breakfasting on the fruit. He dried half a Rhine to serve as a cup, built his own squeezing device and drank the fruit's juice throughout the day. Pulling up a plant he found large tubers on the roots. These, he boiled, fried or roasted on the family barbecue. Seasoning them with a pinch of the plant's highly aromatic leaves. It was hot work, tending to his crop. To keep off the sun, Wesley wove himself a hat from strips of the plant's woody bark, his success with the hat inspired him to devise a spinning wheel and loom on which he wove a loose fitting robe from the stalks soft inner fibers. Unlike genes which he found scratchy and heavy, the robe was comfortable, reflected the sun, and offered myriad opportunities, for pockets. His schoolmates were scornful, then, curious. Grudgingly, Wesley allowed them ten minutes apiece, at his mortar, crushing the plants seeds to collect the oil. This oil had a tangy scent. And served him both as suntan lotion and mosquito repellent. He rubbed it on his face each morning, and sold small amounts to his former tormentors at the price of ten dollars per bottle. What's happening or watch? Asked his mother one day, Wesley admitted he no longer wore it. He told time by the stalk that he used as a sundial and had divided the day into 8 segments. The number of petals on the plan's flowers. He had adopted a new counting system as well based likewise upon the number 8. His domain, home to many such innovations, he named westlandia. Uninterested in traditional sports, Wesley made up his own. These were designed for a single player and used many different parts of the plant, his spectators looked on with envy. Realizing the more players would offer him more scope, Wesley invented other games that would include his schoolmates, games rich with strategy and complex scoring systems, he tried to be patient with the other players blunders, August was unusually hot, Wesley Bill himself a platform and took to sleeping in the middle of westlandia. He passed the evenings playing a flute, he'd fashioned from a stalk or gazing up at the sky, renaming the constellations. His parents noted Wesley's improved morale. It's the first time in years he's looked happy. Said his mother, Wesley gave them a tour of Westland, what do you call this plant? Asked his father. Not knowing its name, Wesley had begun calling it swift from the sound of its leaves rustling in the breeze. In like manner he'd named his new fabrics, games, and foods, until he created an entire language. Mixing the plant's oil was soot, Wesley made a passable ink. As the finale to his summer project, he used the ink in his own 80 letter alphabet to record the history of his civilizations founding. In September, Wesley returned to school. And he had no shortage of Friends.