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Watermelons
Jerri C. Graham
The sun-baked smell of rotting rind drifted through
the window, sending a fresh wave of bile to the back
of Iris's throat. Dontello had promised her the world
that day they sat in a Paris bistro. He told he would
take her back to his hometown after they were married
to meet his parents. They would return for a little
visit, just long enough to see his dying father.
Dontello said his mother would love her and treat her
as the daughter she had always wanted. The lies that
began in Paris were like the sun in this part of the
country, never-ending.
The days turned into months, and the months gave birth
to years. The old man lingered on. Each breath,
instead of being his last, was followed by several
more. Some of them were raspy, with just a hint of
death rattle, but still he sat in a lounge chair
sipping cappuccino. For the first few months, Iris had
listened to his breathing, but then she gave up. He
wasn’t going to die.
"Just a few more months darling and we'll go back to
Paris," Dontello promised her six years ago on the
night their first child was conceived. Staring at the
calendar on the wall next to her bed, she felt more
tears coming up. How had it all gone so quickly? Would
she ever get it back? Could she get a refund on her
life?
Watermelons. There were always watermelons. No matter
what happened, the watermelons would always be there.
Back home in Illinois, watermelons were a summertime
treat, eaten ice-cold on the front porch while
swatting away mosquitoes.
Since coming here, she had become an expert on the
fruit. You have to be if you're the wife of a
watermelon farmer. She knew how to prepare watermelons
in a variety of ways - soup, salad and even pie. It
was very versatile once you started working with it.
In Paris, Dontello told her he was a photographer. His
portfolio was filled with faces of the people from his
village. The lined faces of the men with cigarettes
hanging between their lips. The beaten down faces of
the women, localized looks of despair spread upon
their skin.
Iris fell in love with Dontello that first night while
they went through his photos. He was the man for her,
she told herself and her mother when she made the call
back home. They tried to talk her out of it. They
tried to tell her that marrying a man she'd only known
for two months wasn't wise. Her mother begged her not
to. Her father offered to buy her a ticket home to
cool off. Iris hadn't listened. She never did. Before
she realized what was happening, she was married,
pregnant, and living in a village that most people
couldn't find on any map. The photographer she fell in
love with had disappeared and in his place was a man
who smelled of manure, broke a tooth and didn’t bother
to repair it, and spent his evenings flipping through
photography magazines--lost in his dreams.
Standing in her slip, she laid her hand on her belly,
feeling the new child that was growing inside of her.
Another seed planted by the watermelon farmer.
Jerri C. Graham lives in Taipei, Taiwan, where she works as a
magazine editor.
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Princess Bree
Melissa Mattern
Once in a land on a hill with a tree
lived a spirited princess by the name of Bree. Now Bree didn’t like things other girls did--the girls in dresses who
cooed to dolls and put them to bed. Bree was a girl who liked to be outside, running and playing and exploring far and wide,
and as the young princess grew older and taller, her father and mother wanted her wandering days to be over. Bree should
marry and a prince he must be, and she would be forced down from her trees. A prince and a crown and a throne at the palace
would bring the castle into a state of balance.
Now Bree was a girl who had lots of dreams,
none of which included jeweled crowns and fine lace.
Bree wanted to travel, to learn, and to grow,
to see mountains and seas and hear languages unknown.
But, the king and queen dispatched messengers throughout the land
announcing that Bree must choose her prince soon.
In fact, she must marry before the next moon!
Young men followed the messenger from the far reaches of town. The suitors lined the castle, the roads, and the plaza, and
as the day grew closer, Bree saw her dreams start to shatter.
As the new moon made it’s way across the sky, Bree knew her wings would soon be clipped and she’d never fly. So,
as she stood before the young men,
she announced a test to find the one worthy of her hand:
“Bring to me the gift of summer! Of love, the wind, and endless sun. In three days, the one who brings me the sweets
of summer is the one who wins my undying love.”
The young men scrambled. They plotted. They consulted. They fretted. Their mothers advised, and shops remained open.
On the third day, the young men lined up with a clatter,
bearing flowers, jewels, and all sorts of matter. But the crowd fell silent when a stranger rode in. On his white horse he
pressed forward and the crowd let him in.
A large crate he bore on his horse set them to wonder. The stranger gazed at Bree and gave a low bow. He lowered the crate
and placed it gently at her feet, pried off the top, brandished a sword, made a quick cut, and presented the princess with
a beautiful crimson piece--a slice of summer with an emerald green rind and funny black seeds sparkling inside.
With the suitors’ jewels and gifts glinting in the sun, Bree took a taste of this slice and declared: “He’s
won!” This wonderful piece of nature it seems is a true taste of summer, encased in brilliant green.
And with that, the stranger lifted her onto his horse and off they rode, to tour the world, to see lands far away, and explore
languages unknown. And when their love had blossomed and grown, they moved to a castle next to the sea, and every day to
celebrate their lives,
they split open that beautiful emerald skin and relished the summer inside.
Melissa Mattern is a comedy writer living either in Clackamas, Oregon or eleven miles from Boring.
If you'd like to submit a photo story, check out our new photo, Dead Slow.
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Graphic design by Erika Wong
All contents © Thereby Hangs a Tale, 2005-2008
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