SUMMERWEEN 2025 HONORABLE MENTION
Mara arrived in Linden the last week of July to visit her grandparents. The town looked like someone had confused holidays. No flags, no fireworks. Instead, fat green watermelons sat on porches and windowsills, carved into wide-mouthed grins. Some had candles inside, flickering behind wet red flesh. Others had shriveled in the heat, their carved eyes sinking in like bruises.
She pointed at one as Grandma parked the car. “Why do they look like that?”
Grandma didn’t look. “We’ve always done it. Keeps things right.”
The house smelled like dill and heat. Grandpa was already asleep in the armchair, a fan oscillating near his socked feet. Mara stood at the screen door, watching the porch watermelon blink in the twilight.
She thought it was a joke. A town thing. Maybe some forgotten summer festival.
The next day she walked into town. Linden was small: a grocery store with a bent flagpole, a library that smelled like paperbacks and lemon cleaner, and a park where no one played.
She met Nate by the soda machine outside the hardware store. He had a slingshot and a scab on his elbow and talked like he was waiting for someone to argue.
“You’re the one staying at the Yoders’, right?”
“My grandparents. Yeah.”
He gestured with his soda. “You carve yours yet?”
“My what?”
“Watermelon.”
She shook her head.
“Better do it.”
That night, Mara noticed no one outside after sunset. The town dimmed like someone had thrown a sheet over it. Windows shut. Porch lights off. Only the carved melons remained, glowing faintly.
At the library, tucked in a drawer of old town papers, she found a clipping:
“July 31, 1932: Watermelon Ritual Begins. Town Wells Restored.”
Nothing else. No article. Just the headline and a photo of boys holding carved melons, all of them barefoot and frowning.
Mara asked Nate about it the next day.
He shrugged. “People don’t talk about that. But everyone knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That there’s a thing. Not a monster. Just… a rule.”
“A rule.”
He sipped his soda. “If you don’t carve one, it gets carved anyway. To keep the water flowing.”
“That’s dumb.” Then she dared him. “What if we don’t? What if we hide it?”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Behind the garage. There’s a bush.”
They took his watermelon, still whole, and tucked it into the weeds. They grinned at each other.
That night, the town went quiet early. Grandma locked the doors. Drew the curtains. Left the porch melon lit.
Mara waited. The house ticked with heat. Somewhere, a dog barked once and went quiet.
She slipped out the back door in her socks. Nate’s house was three blocks away. The porch was dark.
She crept closer. The bush behind the garage was empty.
The watermelon was gone.
The next morning, Grandma made toast and didn’t ask why she was already dressed.
At Nate’s house, a new melon sat on the porch. This one carved.
His parents smiled too hard. “He went to stay with cousins,” they said.
But Mara stepped closer. The watermelon…its grin too wide, its eyes too round…looked fresh. Too fresh. Like skin, almost.
And behind the red pulp, she swore she saw a shape. Not a seed. A shadow. A smudge of a face.
Nate’s.
And the eyes moved.
That evening, Mara asked for a knife and carved her own.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social
Published 8/26/25