Crimson (Not So) Sweet
When I was little my parents had a watermelon farm. Our cocker spaniel and I would run up and down the rows together. We’d also play in the water spouting from the irrigation lines. One day, Mom turned on the lines and out one end flowed a rigor-mortised baby rabbit. He must have gotten stuck in the lines. We had a requiem for that cottontail. I made an Indian Paintbrush spray for its grave. My mom cried. I didn’t understand why.
Jubilee
I was 29 and he gave me his seeds. I planted them in our farm’s fertile soil. A watermelon began to grow, and I named her. The vines and tendrils of my body supported her. She made me swell with love. I watered her and added nutrients to her loam. I felt fuller and she grew stronger. I patiently waited to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I knew she would be deliciously sweet. She was… and so much more!
The Georgia Rattlesnake
I just harvested my second watermelon. She was a spicy Honey Crisp, and it gave me such delight to show-off my prize-winning sandía. Two weeks later my joy was quickly stolen, when I received word that my seed-supplier was selling seeds to competitor farms in violation of our exclusive contract. I sued. I got his company, the watermelons, and our farm.
Sugar Baby & The Golden Midget (aka Ghost Melon)
I was on a break from farming due to a multi-year drought. While celebrating the Red, White, and Blue, I met another seed-supplier. He was an innovative, confident, and charming businessman. I was enamored. He assured me his seed supply was of the best quality, hardy, disease resistant, organic, and that he was bigger than Monsanto. We had several business meetings discussing ways he could invest in my farm. We outlined a contract. We shook hands and I gave him a tour. Watermelon Sugar High played as we strolled. He asked me to show him my casaba field. Then I walked him out the gate. In parting, he said the lawyers will review the contract and I would see him very soon. I never heard from him again. Later, I learned he had already secured a contract somewhere else.
Icebox Melon
My farm was not thriving. Samples taken from the soil divulged an aggressive fungus was spreading. Fungicide or soil removal were the proposed remedies which meant I could no longer grow watermelons. I pained with the news. My sweet, sweet, Jubilee and my spicy Honey Crisp swirled in my mind. I reflected on my years of farming and on my mom’s tears over the rabbit. I finally understood. A few weeks later my farm was excavated, and the soil disposed. All that remained was barren land.
Then it started to rain.
Rosie Alvarado is a storyteller, visual artist, and trial court judge based in San Antonio, Texas. She is drawn to stories that explore desire, power, resilience, and uneasy spaces. Her creative practice spans flash fiction, poetry, and mixed-media art. When she isn't writing or painting, she finds inspiration in the law, mythology, faith, motherhood, and the tangled intimacies of human relationships. She is equally at home climbing a mountaintop, reading ridgelines like a love letter from nature, or in a dark wine bar, watching who scoots closer, who looks away, and what happens when someone thinks no one is watching.