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Despite the bullet in my head, my slashed throat, and my smashed right ankle, I slowly stood up.
I felt my grin split outwards into the widest smile I'd ever flashed. I felt my dead skin stretching, cracking, and ripping as I continued to push it outwards. I showed my killers every single one of my teeth and when they stumbled into each other and fell, I began to laugh. My sliced vocal cords made no noise, but still I laughed. And they heard it, I'm sure of that. The mounting dread in their eyes told me as much.
I tasted their fear for a moment, savoured it, then took another step forward.
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Where the Watermelons Grow is a short horror story about oppression, genocide, and revenge. Set in a small village in a country where settlers have, for decades, done what they can to decimate the indigenous population, one terrible act sparks a new wave of violence more devastating than anything that has happened before. As the invading forces draw closer, this small village has to fight to survive.
***All proceeds from this story will be donated to Watermelon Relief, a group of activists on the ground in Gaza working tirelessly to aid displaced families with food, support, and humanity.***
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