31 ways to eat a watermelon
Exercises in style
We’re playing.
This week, I'm starting an experiment and I invite you to join in. It's inspired by Raymond Queneau's Exercises in Style, where he rewrites an original very short story in 99 different styles.
In one of my workshops, Writing to constraints, we explore how limitations can, paradoxically, offer freedom and serve as creative avenues, so I wanted to open the exercises to you, if you want to participate.
It's really simple.
Below is the original very short story. I've also drafted a few variants in different styles to get us started, from one mimicking an AI-generated LinkedIn post (to pre-empt this option and encourage you to be authentic, come up with your own ideas and enjoy yourself), to one in the Handmaid's Tale style, to another responding to the government's Welfare Bill proposals and subsequent u-turn(s), to a story I enjoyed the most crafting, which goes back to a summer in Bulgaria in the 90s.
Over the coming days, I'll keep writing and adding new story variants here, so if you're curious to read them, perhaps consider subscribing.
To take part, simply add your story (up to 300 words) in the comments below, and to make it fun, please tag a few people on Substack you think might like to take part (or just enjoy reading).
What do you say?
Original story
Eryn bought an expensive watermelon at the market on a hot July afternoon. She carried it home to her three-storey house on the outskirts of London, struggling with its weight.
In her kitchen, she placed the watermelon on the table and reached for a large knife from the drawer, its silver blade catching afternoon light. As she raised the blade to cut into the fruit, it slipped from her hands.
The watermelon landed on the wooden floor and burst against the white kitchen walls. Red flesh splattered everywhere. Seeds scattered across the room.
Eryn stared at the mess, horrified. She thought about the money she'd wasted, the heavy walk home, the hours of cleaning ahead, possibly even repainting the walls.
The kitchen smelled of summer. Eryn knelt down, picked up a piece of watermelon from the floor, one that seemed whole and spared from the explosion somehow, and brought it towards her face. She licked it with the tip of her tongue, and, tempted by its sweetness, she bit into it. It was perfectly ripe.
Bulgarian summer in the 90s
The concrete was burning under Petya's feet, but she didn't mind. July for the kids left in the city meant playing all day outside under the scorching sun, in between the grey panel blocks of flats. The older boys had already given up their football match, sprawling in whatever shade they could find beneath the rusty climbing frames.
(Video created with Runway. Description: A 7-year-old girl in shorts, t-shirt, and sandals, is sitting on a pavement, eating a large wedge of watermelon. Behind her, there are panel blocks of flats, and other kids are playing on the street. The video is black and white, and only the watermelon piece is in colour.)
"Petya! Petyaaaa!" Baba Dana's voice carried down from the third-floor balcony, cutting through the cicadas' drone and the distant rumble of a Trabant struggling uphill. “Come eat! Bring Mila and Georgi too!”
The children looked up, squinting against the sun. Baba Dana was Petya’s grandmother, but she always fed all the kids in the mahala. She was standing in the balcony in her faded housedress, one hand shading her eyes, the other gripping the iron railing where her tomatoes grew in old yoghurt pots.
The kids didn’t wait for baba Dana to call twice, and rushed up the narrow stairwell that smelled of cabbage and cigarettes, their flip-flops slapping against the worn steps. In the tiny kitchen, baba Dana had already positioned the watermelon on the table.
She didn't bother with ceremony. One sharp bang against the table's edge, and the watermelon split open with a satisfying crack, revealing red and juicy flesh. The long knife moved in practiced strokes, creating perfect crescents that dripped onto yesterday's newspaper spread beneath.
“Go on then,” she said, pressing a large wedge into Petya's small hands. “Before it gets too warm to enjoy.”
Back on the street, Petya sat on the hot pavement, letting the juice run down her chin and between her fingers. The sweetness was summer itself, sticky and joyful. Around her, the other children crunched through seeds and laughed, and somewhere behind them, baba Dana watched from her balcony.
As a LinkedIn AI-generated post
In a world driven by goals, outcomes and perfectly curated moments, sometimes all it takes is a watermelon to remind us of something real.
Eryn didn't plan to buy a watermelon that day—but the heat was unforgiving, the market was buzzing, and the fruit looked appealing.
It’s true it was overpriced.
It true it was too large for one person to devour alone.
It’s true it was going to be difficult to carry.
But she bought it anyway.
She walked through the crowds, sweat gathering at her collar. She never stopped to gather her breath before reaching her three-storey house on the outskirts of London. Determined.
By the time she reached her kitchen, she was tired—but proud and excited with her achievement.
Because, it’s not just about buying a watermelon. It's about the quiet journey we take to earn our moments.
She set the watermelon gently on the table. She reached for the long knife, its silver blade catching the afternoon light. She was ready to enjoy the moment she had earned.
But then the knife slipped.
The watermelon dropped from the table. It collided with the wooden floor and exploded, bursting into pieces.
Sometimes, disaster struck when you least expect it.
Flesh splattered across the white walls. Seeds shot across the floor—a sticky reminder of everything gone wrong. The kitchen transformed into what could only be described as a modern art installation.
She stared at the wreckage. The financial and emotional implications hit her hard. The cost. The effort. The mess.
But here’s the thing.
Being who you are is not just about the mess you leave behind. It's about resilience and what you do when life explodes in your face.
Eryn knelt down, picked up a piece from the floor, and brought it towards her face.
It was perfect—for a social media post.
She took a photo, asked ChatGPT to draft the copy and posted it on her LinkedIn.
She was excited, delighted even.
Awaiting for the AI-generated comments to follow.
In the quiet stillness of the moment.
Life is never what it seems to be.
Here are three things I’ve learned from this experience:
Even the most careful plans can slip in an instant.
Sometimes the biggest messes offer the clearest clarity.
Value doesn't disappear just because expectations do.
What's your unexpected watermelon story?
If this made you think, laugh—or reminded you of your own metaphorical watermelon—drop a comment or share. I’d love to hear how you turned a sticky mess into something unexpectedly sweet.
#Leadership #EmotionalIntelligence #GrowthMindset #LifeLessons #DefinitelyNotAIWritten
Dramatic
In the aftermath of a murder, the scene is a puzzle carrying the clues.
The redness is spilled on the white walls, like a sort of experimental artwork which has turned out well. You'd think it's the rouge hues of the sun melting in its setting hours, but there's something else: a mushy substance in a lighter shade of red splashed all over the walls.
The black and white seeds scattered all over give it all away. An encounter with a watermelon which hasn't turned out too well.
The woman looks terrified, but not because of the murder she had just committed, no. There's no remorse, only annoyance. The thoughts in her head reverberate – the money for the overpriced watermelon she had lost, the heavy weight she had carried all the way from the market to her home, the hours of cleaning the house awaiting her, and possibly even having to repaint the walls.
The air is imbued with the watermelon freshness, its faint scent of sweetness and summer. The woman kneels and reaches for a piece. Her eyes water and her mouth salivates. She scoops out a piece from the floor, brings it to her face, to her lips, and tastes it with the tip of her tongue. She doesn't think straight; the temptation is irresistible.
A moment before, that scene was different. –
On a sunny July afternoon, in the kitchen of a three-storey house perched on a quiet street in the outskirts of London, a watermelon rests on the table.
As a Green Watermelon Bill
On a hot June afternoon, Eryn launched her latest household policy: the Seasonal Wellbeing Reform. She bought a large watermelon from the local market, despite its unaffordable cost for her summer budget.
At first, everything went to plan. The fruit was ripe, stable, and passed the kitchen safety check. She placed it carefully on the chopping board and reached for the knife.
Then came the first problem. Mid-cut, the knife slipped. The operation was paused.
First U-turn
Citing safety concerns, Eryn suspended all slicing. But in the meantime, the watermelon rolled off the board and exploded on the floor. Red flesh like blood hit the walls. Sticky juice pooled under kitchen cupboards and benches. What had been a clear plan became chaos.
Second U-turn
She tried to carry on, but the circumstances turned against her. The spoon refused to cooperate. The cloths staged quiet protest. She dropped the idea of slicing altogether.
The mess was exposed and the fruit was now everywhere. PIP(s) scattered across the kitchen. No one knew who qualified for removal. Some might be good to go. Most likely won’t be.
Third U-turn
Eryn had promised a full clean-up by midnight. That was quietly dropped. She said each PIP would now be assessed individually for viability.
Looking around, all she saw was money wasted, hours lost, and the likely need to repaint everything from scratch. Still, the air smelled of summer; a good destruction from the disastrous fall.
At last, she found one intact wedge in the corner and gave it a try. It was tasteless.
She gave up. Watermelon policy remained under review. For now.
Hemingway’s 6-words story
Watermelon slipped. Walls red. She wept.
As The Handmaid’s Tale
“Blessed be the fruit,” the stallholder at the market said, without making eye contact.
“Praise be,” I replied quickly, eyes pinned to the ground.
It was the usual dance. He gestured towards the watermelons stacked in a pyramid, like offerings left too long in the sun.
I picked the heaviest fruit, because choosing a smaller one might look ungrateful. I walked to the commander’s home, carrying the slippery watermelon with my arms, along with the heavy weight of my assumed duties to him.
In the kitchen, I set it down like something sacred, or forbidden. The light fell across its skin like a warning. I reached for the knife. The sharp blade caught the sun, and kept it.
It slipped from my hands, rolled over and fell from the kitchen top. The watermelon burst on the floor, red juice across the walls like stained blood, seeds scattering like accusations.
I knelt down to say a prayer. One piece remained intact, cushioned in a fold of cloth.
I lifted it; my fingers trembled.
Before anyone could see, I touched it with my lips, then licked them.
It was sweet and self-indulgent. I couldn’t resist and shovelled it whole in my mount. Under His Eye.
Keep an eye out for the incoming stories, which will appear here soon.