Morning Meadows: 

The sky sighs, exhaling warm breezes that push ivory clouds. A stream meanders through the pasture, its pristine waters shimmering like liquid diamonds. Under the cozy heat of the sun, sitting on a lush field, you sway on a flourishing lime tree. Branches rustle, rocking you 

gently. Birds babble. Butterflies flutter around sunflowers, their wings like delicate stained glass in the golden light. 

Snuggled beneath a blanket of leaves, you nostalgically reminisce about the scenes on those sparkling summer days. The farmer would stagger around his land, a drunk smile spreading across his bearded face. Downing glass after glass, strawberry-scented liquor would dribble down his cracked lips and darken his jean overalls. A wedge of lime would float in the cup, shaped like a smile. Perhaps that would be you someday, too. 

Grocery Store: 

Here at Fresh Fruits & Greens, we believe that the quality of our products are what others should strive for. Become a member today, and you will enjoy members-only deals. A pause. And a free gift bag. A heavy southern accent drones from a speaker above. 

Sitting atop a mountain of green citruses, you watch as a skinny Asian man gingerly knocks on a watermelon, his ear floating an inch above the green skin. He examines each melon as though his life depends on it, charcoal-black glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose while his eyebrows knit with renewed focus. 

Beside you, the lemons blather, sour as usual. “If you don’t get picked soon, you’ll be put into the dumpster, out the back door, never be seen again.” 

You ignore them, straighten your posture, and stretch the wrinkles out of your skin. You’ve been waiting for five days already, but you already feel old and firm instead of young and plump. One by one, workers have been snatching mushy peaches, brown bananas, and soggy plums from the shelves, tossing them into their red plastic baskets with reckless abandon. The fruit’s fruitless pleads still echo in your mind. 

You float. From behind, a gray-eyed man wearing a bright yellow sweater dangles you from your stem. He squeezes you, gently. Exhaling all the air you possibly can, you try to make yourself as soft as possible. The man smiles, then drops you into a grocery bag. 

The Car: 

Wrapped in a clear plastic bag, you wince as fumes of gasoline twirl in the humid air. 

“Hey Lime! Why are you by yourself?” Banana Four tilts towards you, the ground beneath shaking violently. One of his brown spots shifts in concern. His siblings peek from behind his ripe golden mass.

You smile. “I was the only one picked. Out of dozens of other limes! I must be the chosen one.” Pride swells in your pulps. “I’ll be in a fancy drink soon,” you boldly predict. 

Kitchen: 

A rough hand snatches you. Light shivers on a paper-thin knife as the man begins to slice. You close your eyes. Strawberry-smelling alcohol washes over you, dizzying and dazzling. Like clear crystals, perfectly round ice spheres massage their refreshing cool against your glossy green skin. 

Something cold touches your back, but it isn’t liquid and refreshing. 

It’s fatty and greasy. You open your eyes. 

You’re sitting on a dead chicken. 

The clammy feather-deprived corpse crosses its pink legs. A bony neck plunges into its chest. Hints of blood seeps from holes riddling the carcass. Chilly powder and cumin soak in the pale skin like streaks of dry feces. 

Salt and pepper grains rain from above, stinging your flesh and coating you completely. A noise like a door shutting reverberates around you. Suddenly, it’s hot. So hot that air wrinkles. You try to move, but you can’t. You’re a lime. 

Heat is seeping into the seething-iron pan. It scorches your skin, burning it into pitch-black charcoal. Your juices boil and bubble on the butchered, buttered chicken. 

Outside the clear wall, the man dances to Beyoncé. “This ain’t Texas!” the man yodels, off-beat and out of tune. He swings his belted waist to the melody, grabbing an ice-cold Coors Light from the fridge. 

Is he going to save me? Am I going in a liquor? 

Instead, he swigs the entire aluminum can in less than a minute. 

Your sight blurs… 

Ding! Air. Choking on fresh oxygen, you attempt to spit out sizzling chicken fat. You scream at the man for betraying you, but you can’t. He stares at your sagging, dried burnt form. His flushed, pink face crinkles in disgust. Pinching you with a metal tong, he flicks you into the trash. 

You drown in the darkness.