Four limes, soil brothers, were pulled from the cold, cramped earth into blazing glory of the Dominican Sunshine. Their saviour, a $5 labourer, scratched them clean with his dirt clogged nails, running his fingertips along the firm, leatherlike skin. He knew straight away – these were good limes. Huddling in tight, craddling his beautiful new borns, he drew their scent up into nose, so as to share in their sweet glory. He smiled. Rising creakily upright, he slung the limes into the basket on his back. The $5 he would make today would seem double if he could only keep those limes for himself. He walked on, swaying from the weight of produce pulling him down. A burden that would only get heavier over the next twelve hours. Still, he was proud it was he who found those finest limes.
The limes themselves were fairly pleased to have their glory recognised. They’d known since they were little more than seedlings that they would grow up to be something special. The lucky prince who would sink his teeth into their juicy flesh would surely discover nothing short of Enlightenment.
If only they knew then that their fate would be to rot on a windowsill in a South London council estate. The Sun, once welcome, once a friend, now an enemy peppering them with a yellowing poison every day. Until, finally, their drunken master would return one night, looking for something to juggle, and would realise that they no longer looked the luscious green by which they first seduced him and so, as casually as the labourer pulled them from the earth, the master would fling them into a bin bag, returning them to the darkness they were born from. Peace at last.