Fresh Limes

Boblin the goblin bumbled into the market square once again, his thin, weedy arms wrapped around a basket stacked so absurdly high with limes it threatened to avalanche at the slightest breeze. His skin was sticky and smeared with lime juice, his eyes red from the citrus sting. Perched proudly on his head was the same wilted cabbage leaf hat he always wore—though today it looked particularly limp, as if it disapproved of his produce.

“Fresh limes! Zesty, tangy, and absolutely one hundred percent not cursed to turn your tongue into a frog!” Boblin screeched, his voice cracking like a lime squeezed too hard.

The villagers froze mid-step, exchanging the same bewildered glances as usual. A goblin? Selling limes? Weren’t they supposed to come from respectable merchants, not creatures in cabbage-hats who usually dealt in fermented sludge or dubious sausages? Yet Boblin’s limes gleamed as if polished by the gods themselves, glowing faintly in their basket. Eventually, one brave villager asked, “What’s your secret?”

Boblin raised a lime-sticky finger, puffed out his chest until his cabbage hat nearly toppled, and proclaimed with scholarly gravitas, “Water ‘em daily with the sweat of a disappointed goose and roll ‘em in the enchanted sand behind the outhouse.” He sniffed, dignified as a king, while the villagers prayed to every saint, spirit, and god they could think of that the last part was nonsense.

With a squelch and a wobble, Boblin trundled deeper into the market, shouting, “Fresh limes! Guaranteed to make your teeth whistle!” as he vanished around the corner and down the cobbled road toward the outhouse.