One dangerous day in the vegetable patch ...

As I woke up one very fine morning, the crisp air rattled my green top. I looked out beyond the brambles and the overgrown shrubs to see my owner, my planter staring out over the long green grass. Aargh, a shriek of fear shuddered through my rough orange skin.

Ok, yes it was only my owner. My old crooked owner with mucky green wellies and a sllek black walking stick. What harm could he possibly do? Well, the importance of this day was literally life or death. Life or death!

I don't want to die. Not me. Not on this beautiful autumn morning. I'm not ready to leave, leave this place which I have called home for all my life. It may just look like a dirty, weed-ridden patch but it is all I've ever wanted.

I loved, cherished the deep brown soil, comforting my weak and fragile roots. I may have seen better days but I still had my vibrant flamed orange glow, understated yet screaming with a weathered warmth. My skin has matured with a delicate roughness and my smell was an overwhelming sweetness, too good to be true. I looked over miserably at the compost heap, the graveyard of my brothers, sisters and dearest of friends. The aroma was unmistakable, death and despair, hope and happiness. Their innocent bodies rotting away beneath the charcoal soil.

Bang! There, on the green, green grass stood my owner. Yes, the old crooked one with mucky green wellies and a slick black walking stick. His wellies crunched through the dew, each step made the ground shudder, my body shake. His dark grey eyes fixated on me, there was no where to hide. Panic struck me so hard, like a thunder bolt was striking at my heart.

It skipped a beat.

Squelch. The walking stick landed on my soil. The man slowly but surely lent over. He grabbed hold of my quivering body.

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to ....