This LEMON just BIT ME...

The Lemon That Bites Back

Most people think of lemons as harmless little fruits. Tart, sour, good for lemonade and tea, maybe useful for cleaning a stain.

Nobody warns you that lemons might one day turn on you. But that’s exactly what happened to me, on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, when a lemon bit me. Yes, you read that right—a lemon.

It started innocently. I was in the kitchen, staring at a bright yellow lemon I had bought the day before. It looked unusually shiny, almost like it had been waxed twice.

Something about it felt off, but I brushed it aside. Lemons don’t feel “off.” They just sit there until you slice them.

I reached out, ready to cut it open and add some juice to my water. That’s when it twitched. Not rolled, not wobbled from being touched—actually twitched, like it had muscles under its skin. I froze, my hand hovering over it.

Maybe I hadn’t slept enough. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks. But then it happened again. The lemon shuddered, split open in the middle, and revealed a row of sharp little teeth.

I did what anyone else would do. I screamed and dropped the knife. The lemon, now grinning like some citrus horror movie star, snapped its jaws.

A wet little growl came out of it—yes, a growl, not a squeak, not a hiss. It sounded like a dog with a head cold. Before I could back away, the thing lunged.

Now, you’d think a lemon can’t move fast, but you’d be wrong. It bounced, rolled, and practically launched itself at my hand. Its mouth clamped down on the soft spot between my thumb and forefinger.

I yelped. The pain was sharp, a mixture of sour juice seeping into the wound and tiny teeth digging into my skin. Blood mixed with lemon juice—acidic, stinging, unforgettable.

I flailed, trying to shake it off. It didn’t budge. The little beast was locked on like a bulldog. I banged my hand against the counter. Finally, it let go, landing with a wet smack on the wooden surface.

It sat there, panting—yes, panting—with its teeth dripping pulp and a tiny streak of my blood.

“WHAT are you?!” I shouted at it, as if expecting an answer.

The lemon just smiled wider.

That was when I noticed the other lemons in the bowl on the counter. Perfectly normal a second ago, now they were all… stirring.

A faint rustle, like dozens of tiny mouths smacking open. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t just one freak lemon. This was a whole citrus conspiracy.

I did the only thing I could think of: grabbed the biggest pot I owned and slammed it over the bowl.

Thuds and scratches echoed from inside, the lemons throwing themselves against the metal like prisoners in a riot. But at least they were contained.

Except for the one on the table. The one that bit me.

It rolled toward me slowly, deliberately, jaws opening again. My hand throbbed, already swelling where it had bitten me. I backed up, fumbling for something to defend myself.

My eyes landed on the salt shaker. If folklore taught me anything, it’s that salt fixes weird problems. Ghosts, slugs, demons—why not lemons with teeth?

I hurled salt straight onto its open mouth. The lemon shrieked. Not squeaked—shrieked, like nails on a chalkboard. It writhed, skin blistering as if the salt burned. Then, with one last hiss, it collapsed into an ordinary, lifeless lemon again.

I didn’t relax right away. I poked it with a spoon. Nothing. No twitching, no teeth. Just a sour-smelling fruit.

The kitchen was silent, except for the occasional metallic clang of the other lemons still trapped under the pot. My pulse hammered in my ears.

So, what do you do when your fruit turns carnivorous? Call the police? They’d laugh me out of the station.

Tell a friend? They’d assume I was drunk. Burn the whole kitchen? Tempting, but not practical.

Instead, I’ve kept them there—under the pot. Every now and then I hear them scratching, muffled but persistent.

My hand has healed, though a faint lemon-shaped scar remains where the teeth sunk in. Sometimes it stings when I walk past the fruit aisle at the store.

I don’t buy lemons anymore. I don’t even buy limes, just in case. But here’s the strange part: part of me feels like they’re waiting. Like one day, when I least expect it, I’ll forget, lift that pot, and unleash whatever citrus nightmare I’ve trapped in my kitchen.

And when that day comes, I think I know what the lemons will say.

“Bite back.”