Hi there! This is my first ACO story, and I'm very nervous...I also tried my best at Nadsat! So this may be a little OOC, but I tried :)

Lemon tree very pretty
And the lemon flower sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon
Is impossible to eat

~Will Holt

The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence

"What's it going be then, eh?"

There was me, that is Alex, Your Humble Narrator, asking my new malenky devotchka what pishcha she wanted for dinner.

Welcome back. And yes, O brothers, Little Alex had grown up and he had fallen in love, bezoomnly in love.

I said I'd reform, and reform I shall.

Her eemya was Charlotte, a slovo that tasted like honey should I govoreet it. She stirred within me the deepest affections that I felt I could like not contain. She was the one devotchka who I had cared about and not how the old Alex, "cared," for anyone. She was like Pete's pitsa, sweet Georgina, someone you should look after. A queen, if you will.

But Bog had his own fate for myself. Charlotte and I were like never meant to be together, no. She never trusted me, poor ptitsa. She felt oozhassnly poogly over what I may do. She never realized I had indeed changed my old way of jeezny.

I tried. I promised to be the chelloveck I never was for my lovely Charlotte and Angel, who at the raz was still a newborn all like cranky and gromky. I got up early in the mornings and made her cups of the old chai, and the little one, I changed her diapers and fed her peas and such. I went out to work to line my pockets with pretty polly. But my zheena ookadetted anyway, leaving me with like nothing but a baby girl, hardly odin years young.

So now there was the dva of us, Little Alex and Little Angel, who was being a vonny spoog for her loving pee. Angel was a baddiwad, spoiled baby, a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like moloko dribbling from her rot and looking up at me and like smecking at everybody in a cute baby goloss.

"Well, little one?" I skazzed again. Fagged she was, though. I could tell. Her guliver kept rolling to the side like she wanted to be spatting.

I messeled Angel wasn't hungry, just very fagged. I skorry sat her almost completely uneaten peas and macarroni and cheese far far away from her before she stuck her malenky fingers in there, grabbed a rookerful of pishcha, and flung it right into Your Humble Narrator's innocent litso. It's sloochated many a time, my brothers.

Her eemya was Angel, as I picked it for her. When she popped out of Charlotte she platched, making some stracky zvooks that had me wondering if she had gotten vred on the undoubtedly poogying way into the world.

She crarked something awful, o my brothers, until she was gently mestoed into her pee's waiting rockers. She immediately quit her platches. My devotcka was all nagoy and her flesh was like in all folds with being a very fat baby. She smiled beautifully with such tiny goobers. Her glazzies sparkled like Bog and all his holy angels and saints were like radiating within. That's when I knew she would be forever known as Angel, for that's just what she was.

I osooshied the smeared food off from around her rot. I worried she didn't eat all that was necessary for her to grow properly, but that was not up to me. Angel was lifted from under her pudgy rockers by me and we got ready to sleep, for it had been a long day.

I ruffled her blonde lucious glory, done up messel in a ponytail. She didn't smot at me, her glazzies were so droopy with sleepiness.

I got my job at that old music shop Melodia. This is when I brought Angel over to her baboochka's place. She had a real horrorshow time at Pee and Em's, baking cookies, peeting chashas of moloko, spatting and warbling. She wanted to be a warbler when she grew.

Pee and Em. We had something special together now; something the trio of us could honestly govoreet about. All tree of us were pees and ems. I suppose they have forgiven me, and they seem to like my devotchka's company... But forgiveness, in it's truest form, was not simple to come by.

The rabbit did not pay much, my friends, but I was grateful for some cutter as I could no longer crast what I wanted, which were items that seemed to change daily. From Ludwig Van to useless little things like magnets for the refrigerator and even a good, sweet bar of chocolate. So there I was, selling records of beautiful, beautiful music to take care of my little one. That was that.

At night I fillied Mozart to put Little Alex and Angel to spatchka. Little Alex obviously preferred dear, dear lovely Ludwig Van to a somewhat gloopy and not as talented Mr. Wolfgang going ugh ugh ugh on a piano. But whenever I tried Beethoven, Angel would always awaken creeching and in a vonny baddiwad mood. The exact same happened with Bach. So then Mozart it was, as Angel awoke real horrorshow on these days.

As I changed the tape from lovely Ludwig Van to Mozart, I said, "Didst thou know, O my sweet, that old Ludwig Van wrote this particular symphoniya when he was deaf?" Your Humble Narrator often govoreeted to her, even when he was aware she wasn't slooshying or couldn't understand. It made him feel much more bolshy about jeezny somehow.

I crawled under the blankets like with my sladky malenky odin, slooshing to my baby's bolshiest composer. My rockers were around her and holding her tight, feeling her tiny body snug against me. I loved her more than anything ever before, my friends. And I realized I didn't need Charolette. I was horrorshow on my oddy knocky, with the help of my choodessny Pee and Em. Though the thought of her name still pained me, friends.

Just as I began drifting into a beautiful land of the asleep, a real bolnoy feeling came over me, like I had during the Ludovico treatment,(which I still had not completely recovered from) when they tortured me with Ludwig Van, who never like hurt a single soul, damn them.

The truth settled down over me. I knew it all along and it really tolchock me this raz, my brothers. I glanced down at my lovely, perfect spatting devotchka. She slept away going zzzzzzzzzzzzzz softly. I had done nothing, o brothers, in my entire existence, miserable as it was, to deserve my precious Angel. She needed and wanted me, this I knew. But I didn't deserve someone trusting me so much, o no.

I nearly got up for a glass of water, but Sir Mozart's Piano Sonata n.15 in F major, the hum of the night, the serenading crickets, and the way Angel was breathing all tolchocked me back to spatchka in no time. Nothing had Your Humble Narrator done to deserve what he has, o my brothers, and not a single odin of us will forget that. And yet, here she was.