Trapped

Pete and I stood outside The Roasting House, sharing a laugh over the Venus Fly Trap he had received as a gift. It sat proudly on his office desk.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna feed it come wintertime,” he mused.

“My mom used to raise a few Fly Traps when I was a kid,” I said. “Raw hamburger works—that’s what she used for hers.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Any other suggestions?”

I couldn’t help but grin at the memory that surfaced. “Yeah. Don’t talk your younger brother into putting his willy in one.”

Pete burst into laughter. “What?”

“Yep,” I continued, chuckling. “I talked my brother into putting his willy in a Fly Trap. When it slapped closed, he took off screaming like it had bitten him.”

Pete’s eyes widened, and he laughed even harder.

“Mom was not too happy with me for that,” I said. “Not only did she have to deal with a terrifed, screaming five-year-old, she had to rip the plant apart to free him.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Pete asked, still laughing.

“Couldn’t sit at supper that night,” I replied. “Mom whipped my ass pretty good. And worse et, my brother never fully trusted me after that. He’d tell people I tried to get a Venus Fly to bite his willy off.”

Coffee came out of Pete’s nose.