Billy Jo Bud grunted as his feet hit the ground and he looked up. Sorry he did. Wishing he could just turn, as his Momma woulda said, “ret back roun’ and git on dat bus.”

Instead, he hobbled over to the boys. Yep, he knew the second those three stepped on there was gonna be trouble. The stocky, flame- red haired one was grasping at the stalk of the purpurea caryophyllale muscipulla, or Speaking Maneater, and dancing around pulling furiously, with no luck. His buddies had joined in and had their hands wrapped around the leaf branches protruding from each side.

It was comical, had it not been such a dangerous situation. A Speaking Maneater this size could have swallowed the boy by now had it not been fed before their arrival. He had half a mind to let them be, but knew the farm could not afford any more lawsuits and it would be a pain to dig the kid out of the roots.

He’d been swallowed once himself. It was mucky, but thankfully, the genetic mutation didn’t allow for the digestion of human flesh.