“Don’t fall for it,” the English major said. “It’s a trap.”

The long 18th century British novel opened itself and seductively flipped a few pages. “I’m written with gratuitous Latin and French, my views on domesticity are problematic at best, and very little of substance happens over my 800 pages.”

“I CAN’T HELP IT!” The English major fell upon the work with both hands, only to find them both bound by sticky secretions as the novel–now revealed to be the lure for a predatory plant lingering just out of view–drew them up to be consumed.”

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