Metaphorosis – B. Morris Allen

Like the sound of soft fingers on skin, green palm fronds whispered amongst themselves. Their soft breath caressed his cheek as he listened for the slight scratching of frond cilia against stiff palm trunks. “Sam.” The breeze was stronger, the fronds closer. He could almost feel them tickling his face. “Sam. You’ll be late for work.” He stirred, allowed the cold waves to sift sand from underneath him. Gently, that was the way, no quick……

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