Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Metamorphosis

Paul had been bedridden for a week before he noticed the tree, but from that moment, he never escaped it. The dead branches swayed like a drunk as the wind desperately tried to push it over. But as Paul watched, the tree seemed to fight back. The branches, now gnarled fingers clawing at the ground outside his window, whipped back, and the whistling wind fell silent. Paul shivered, feeling the fever take hold again, and slipped into the grey haze of fevered dreams.

The next morning, a harsh ray of light forced Paul out of the haze and back into his weak body. The tree blocked out all but a few rays of light, but those few rays cut into his eyes like glowing razors. The tree had somehow developed leaves, and its branches seemed to have bunched together, now a fist rather than desperately reaching fingers. Paul squinted his eyes, trying to examine the tree more closely, but the light seemed to follow him as the tree swayed, mimicking his every movement. Growing frustrated, he threw off the heavy white covers. He opened his mouth to scream when he found a network of roots weaved through his legs, but all that escaped was a burst of leaves.

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