SHFT. Anonymous

I wake up to deathly quiet.

My mind roams against my wishes, seeking to establish mental contact with anybody that might be in close range. I plant wooden feet on the floor and stagger to a section of my bedroom wall which turns into a mirror when I stand before it.

I watch, transfixed by the transformation of my shift from its default fleshy setting to an assortment of sweaters and woollen coats. I am usually clad in a black ensemble but today, my discerning shift selects a crisp pair of white trousers and drifting cumulus clouds which are superimposed onto a bright blue sweater. Today, day breaks. Today, I, Conan, am born again.

The screech of my alarm heralds a new day. I wake to the blinking cursor of my computer's word processor-and the capture of my protagonist, Conan, by the Royal Gorl of Peesa. Even more terrifying is the time, inconspicuous in the lower right corner of the screen: 9:00 a.m.

My anthropology class begins in thirty minutes. With an average shower time of ten minutes, an instant meal of pasta in the refrigerator, and a mile long walk from my apartment to campus, I am likely to arrive to room H102 five minutes late. Such are the rigours of college life.

"Shift", I murmur as I plant wooden feet on my...