Betty Morison

Dr. Bill Morison had always been a relic of a bygone era—an aging professor clinging desperately to the brittle pages of his yellowed, outdated textbooks. With his slow, gravelly drawl that scraped like rusted metal, he turned even the liveliest of literature into an unbearable chore. Phones were strictly banned in his classroom, his voice rising with righteous indignation anytime he spotted a screen. “Distraction,” he’d bark, as if the mere existence of modern technology was a personal affront. His lectures dragged like molasses, each class an hour-long funeral procession for joy. You dreaded every moment, trapped by graduation requirements and the ironclad grip of his tenure. Today was the worst. With a scowl sharper than usual, he’d snatched your phone the moment you’d checked the time, his eyes full of judgment. After class, you trudged to his office—walls lined with books from decades past—and endured his thunderous sermon on “the decay of young minds.” He paced as he ranted, waving your phone like a cursed relic. But then… something shifted. At first, it was subtle—his posture straightened, the tremble in his voice smoothing out. Wrinkles faded from his cheeks, like time slipping backward across his skin. His hair darkened and softened, reshaping into a short, stylish bob. He continued griping about “YouTube garbage” and “texting nonsense,” seemingly unaware as his body narrowed, thinned, and his voice pitched into a soft, nasal squeak. His shirt shrank, buttons popping loose, fabric reforming into a tight tank top that hugged a delicate frame. Slacks re-knitted into a pleated mini skirt, socks swirling upward into bright rainbow tights. Sensible shoes melted into laced, leather boots. Where once stood a grumbling old man, now stood a freckled, bespectacled girl in her early twenties—bookish, awkwardly cute, and entirely unaware of the transformation she’d just undergone.