The author stared at the typewriter in front of him in an act of pure concentration. Then, slowly at first, the flesh of his face began to twist away from his skull, flowing into a set of flailing tentacles above the mechanical device.
“Hard at work… Ah!” A woman entering the office froze in the doorway, nearly dropping her tray of coffee.
She quickly recovered.
“For God’s sake, Marcel! If you’re going to type in human form, use your fingers!”
The shapeshifter looked up, his face snapping hurriedly back into place.
“I never learned to touch type,” He admitted sheepishly.