"Colored tile in a little room"
May 11.

I furrowed my brow, fought to anchor my unfocused eyes, and stared deep into the unchanging tile. Then, quietly, slowly, I traced a circle once more.. and the shape shifted. The tile became a square.

The dry clack of his shoehorn steps echoed down the corridor, while the hammering of my own heart pounded through my skull, driven by panic and pressure.

The tile refused. All that changed was the weight of his gaze, and the silence grew heavy. At last, the man sighed. a long, tired breath.. then blew a whistle sharp enough to slice the air, and walked away.

Frantic, I placed my finger on the tile and drew a square. Nothing happened. I tried again... still unchanged. Again, and again... I traced until the motion became a plea.

I turned, startled, to see a man in a suit standing there, carving the shape of a square into the air with his fingers. In that same unwavering tone, he commanded again: “Make it a square.”

Crouched low, leaning on my elbow, I gazed at the tile, spellbound. Then, from the dim hallway, came a voice, sharp as a thrown stone: “Make it a square!”

At once, the shape shifted, circle into square. I traced it again, this time square-shaped, and it became a triangle. Once more I moved my finger, and the form returned to its original circle.

Amid the dust and shadow, it alone held color, pristine as though newly born. I reached out and traced the circle engraved upon it with my finger.