The OAMC Gymnasium

I’ve written from visual prompts for several days now. I’ve probably done it for weeks maybe even months. Today should spawn from the inside. If it can.

The sky never seems as tall as a well ceilinged space. In a vaulted room, a corrugated warehouse, a glistening mezzanene, or a transluscent atrium walls and columns draw focus through a gradient to a finale. Your eyes feel the stretch of distance between you and the last thing before God. They latch on to the perspective and swirl the feeling into the upturned vertigo sense pulsing from your inner ear.

Uh, holy shit, I’m not sure where that was going. Let’s try something different. Differenter.

Denny swung open the warm glass door expecting the metal grip to be cool. He halted inside the threshold. The door closed gently on his backpack and nudged him forward like a mother encourages a child around strangers. He could go straight or he could go up.

From above, down the open stairwell, Denny heard industrious chatter from two floors. People walked. Pencils dropped. Paper tore. Fans spun. Large sheets of carboard rippled. These sounds brought with them the smell of creative work. Graphite dust. Sprayed paint. Non-toxic marker. Gummed eraser. Hand-warmed X-ACTO knives.

Ahead lay a door. Built of thick wood to muffle fire and a wired-glass portal window so you did not put someone on the obverse on their ass unintentionally. He did not need to climb. He could step forward pull open that next door and be where he needed to be. Instead he stood between the two choices.

274 words on day 573