Gaia

• Amber Jensen , Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

Cold lifeless brick. Hardened by the sun, earth’s blood is russet and compounded. Followed by footsteps, a soft ruffled tunic, the threads stained the color of the ground. The figure notices how the sky seems hung with starlight. The cosmos is breathing flecks of opal into a black, watery void. The figure spots a pond, strung with lotus flowers and surrounded by verdant trees and cold blooded violets. A slow procession towards the pond induces awareness of the thick sounds of insects swarming in the warm, summer night, and the passive sound of cloth on grass. It chooses a spot close to the pond and assumes a position named after the gentle flowers lit by moonlight and rocked by wavelets induced by the gentle kick of fins. The pods form tight slits, and the figure begins to meditate.
A Gentle tide of breathing induces ripples in the stream of consciousness. With each wave the ripples become more infused with energy, though are not violent. The fluid disconnects, diffuses. Honey hued, yet bound to no color, it is nowhere, but it is everywhere. As connected at a honey washed sea, and as separate as granules in sand.
Quite suddenly it collects and travels back to its dorm. The figures’ eyes open. Opalescent globes looking up towards the heavens, the starlight, alas was evanescent but the morning has brought a blushed sky. The lotus’ rock side to side gently, awash in the amber lustre. All is peaceful, all is one.