The Song of the Sands
Here is a short story I co-wrote with Ai About 20 year old Aiyana.
The sun hung low, a molten disc bleeding gold across the endless dunes of the desert. Aiyana stood at the edge of her people's land, where the green of the mesquite faded into the ochre sea of sand. At twenty winters, she was no longer a child, yet not quite a woman in the eyes of the elders—not until she walked the path of her ancestors. Her dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, glinted with resolve. Around her neck hung a turquoise pendant, carved with the spiraling symbol of the wind, and on her wrists, silver bracelets etched with stories of the stars. These were her only adornments, her only shield against the vastness of the desert. She wore no cloth, for the elders had spoken: to hear the voice of the land, one must stand bare before its truth.
Aiyana’s heart thrummed like a drum, steady but quick. She glanced back at the village, where her grandmother’s silhouette stood framed against the dusk, a silent sentinel. Old Mother Tse had woven the pendant’s cord herself, her gnarled fingers trembling as she whispered blessings into the fiber. “The desert is not empty, child,” she had said, her voice like dry leaves. “It sings. But you must listen with more than ears.” The young woman took a breath, tasting dust and sage, and stepped forward. The sand was warm beneath her feet, gritty but soft, like the touch of a stern but loving parent. She walked, and the world grew quiet. No birds called here, no wind rustled. Only the faint crunch of her steps and the pulse of her own blood broke the silence.
The desert was not kind, but it was honest. Aiyana had been raised on stories of its spirits—of Coyote, who tricked the stars into dancing, and of the Old Ones, who wove the world from threads of light and shadow. Her people, the Diné, had walked these lands since the First Dawn, and their songs were etched in her bones. Yet she had never felt them, not truly. Not until now.
By the time the stars emerged, pinpricks of cold fire in the velvet sky, Aiyana’s throat was parched, her skin kissed by the sun’s fading heat. She knelt beside a cluster of barrel cacti, their spines gleaming like tiny spears. Her fingers traced the air above them, cautious but sure, and she whispered a prayer her grandmother had taught her. The desert listened. A faint breeze stirred, carrying the scent of creosote, and with it, a sound—a low hum, like the thrum of a distant drum.
She rose, her jewellery glinting in the starlight, and followed the sound. It led her to a dry wash, where the sand lay smooth and untouched. There, in the center, was a circle of stones, ancient and weathered, their surfaces carved with symbols that matched her pendant. Aiyana’s breath caught. This was no accident. The desert had called her here. She stepped into the circle, and the hum grew louder, vibrating in her chest. She closed her eyes, and the world shifted. The air shimmered, and before her stood a figure—neither man nor woman, but something older, something vast. Its form was woven of sand and starlight, its eyes twin flames that burned without heat.
“Why do you walk the sands, daughter of the Diné?” Its voice was the desert itself, a chorus of wind and stone.
Aiyana’s mouth was dry, but her spirit was steady. “To know my people. To hear their song.”
The figure tilted its head, and the stars above seemed to lean closer. “The song is not heard with ears alone. It is in the blood, in the bones, in the silence between heartbeats. But you must choose to sing it back.”
Aiyana frowned, her fingers brushing the turquoise at her throat. “How do I sing what I cannot hear?”
The spirit laughed, a sound like pebbles tumbling in a stream. “You hear it now, do you not? The desert does not hide its truths from those who walk with open hearts. But beware, child. To sing is to carry the weight of your people—their joys, their sorrows, their dreams.”
Aiyana stood in her nudity, taller, though her legs trembled. “I am ready.” The spirit’s eyes flared brighter. “Then sing.”
She opened her mouth, uncertain, and let her breath flow. At first, it was a whisper, a faltering note. But then the hum in the air joined her, and her voice rose, clear and strong, weaving a melody that was both hers and not hers. It was the song of her ancestors, of the wind that carved the canyons, of the stars that guided the lost. Her bracelets chimed softly, as if in harmony, and the pendant at her throat grew warm.
When the song faded, the spirit was gone. The circle of stones lay quiet, the stars steady once more. Aiyana stood alone, but she was not the same. The desert had marked her, not on her skin, but in her soul. She felt the weight of her people’s story, and with it, a fierce joy.
As dawn painted the horizon in hues of rose and amber, Aiyana turned back toward the village. The sand was cool now, the air gentle. She smiled, her fingers brushing the turquoise pendant. The desert had sung to her, and she had answered. She was Aiyana, daughter of the Diné, and her song would carry her people forward, as it always had.
Aiyana doesn't have a "models page", but she does have a members only gallery that you can view HERE
Just to be abundantly clear....none of these "women" exist in real life. They are 100% computer generated by Ai. All the Ai "models" are generated to represent "women" who are over 18 years of age.
Down the bottom are two projects that I might do in the future. The first one reminds me of Tiffani, while the second one might be done for next week with 18 year old Julie doing yoga.
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