The Sunflowers Embrace
This was actually a photo shoot idea I had years ago. Circumstances never allowed this to come to fruition, so here is the Ai version and a short story.
In the verdant expanse of a small-town garden, nestled between the rusted tin roof of an old barn and the meandering path of a forgotten stream, grew a cluster of sunflowers. Among them stood one particular bloom, taller than its kin, with petals of golden ambrosia that seemed to pulsate in the sunlight, as if alive.
The garden was tended by an elderly woman, Clytie, known locally as a hermit who spoke only when spoken to. Her eyes held a wisdom beyond years, and her skin bore the texture of weathered parchment, yet she moved with an agility that belied her apparent age. The townsfolk whispered that she was once a sunflower herself, but such tales were dismissed as folly, until one day, a young man named Eamon saw what no other had.
Eamon was not from the village; he had arrived seeking solace in the quietude of the countryside after a betrayal by love and war. He took to walking the garden path at dawn, when the dew still kissed the petals, and at dusk, when the sun painted Clytie’s skin with hues of fire and honey.
One evening, as Eamon sat on the weathered stone near the barn, he noticed a sunflower swaying gently, not with the wind, but as if to some silent music. Its petals unfurled like fingers reaching for the sun. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
The sunflower shifted, its form liquidating into human shape. Out stepped Clytie, the same woman who tended the garden, but now she was a radiant 25-year-old, her hair a cascade of golden sunlight, her eyes pools of melting amber.
Eamon held his breath, fearing he had lost his wits. But Clytie walked to him, barefoot on the earth, and stood before him. She reached out, allowing Eamon’s fingers to trace the petals of her dress, which were no fabric but sunlit air. Her skin glowed like warm summer hay, and when he touched it, he felt a pulse, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
"Am I mad?" he whispered.
Clytie smiled. "I am Clytie," she said, "the sunflower nymph. This garden has been my prison for centuries, since Helios abandoned me. Only as the sun sets can I take this form."
Eamon felt a sacred terror. He had heard tales of such beings, nature spirits bound by ancient magic, forced into servitude until freed by rare circumstances.
Clytie closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun. "This," she murmured, "this is why I endure. My love for Helios, the Sun."
She began to undress, letting her petal, dress slip away like a fading dream. Under the sun’s caress, her skin shimmered, and Eamon saw that beneath it was not flesh but light itself, a living flame that danced with every breath.
As she stood naked under the golden orb, her body seemed to absorb the sunlight, drinking it like wine. She sighed deeply, a sound like wildflowers in a storm, and Eamon felt his heart expand as if touched by divine grace.
But then, a sneeze.
The moment shattered. Clytie’s eyes flew open; she grabbed her dress (now a sunflower petal) and pressed it to herself. In an instant, the light collapsed into her, and where once stood a woman now grew the tallest sunflower in the garden, its face turned directly at Eamon.
He stared, disbelieving. The sunflower trembled, not from wind, but with suppressed sobs. Its petals seemed to whisper: "I am still here."
Eamon reached out, his fingers brushing against the soft golden heart of the flower. He felt a pulse, faint, but undeniable.
"Did I see what I thought?" he asked the air.
The sunflower nodded once, its petals rustling like dry leaves in autumn.
From that day forward, Eamon tended the garden with Clytie. Every evening at sunset, he would sit by her flower and whisper stories of his life, of love lost, of battles fought, of dreams still burning.
And sometimes, if he was very quiet, he could see a hint of light in her petals, as if she were smiling.
Clytie 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 the last two images are part of a special Christmas edition, that will be based on fantasy/mythology/ancient lore. Hope you will enjoy.
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