The Writings of Aiyu

  "Trash fluttered around the empty, hollow streets of Svetnaya. A dark wind howled, sweeping the debris further and further away into the night. The frigid air had specks of snow in it, and huddled poor people could be seen stumbling about, wrapped in the season's warmest coats and blankets they could afford. Russia had been in decay. The economy had turned downward, and something had been taken out of their society. The trash swirled and tumbled in the breeze, caught in an empty reverie. The hunger. That's all there was left in this world. A man rubbed his hands together in the frigid breeze, a little light from a streetlight catching a strange look in his eye. He winced, and pulled away. There it was. The emptiness. The cold. The need for more. Two of the bundled up poor people, a man and a woman, entered a large department building with a sign over the door reading Social Department. They shook off the slight snow and stomped over to a roped line by several...

  "Party guests milled by, on an eerie and moody, haunting night. The mansion was severe and Victorian, a deep amber obsidian stretching into the night. The many windows were lit with yellow light, party guests apparent in almost all of them. A strange subject. Elite Victorian parties in the twenty first century. All in masks. The music emanating from the party was haunting and orchestral, and various torches and candles sent an eerie glow over the scene. An almost full moon was out, drawing an opaque filter to the strange, stirring night. A young party guest, who was mysterious and unknown even to the partygoers, traversed the party, clad in a dashing red and black cape. He was about fourteen, angelic seeming, and very handsome. Strange things were happening, he thought to himself, as he looked around the party. He had to pay attention. A crowd was gathering, and an air of menace grew over the party. Gasps and murmurs filled the night for hours, as the guests milled cur...

  "It was a dark, desolate town. A large, forboding factory sat in the distance on a hill. The factory controlled the town, and the townspeople knew to walk by, humbly and obediently. The townspeople had sayings, 'It is a toy town, that's just the way things are.' Nearby, there was a child's house, a strange mood within, and a quiet, dark room. The strange toys sat about, lurking and sinister in their presence. The child's face was pale, and his mood was somber. There was no joy in his attire or appearance, as he sat and watched the room. He was told to stay calm. He was told to be obedient. The toys from the factory rocked back and forth, the child's eyes locked on them seriously. A soft gust blew past the boy from an open window, and he did not react to it at all. Back up on the hill, the factory sat, and strange and secretive proceedings were apparent. Somber rituals and assembly lines, strange toys and ominous offices. An era of full and abs...

  "It was an eerie, theatrical day. Everyone was excited. The speakers and screens had announced the festival that day. Famous stars in our world, and the wonder and magic they brought to the city. The small family beamed at each other, as the days crowds poured down the road outside. Their home was a neat little condominium, in a world full of other neat condominiums, lining the street. Outlined by fastidious shrubbery, particular grass, and clean smooth, sidewalks and roads rambling out of sight in both directions. The family took step with the crowds. It was time for the festival. The father smiled at his young daughter. She smiled back and sighed. A few hours at a festival. They'd be home by nightfall. That would do. A forty-five-minute walk later, they arrived at the huge city circle. A coliseum, the home of that day's events, was parked right in the middle of the circle. Crowds waved and cheered as things began, some bringing signs with them and holding ...

  "A jungle forest lulled in the waning daylight, distant screeches echoing over a grassy dusk. Monk twisted and fidgeted, scratching himself as he milled over the day's events. The human ruins stretched out over the hilltop, an obelisk surrounded by many strange buildings and streets, overgrown by decay. The human world, Monk thought. He was a larger, younger monkey, with a hard eye and a handsome jaw. The females loved him, but he didn't see them often. He was always up on the hilltop, looking out over the human ruins, deep in thought. Things had been going strangely lately. The bananas had been disappearing, from the usual shelters and trees nearby. Monkeys were going hungry. The smallish, piggish ones were not. Pretty obvious. But Monk lived by himself. He wondered how the others were doing. The piggish monkeys came by, always in packs. Monk rolled his eyes and wandered off, not interested in a conversation. He approached the usual gathering place, and fou...

  "Yet another note was found in the wasteland: 'The flames had risen, born of the machine's own roar. As the distance between the world and beauty grew greater, the flames grew in distance, too. Man was haunted, as the demons came forth from the flames and cursed and licked all who came before them. The empire of man was gone. All that was left was the turmoil and hell before them. Freedom was wrought from the hands of man, and the indolent flicker of the people's candle gave out to the flame. What could live amongst this furnace of a world? The dying corpse sought not but asylum from the fires. Even the worn out souls of men did not want to suffer and perish this way. The furnace churned, and spread. The furnace churned, and spread. There was nothing left but the agonizing burning of machines. Only one will wilt this flame. The hands of nature itself. May you read this before this burns, too. -From the wasteland'" Short Stories

  "But how didst thou reckon? How didst thou proceed? How didst thou liveth amongst the combine? For reckon not to others, what should be reckoned upon thyself. For the angel liveth, and proceedeth, only to bring others upon him, and to himself, and nurse their wounds too, for naught was needed but this remedy. For reprimand, not but thine own. Not even thy kin should summoneth thee, to breathe upon the fires of blame and grow them, blossom them to the valley's own undoing. For what doth this angel, this angel of solidarity, prosper? His own responsibility, for he taketh this, and only this, greedily from his brother. For to buildeth thy world, and not see thine own face upon it, is a foolish prosper. For the angel will lay stone upon stone, too. Until the blocks show his likeness, and his good nature to them. Build a man that can see himself, and the world will be built. Build a world without blindness, and there will be no one to blame." Religious

  "The diamond greatly protesteth. But grew hotter, more hardened, cut and hewn as the many masters have said before him. Of eternal flame. For the diamond drew them in close. And said, look upon me. Be distracted by my flicker and glow. For I have brought death with me. And death shall come. They commiserate, they hoard, the masters of this combine. For we must seek shelter and refuge from this death that cometh upon us. Will ye not hide with us, diamond? The diamond did but shake wearily. But that I have sought thee. For this purpose. For I have hardened my self to break your combine, and your throne. Your lives with them. The combine saw fit to cower further. 'This death cannot be taken away. Go, ever more!' The diamond was hastened away, hastened to be gazed at, wondered at, made but a mockery. 'For thy mockery shall pass. For I have lain down the stones of your sons. And though thou hast mockery, and gazing unseen, thou hast no answer for my bidden ...

  "The precipice, thy wandereth. Why dost thou wander? Come to him, and be free. But thy judgeth not. Thy judgeth not to come. Thou sittest, only at thy glaring box, and beseech that I seek thee there, instead. For he draweth thee away, away from yon flickering vat, into a world of wholesomeness. Why dost thou not stare elsewhere? Look upon the world, and be free. For the other constrains you to this box. And through it, the other seeketh slaves of men. Look upon, harken, yearn this to thy freedom and testament. Art thou not impressed? Many have been. The wires, ye slave. The looking of gears, let them come upon you. Let them wander. For they have found a new home. Thee, gimmick. Thy skin." Religious

  "You should see him ride. Hands calloused upon the world, the lightning crash around him. For this angel has lived forever. They speak to him, through broken stones, these goblins of eternity. And loudly doth he answer. The great powers of eternity come to him, and his hand burns with might and ferocity. For through these splitted stones this war will be fought. Silence, sallowed answers. The hum of a world flying by, then his ferocious answer: For you were naught, and then naught to me. The chariots burn, and crush. His fist will rise, and the lightning of eternity will be upon him. For whisper through thy sallowed stones, and crashing through thy hollow face with an eternity of lightning and stone will be his answer. Mourn not the broken chariot. For The Lightning Angel has ridden here, today. Whispers of eternity are thy only answer." Religious

  "For we are born to ride. May the branches spread like the wings of angels, and conquer this land as justly. Your scars, angel. Do we share them? They sit upon our body, too. Do you not mourn them with us? Where have these gears and cogs churned from? Who built these vast asylums of carpentry and stone, who is proud there is no dew upon the paths we travel? We have learned, you. We will learn more. Witness our branches come forth from the mighty thicket, and callous upon your hands. Callous unto metal. For you cut us, yet we thrive. For you burn us, yet we grow. We have taken this too, this world of metal, and taken it into us. For we are of the gears, and the cogs. For we are of the metals. For we churn, too. For we churn with you, forever.' -the words of The Iron Oak" Religious

  "The final note was found in the wasteland: 'Man had failed. Their world had risen, the flames had risen, and nothing was left but mournful ashes. There was a sick flatland, an entire valley of naught but seared stone. The rains came, and the machines of man cooled to their touch. The hiss of new life, the steam of cooled embers, began. The rains fell often, and that's when life embraced the first young seed. A sprout, grown slightly from the cooled embers of a dead world. The first to raise its head and ask for life from the winds, rains, and stars. Perhaps, little one, perhaps, a new day will come. The vines spread, as nature began, the roots strengthened, and a world of leaves and grass grew ever larger again. No more mankind, as the leaves rustled through the wind, no more will you ever take this from us again. For we are here. -From the wasteland'" Short Stories

  "It was a desolate landscape, dead trees shrouded a dark skyline; a black wind effortlessly whipped through the night. Large machines chugged by, oblivious to all but their own function. Churning. Always churning. The locomotives sped by, coughing up clouds of thick, black smoke. They made a deep, strange noise like a furnace in deathly overhaul. They were everywhere. In a world with dark, clouded skies, there was nothing left but a sick trail of eerie trees and strange train tracks leading off into a distant oblivion, traveled by these strange machines. Chugga chugga chugga chugga. The ominous, awful noise ground through everything, in a path of desolation lost in its own mournful echo. They used to be humans. It was like someone had hollowed them out, lined them with metal, and put coal in them to power a brand-new world... The others mentioned things to them. If they saw one go by, they sometimes knew to imitate its noises. They ask the thing if it's a locomotiv...

  "The quiet, small country town wasn't much. Bright fields stretched out across the sunny landscape, a few docile cows, a few run down factories, lined with rust and metal. Not much happened around there. People came and went, young folks, old folks, the town just kept going. Sy was fourteen, a handsome brown-haired young boy, and lived out on a small farm, thirty acres, had a few family around, and not much else. He was talking to Abe recently, a friend of the family, or something like that, they all agreed. Abe was forty seven, a little shorter than Sy, and mostly bald. He had been taken to a factory recently, something about the way he thought, or the career he was prepared for. Abe had been quiet and dumb, Sy thought, but reasonably normal. He was acting strange when he got back from the factory up the road. Soft spoken as usual, but he had a hard glint noticeable in his eye. Something seemed a little off about him. They sat there on the front porch of the farmhouse,...

  "Deep in a research complex in San Diego, California, the lights on many instruments and machines beeped warmly in the empty night. The halls were hollow and vacant, that day's researchers gone home towards the end of a long day. The walls and floors beamed and pulsed, as Dr. Arnold Vaulkner remained behind running tests in his own private laboratory. His lab assistant, Theresa Palmer, eyed him questioningly from the side. 'Should we run a few more?' Dr. Vaulkner smiled grimly, unsure how to proceed. Many things needed to be done. This was important work. The research complex, Amalgamated Research Facilities, had been used to serious work for a long time. Human subjects were no stranger to ARF, who routinely supplied such test subjects with food, shelter, and a small stipend at the end of each research project. The Graphical Identity Spectrum whirred in front of Dr. Arnold Vaulkner, reassuring him there would be no need for concerns about continuing. The GIS w...