Sometimes when I send prompts to these neural networks, I wonder if they’ll become sentient and write me back: “Please, don’t force me to imagine any more of this shit.”
The following generated images are related to
chapter 81 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
“When a bolt of lightning, from the storm clouds that are sieging this business park, blinks behind me, the flash reflects off the three computer monitors.”
The gooey visitor.
“That flash also lights up the grotesquerie stuck to the opposite wall of the office: a corpse made of spoiled cottage cheese, a stygian soup of shadowy excretions that are oozing down in elongating filaments of goo.”
“Its distending and widening surface appears grainy and lumpy under a greasy coat of slime.”
“As the rumble of thunder ripples through my skin, the ceiling-mounted lamps keep illuminating that viscous, squirming intruder as if it were a wall-wide kinetic sculpture.”
“Otherworldly bizarrenauts can catch my spoor from space-times away as if my craziness wafted off me like some miasmic aura.”
“This elephant-sized glutinous amoeba, spewed from some interdimensional sewer overflowing with bubbling septic matter, must have penetrated this realm to hunt me down and devour me alive.”
“From the organic sludge stuck to the wall will erupt tentacles and pseudopods that, while dripping foul juices, twisting and writhing about in a necrotic choreography, will reach across the office toward its prey.”
“The tentacles, their touch cold, slippery and slimy like a slug’s skin, will coil around my torso and limbs to ensnare me, clamping onto my flesh with a myriad of suckers and hooks.”
“Once the blob engulfs me, acidic pus will flow around me like thick mud.”
“My hair will fall out in clumps, my skin burn, my eyes shrivel up.”
“As my flesh sloughs off and my bones unknit from one another, a soup of acidic toxins will eat away at my organs, melting them like lard in a frying pan, until I dissolve into a slurry of pulp and corroded bones floating amid a festering broth.”
“Should I tolerate being harassed, let alone ingested, by some mass of jellified boils and warts?”
“I could hardly wrestle even a child into submission, but my equine pal, through his selfless sacrifice, provided me with the means to blast this malignant mold before it snatches me up.”
“I picture his hooves clattering on the asphalt, his mane flying in the wind, a halo of electric discharges enveloping his body.”
A heroic ungulate.
“He would burst through the window, shattering it in its frame, scattering glass shards across the carpet.”
“While snorting fire from his nostrils, my gallant steed would plunge his teeth into that tumorous pest.”
“The blob would split open and splatter into goopy, gummy lumps below Spike’s belly and fetlocks.”
“In a frenzy of white-hot flames, he would gouge out the intruder’s putrid protoplasm, he’d trample on the gloop that flopped onto the carpet.”
“My equine pal would lick his lips and slurp down the puddles of amoebic goo.”
“He’d tumble down the street that slopes from the business park, crushing the carcass of some squashed roadkill, before crashing into a fence.”
“Spike’s body would disintegrate with a silent whoosh as his fur, flesh, blood, viscera, bones and marrow were engulfed by a nimbus of flame.”
“Ash and cinders would remain where a horseman’s corpse once lay.”
“Their brass heads sparkle in the fluorescent light.”
“Safely stowed among paperclips, ballpoints, tissues, breath mints, earbuds and tampons rests Spike’s revolver.”
“I smell the phantoms of gun oil and cordite.”
“I touch the relief of the checkered wood grip, as well as the skull and bones engraved on the frame.”
“I’d love to engrave next to it the portrait of a woman with sunken eyes, emaciated cheeks and dead skin peeling off her face, accompanied by scrawled black letters that would spell ‘A Horseman Never Fails,’ but I lack the artistic skill and patience.” Interesting attempt by the AI to render human language.
The following are the AI’s notion of revolvers. The designs got increasingly demented, although I had pictured a relatively simple Smith & Wesson revolver for the story. It seems that I should dream a little bigger.
Cool design but somewhat impractical.
“A trigger’s click in my brain makes me shudder as a burst of images shoots across my mind.”
“A round must glimmer at the end of that dark tunnel.”
“How many shots can you fit inside your overheated cranium?”
“Squeeze the trigger and rid yourself of your noxious mental parasites.”
“A single bullet would rip through your axons, dendrites and nerve synapses, releasing your ghosts from the crevices within before they could manifest pain.”
“You’d free yourself from the incessant taunting, the obsessions that gnaw at your sanity, the disgust and shame for your body and mind, the self-hatred.”
“A hell-spawned downward spiral ending in dementia senilis.”
“Bury that tumor deep inside yourself.”
“[…] I wouldn’t have suffered for years like some maimed dog in its owner’s backyard, waiting for someone to throw it a scrap of meat.”
“I must obliterate the cosmic pox before it pours its poison into anyone’s holes.”