We’re Fucked, Pt. 83: AI-generated images

Working on this sequence of my novel has meant that for weeks I have spent at least an hour every day feeling queasy, thanks to my fruitful imagination. So congratulations to me, I guess.

The following are images related to chapter 83 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

I have posted many other entries with generated images. Check them out.

“As if I had been transported to a movie theater in an inverted dimension, humming fluorescent lights are shining down from the ceiling, and the opposite wall has been covered with a three-dimensional black canvas made of gooey tar in which floats the audience: a score of world-globe-sized eyeballs with sewage-colored irises and pupils that dilate and contract as they glare at me, the protagonist of this demented pageant.”
The AI rendered these images weeks ago, as I was trying to pinpoint how this abomination would look like.
“I’d dread explaining such a stain to our porcine overlord.”
“I can already hear that piggish braggart’s hoarse rasp issuing from his slobbering snout, calling me a dirty slut.”
“The corralled rubbish: crumpled papers and tissues, disposable coffee cups, ballpoint pens, wooden stirrers, plastic bottles, sandwich wrappers, empty cola cans, polystyrene containers, dead insects, dirty syringes, tied-up condoms, and murder weapons.”
“I have become a churning cauldron of filth and corruption, and my mouth a spigot that discharges a flow of sewage in an excruciating exorcizing ceremony.”
“I’m alone and lost in a wasteland of viscous misery.”
“I need to find my way back to mommy’s womb.”
“The umbilical cord has been cut from my navel, and instead it has coiled around the trigger of a machine gun poised to annihilate me.”
“My cranium bursts in a bloody fountain that scatters my neurons into the void.”
“A long stream of ochery matter dribbles over my chin and splashes onto the sodden morass that has covered the heap of garbage like with a toxic tarpaulin.” They don’t quite represent the prompt, but I like the compositions.
Arachne, blessed be Her name.
“An insectoid buzzing has filled the space between my ears as if a wasp were beating its wings inside my skull.”
“The viscous mixture has spread its corrosive contagion over the carpet in splattered streaks.”
“My psyche, that is traversing the narrow border between consciousness and delirium, risks wafting away toward the all-encompassing darkness.”
“The ceaseless rain will engender an apocalyptic deluge that, in its rise, turning the streets into raging rivers, will sweep away like toy boats in a bathtub the burned-out cars, smoking bricks, cracked masonry, uprooted trees, wrecked furniture, blackened bodies.
“Donostia, located during pre-Roman times in the domain of the Varduli, reduced in one fell swoop to a wasteland of ashes and mud, will vanish under an expanse of grasses, plants and flowers grown on their own amid birdsong.”
“I refuse to count how many eyeballs are bulging on the gelatinous lump of grime and disease, in an orrery of sentient planetoids that have glued their bloodcurdling stares to my face.”
“This hellscape must have been devised by Arachne Herself.”
“Has She set the test up so that I must murder the blob or go mad?”
Cool depictions of a revolver.
“Is that how it feels like to have a dick, once the penis, engorged with blood, has swollen out of its velvet sheath, and has blushed with a crimson hue that rivals the brightest flowers in their blossoms?”
“The blob wobbles like a water balloon about to burst.”
“The eyeballs that were glaring at me roll in sync, shifting their gaze to the revolver’s barrel, which looks like a toothpick poking up against this tide of nightmare.”
“After I blast that slime-skinned, flesh-waddling, eyeball-plagued horror to bits, a splash of rain will quench the flames in my brain.”

2 thoughts on “We’re Fucked, Pt. 83: AI-generated images

  1. Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 83 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl

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