Even when you’re approaching the edge of absurdity, you can remain sure that a neural network will generate some intriguing pictures out of it.
The following images are related to chapter 84 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
I have posted many other entries with generated images. Check them out.
Pictures of cool revolvers, because this chapter has something to do with a revolver.
“A ring of sparks, like those churned out when a lighter’s wheel grinds against the flint, spreads outward from the gap between the frame and the cylinder.”
“A vibration that gets transmitted through my palms and up my arms, then races along my spine.”
“I picture an electrical panel bursting with frayed wires that would zap like a moth even the gloved electrician tasked to repair the mess.”
“[I] peer down its bore, a black hole encircled by the metallic ring of the muzzle.”
“It offers me a top-down view of a turbulent, undulating pool of brass-colored liquid metal, whose waves spread in alternating crests and troughs as they slam against the walls of the chamber.”
“I turn the quivering gun toward the audience of glistening sclerae, sewage-colored irises and deep black pupils.”
“Quit your insolent game of quantum tag and collapse to an eigenstate already!”
“A snakey white bolt of electricity, outlined in lilac, crackles as it arcs to lick my forefinger.”
“From the barrel’s mouth erupts a puff of smoke, followed by a glowing, ember-colored blast that trails a stream of flickering sparks like red dwarf stars.”
“The revolver kicks against the palm of my right hand like a rearing horse trying to tear itself free from the reins.”
“Its force shoots through my wrist with a sharp sting.”
“My forearm complains as if a white-hot shard of pain had ripped across the slow-twitch fibers.”
“[The bullet explodes] deep within the amorphous heap of putrescence.”
“The flabby mass heaves and wobbles from the impact.”
“Its jiggly flesh is rippling as if slapped by a giant, while the white reflections of light that mount the oily, concentric waves waver and distort.”
“Those bulging eyeballs bob and roll about in the gunk, jostling each other.”
“The blob lets out, as if from a mouth entombed in a quagmire, an unearthly bellow of anguish, deep and guttural.”
“A hole bursts open in that deformed belly, a hole with a slimy rim that splays out like a black and gooey flower, and that reveals the blob’s gelatinous innards: a slithery mass of vermicular guts that squish and wriggle.”
“A belch of foul gas rushes out and swirls around me.”
“A gunshot blast rips apart the air around me, and its concussive wave beats upon my eardrums like a wrecking ball smashing into a brick wall.”
“My ears pop, my brain quakes.”
“A billowing cloud of powder smoke wafts from the muzzle, followed by a blossom of yellow-orange flame.”
“A bullet cleaves its way through the air.”
“The blob is twisting and thrashing, its blubbery skin frothing and flailing like the sea in a stormy gale.”
“The hole in its mass is spurting slime-laced foam.”
“The bullet plunges like a meteorite into the sclera of an eyeball.”
“The outer layers of the globe, white as a boiled egg, tear off, giving way under pressure, and out squirts a tongue of pulpy, pinky-gray jelly.”
“The muzzle flares a vivid yellow-orange, then a vortex of gunpowder-laden smoke rolls out along with a jet of fire, in an eruption of shrapnel-like debris.”
“A bullet cuts through the air while leaving a trail of silver smoke in its wake.”
“The brick behind the lily-white paint bursts into a pinwheel of shimmering dust, into a shower of chips, splinters and shards.”
“An explosion rocks the office as if a howitzer had fired an artillery round in front of me.”
“A red flower of flame spurts from the muzzle of my revolver as if from a flamethrower.”
“Blood jets out from the stump of my wrist in a crimson stream.”
“The bullet smashes against a ceiling fixture, that shatters in a puff of white haze and a cascade of sparks and glass shards.”
“A cracked flourescent tube tumbles down like an icicle.”
“The reverberating force pounds my skull, slams into my chest, ripples through my limbs, and scatters papers, pens and paperclips around the office.”
“A horizontal mushroom cloud expands from the gun’s muzzle and ignites into a licking white flame.”
“Flung backward through the air, I’m sick with whirling vertigo as my mind spins like a top in a cyclone.”
“A scarlet tail corkscrews after a bullet that is whizzing across the office like a fiery comet.”
Something about the bunnyman.
“[The bullet] wallops a hung picture frame, perforating a hole in a photograph of Bunnyman and me at a birthday party.” Our dear AI had a terrible time as usual with fingers, but I like the composition.
“Cracks have spread out from the impact point and crisscrossed over each other in a spiderweb of glittery fractures.”
“Its shockwaves resound through my cranium with an infrasonic warble that bends my bones like rubber bands.”
“My teeth rattle, my eyeballs throb, a fountain of blood spurts from my nose.”
“A bullet breaks the air around it apart into a glowing rainbow.”
“The projectile’s path deforms into outward-undulating ripples of lilac-colored distortion like those cast by a mirage.”
“[The bullet] ascends like an accelerating rocket, drills a hole in the night sky.”
“[The bullet] shatters a solar panel of a space station orbiting high above the Earth.”
“The blow sends a jarring jolt of pain through my vertebrae; I feel my spine crack, crunch, and snap.”
“I lie sprawled out flat on my back in a tangle of limbs.”
“My brain feels swollen as if someone were pumping embalming fluid into my skull.”
“The smell of gunpowder smoke has mingled with the coppery scent of blood and the blob’s putrefying stench.”
“White light wavers in my foggy vision while in front dances a swarm of red specks.”
“But the maelstrom of a black hole yawns at the center of my gaze, and light itself falls in a spiral down that drain, which leads to an endless night.”
“I’m floating in the silence of the void.”
Two more depictions of Arachne, for whatever reason.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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