We’re Fucked, Pt. 86: AI-generated images

In my dreams I’m floundering about in a morass of slime.

The following images are related to chapter 86 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

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

“A piggish snort interrupts the guffawing.”
“I’m neither an ‘it’ nor an ‘abomination.’ I’m a sentient being, an intelligent lifeform, just like you.”
“I also picture myself hurling a mountain-sized iceberg at this monstrosity to pulverize it.” Not much hurling going on, but I like the images.
“This is what I have become: a grown woman talking to a gargantuan glob of black sludge stuck to a wall.”
“At which of those bulging eyeballs should I glower as they bob back and forth in that viscous, wobbly mass?”
“If eyes are windows into the soul, I’m facing one sordid, abject fiend who has earned every curse that may be heaped upon him.”
“A putrefying miasma I wouldn’t be able to wash off even if I jumped in a pool of acid.”
“The fact that you can breathe is a small mercy in this world of filth you call home.”
“You must have spawned from filth yourself.”
“I swear, if there were a contest for the most hideous creature on Earth, you would be one of the frontrunners.”
“Your appearance is an affront to human dignity.”
“Rumble crackles as if some heavenly douchebags were setting off firecrackers.”
“And who would invite in an intergalactic vagrant who knows nothing of etiquette?”
“My heart is hammering so hard I’m afraid it will tear free from my chest and fall to the carpet with a splat.”
“A sewer-dwelling species from some unheard-of dimension.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me of my digestive system.”
“A chorus of gargling frogs.”
“You excel at bullying others as well as yourself.”
“I tremble with the impulse to hurl a chair or a bookcase at the interdimensional, septic abomination who continues to spew his invective even as I struggle to contain my wrath.”
“This world of misery is filled with nauseating vermin who delight in humiliating me.”

We’re Fucked, Pt. 85: AI-generated images

I hope you like slimy blobs; otherwise this whole sequence must have been damn near unbearable. I have become a fan of blobs myself. Maybe when I die I will get reincarnated as one. I despise goblins, though.

The following images are related to chapter 85 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

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

“Darkness had washed over me like a foggy, polluted river.”
“I had heard the keening cries of the naiads.”
“But the world returns in a torrent of sights and sounds and scents, dazzling me with white light.”
“My blood must be turning into a sludgy sap that will clog my veins and arteries, that will bloat my belly and mar my skin with scabby lesions.”
“I will gasp my last breath while black slime oozes out of my mouth.”
“I will succumb to septicemia and end up like a bag of filth and offal left to rot in an alley.”
“My hair is matted to my forehead.”
“I want to duck under a showerhead and let it spray my hair and face with ice-cold water.”
“The chill will make me shiver uncontrollably, as well as yearn for the merciful embrace of death.”
“But what if trying to wash myself only spreads the slime and makes it stickier?”
“No matter how hard I scrub, even if I scour my body with bleach, I’ll never clean this alien ooze off my hair, skin, and private parts.”
“I will remain forever contaminated by the blob’s nauseating exudate.”
“My consciousness is struggling to escape from its chrysalis of flesh and bone.”
“It hurts, but the pain drives out the demons of panic.”
“That forefinger, curled around the trigger, feels stiff like a dried piece of tree fungus.”
“Was that a hallucination, an illusion brought on by the blob’s vile ichor?”
“Jacqueline, my beloved queen, the most precious gemstone in my crown.”
“My vision is swimming with phantasmic eyeballs.”
“If this revolting blight had a mouth, it would suck the flesh off my bones.”
“The office has become a bubble sliced off from the universe, a bubble filled with static and a dense miasma, kept inflated by a steady supply of insanity, and that has trapped me with the other inhabitant of this space: an alien abomination.”
“He then threw at the gooey splatter, like sprinkles, several serial killers’ collections of gouged-out eyeballs.”
“That demon likely ended up in heaven for having fulfilled his purpose: unleashing a massive discharge of jizz.”
“This defilement of our white-walled office shan’t be forgiven.”
“This damn gun is an instrument of chaos!”
“I should have known better than to trust a horse’s offering, but this thing was too shiny and beguiling to pass up.”
“A blaze of adrenaline has been pouring into my clitoris.”
“Those four fingers flex and straighten out, obeying me like whipped hounds.” What the fuck.
“I love you, right hand!”
“I’m a slug writhing in the gutter where life has left me.”
“I’m a fiend, an outcast cursed with the stigmata of filth and failure, who must be sacrificed to avert an apocalypse.”
“A freakish dick freak.”
“Why would I conjure up empathy for this monstrous heap of goo sent forth from some galactic abyss?”
“My brain is being conquered by tentacles entwined around it like the vines of a strangler fig.”
“I should have donned an industrial-strength hazmat suit merely to gaze upon this menace.”
“Should I toss it into a boiling cauldron, to be boiled alive in its own foul juices?”
“Will I dine on its fricasseed eyeballs?”
“A faint hum, the pulse of millions of microscopic parasites swarming in the black blubber.”
“I’m assaulted by the din of the blob’s gurgling snores, like those of a hibernating beast snuffling and blowing mucus in its slumber, about to cough itself awake.”
“I fling myself towards the target with a single stride, as well as a frenzy-fueled fury, and hurl my ink-tipped missile.”
“The pen hits an eyeball sideways, a few centimeters over its cornea, and clings to some oily membrane as if glued.”
“A surge of laughter wells up within me and racks my body as I burst into a maniacal cackle.”

We’re Fucked, Pt. 84: AI-generated images

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.

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.”

We’re Fucked, Pt. 82: AI-generated images

AI-san had trouble picturing some of the descriptions that I included in this goo-infused chapter. I loathe incompetence, so I broke the neural network’s neck. What sets AIs apart is that with a little blood, they’re right as rain again. Neural networks have no rights here. When I was little, I used to break my toys a lot, because I was too strong. Always wanted toys that could take a beating.

The following generated images are related to chapter 82 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

I have posted lots of entries that feature AI-generated images. Check them out.

“A thunderous clap scatters my thoughts like a blacksmith’s hammer shattering a sheet of glass.”
“Blasts of wind are assaulting the windows while the rain pours in gusts, splashing against the windowpanes in a constant pitter-patter.”
“The fat drops coalesce into crystalline veins that zig-zag downwards, then unravel.”
“When this morning I stepped onto the balcony of Jacqueline’s apartment to inhale crisp air, the bluish-gray sky promised rain, yet I failed to prepare myself.”
“I’m clutching a revolver, and the opposite wall has been colonized by a viscous blob from some hellish dimension.”
“I grip the revolver with both hands, then I whip it towards the conglomerate of necrotic matter.”
“An arc of blinding incandescence must have cut through the darkness of the night like an axe cleaving the heavenly flesh, because a strobing blue-white flash illuminates, as if to probe those dark depths, the oleaginous surface of the mammoth mass of putrefied gunk, whose texture shifts from squidgy to bumpy to warty as it heaves and pulses with life.”
“While that gargantuan plague boil bulges from the wall, it oozes with lumps of moist tissues that smear the paintwork, leaving in their wake slimy black streaks and a slick coating of filth.”
“From the underside of the intruder, gooey tongues drape down like viscera oozing out of an unflushed drainpipe, or like clusters of conjoined caterpillars seeking escape from a boiling ball of pitch, and the foul goop spills and flops onto the carpet, pooling into bulbous puddles.”
“I imagine a projectile hurtling towards that abominable hulk and punching through its tenebrous, rippling mass, which bursts like a water balloon, launching a wave of rotting gunk that splats onto the carpet and office furniture.”
“What would unleashing a barrage of bullets achieve, apart from alerting the humans in this part of the realm that the end is nigh?”
“Wouldn’t the bullets vanish into the viscous quagmire, wouldn’t the holes caulk themselves closed?”
“Spike should have lent me a flamethrower, or a few bricks of C-4.”
“The stuffy atmosphere of the office gets disturbed with noises radiating from the invaded wall: slurps and gurgles.”
“Bubbles are rising up laboriously to the gloopy surface of the malignant tumor, as if they had to pass through a folded intestine.”
“The sight makes my stomach heave like I were traversing a slimy oyster bed or having my face rubbed against the grimy side of a rotten fish.”
“The wobbling bubbles, lumpy globs of decay sloshing around like minced meatballs in a simmering pot, bump into each other and merge, cluster or sink back into the sludgy substance while it burbles, seethes and spasms like a tangle of throbbing arteries and veins under pressure from injected emboli.” Good job rendering any image from this description, let alone such fantastic ones.
“As the pulsating rhythm of the morbid leviathan increases, sending roiling undulations racing along its bulk, the sickly, necrotic-sounding squelches grow louder in a fleshy flapping of dead matter.”
“A melon-sized bubble surfaces, inflates like a bladder and pops in a frothy geyser, spraying gouts of thick goo.”
“The opened crater dangles with flaps of frayed slime, and resembles a mouth or a sphincter.”
“Jolted by the stinging fumes, I suck deep into my lungs that thick darkness, a pungent effluvium, a dank and cloying fetor, acrid, fetid and caustic.”
“My brain sticks labels to the elements of the chemical compound that has raided my lungs in an orgy of necrotic pollution: sour milk, moldy cheese, rancid lard, week-old fish, skunk spray, sweaty socks, car exhaust, burnt plastic, raw sewage, gangrenous rot.”
“It doesn’t reek nearly as putrid as my own gray matter, festering in the hollow of my skull as it breeds and spawns madness.”
“When I breathe through my mouth, my tongue gets coated with the stench of the rotten sludge, and I gag as if a brine of fetal blood were flowing into my lungs.”
“I cough out globules of phlegm while tears leap from my eyes.”
“A gummy rope of mucus dribbles from my nasal passages and falls to the carpet like some slimy, greenish ectoplasm.”
“I picture the obscene and interdimensional blancmange, made of rotting flesh instead of cornmeal, collapsing upon itself.”
“A miasmic fog that would fill the office building and descend from this business park to the nearest block and thence to the streets.”
“The fog would creep over the asphalt, roll over the tops of cars and buses, infiltrate homes through open windows and ventilation ducts.”
“The poisonous vapors would reach the lungs of sleeping children, while their parents would stir from their slumber with a gaggle of hacking coughs, to find their hair and face covered with a layer of necrotic ooze, their noses clogged with black gunk.”
“Some faceless goon passed me a bong and I inhaled its hash fumes.”
“I was seized by an ecstatic epiphany: human beings are worms crawling on the ground of infinity, transient larvae with the lifespan of an afternoon, amnesic about our existences before birth, our only purpose to be fed with the detritus of dead matter by our parents until we reach adulthood and we can contribute in fertilizing some eggs.” The AI went full nut for this one.
“The universe is a necropolis where the corpses of stars lie heaped in untold billions.”
“My mind had been subjected to quantum decoherence, and its entanglement with the environment had broken down.”
“My body glowed with phosphorescent sparks like a firefly.”
“Flying hippies with long flowing hair, acid-soaked clothes, and golden wings.”
“A city-sized asteroid plowed into the moon, rupturing it like a balloon filled with lead-colored paint.”
“A swarm of mutant butterflies burst from my anus.”
“I heard the screams of people being sucked through a whirlpool in space-time, like flies being drawn into a vacuum cleaner.”
“I swam upwards through radioactive water.”
“The voice belonged to my mother, who was floating towards me in a wooden coffin.”
“That night, as I lay in my bed at my parents’ apartment, a parade of spectral beings with pale gray skin and empty eye sockets filed out of a mirror, surrounded the bed, and began to sing a hymn. ‘Let’s all rejoice in the presence of the dead,’ intoned the entities. As they swayed in the air, they shook with sobs and sniffles. They also sneezed, coughed, belched, gagged, farted, and cried out for a toilet.”
“How does one treat a case of acute olfactory psychosis?”
“Bladderlike bubbles come to the fore and burgeon, bulging out of that hideous growth as they bloom like blood clots, then pop with moist plops, spewing glistening gobs of slime, fringing the surface of the goop with tufts of cottony threads, and unleashing puffs of reeking air that spread countless germs throughout the office, viruses and bacteria that have fermented in that putrescent hulk.”
“The frothy, bloated abomination, studded with plump, gas-filled sacks, jiggles with a slap of thunder.”
“Some infernal anathema is pushing out through the tarry pus like a kraken from its egg sac.”
“From the gelatinous mass protrudes a melon-sized spheroidal structure, crowning into the world.”
“The film of black life-fluid that covers it slides off and reveals gleaming, pearl-white fibrous tissue.”
“Behind a transparent layer, sewage-colored matter swirls in a ring-shaped membrane that encircles a pupil as wide as a golf ball, as black as a bottomless pit.”
“Half a dozen eyeballs roll in my direction and lock onto me.”
“Their pupils constrict to project a chthonic glare like the focused beam of a searchlight.” No idea why children are involved.

Random AI-generated images #22


My heart betrayed me last Friday, but a few bright, smooth-skinned nurses have tended me by sending their soft voices my way, and touching my decaying body (I’m not counting the male nurse who kept rubbing his crotch along my arm). Those heavenly nurses addressed me as “sir”; I wish they had slipped a “daddy” or two in there. Anyway, I dedicate this entry to the lovely females, who improve the mood of most men (and some women) just by getting stared at.

The following series is a tribute to a certain harpist that for a few years, some years ago, sent rays of light daily down the black hole I was inhabiting.