Placeholder: the window of the summer house: Hellish Maggot the window of the summer house: Hellish Maggot

@generalpha

Prompt

the window of the summer house: Hellish Maggot

statue, doubles, twins, entangled fingers, Worst Quality, ugly, ugly face, watermarks, undetailed, unrealistic, double limbs, worst hands, worst body, Disfigured, double, twin, dialog, book, multiple fingers, deformed, deformity, ugliness, poorly drawn face, extra_limb, extra limbs, bad hands, wrong hands, poorly drawn hands, messy drawing, cropped head, bad anatomy, lowres, extra digit, fewer digit, worst quality, low quality, jpeg artifacts, watermark, missing fingers, cropped, poorly drawn

11 months ago

Generate Similar

Explore Similar

Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1024 × 1024

Similar

the window of the summer house: Hellish Maggot
The deadline looms as the unearthly music swells around me. Another mysterious tale takes shape amid the flickering lights and scrapes of stone on stone. What monsters will crawl from the recesses of my mind this time? Mama Yaga's watching, as always, from her crooked hut in the grim forest. I can feel her beady eyes peering through the gloom, waiting to see what images I will weave with pen and ink. The pressure builds, a familiar intruder, but inspiration remains elusive. The radio spirits off
Imagine having a large collection of books and tapes, but some of them contain errors or biases. These flaws introduce incorrect information and spurious correlations. For example, books with a specific font style might have inaccuracies unrelated to the content. To overcome this, you want to extract the genuine knowledge common to all the books and tapes, disregarding the flawed details. The goal is to find a representation that captures the underlying concepts, free from biases. Similarly, in
[a mouse at the forefront] Outside the security of her hole, the mouse freezes, her tiny heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and determination. The cat, a formidable presence, looms before her, its eyes gleaming with predatory intent. The mouse longs to retreat to the familiar comfort of her sanctuary, but the cat's menacing gaze holds her captive.
Not my mess to clean’
in the North of Canada, an Afro-American man stands on the edge of the roof of his isolated house in the dark among the rare snowflakes just before a snowstorm hits. He attaches plank plates to the roof to reinforce it, bracing for the impending storm. The dark cold air bites at his skin, the wind howling ominously, as he works diligently to secure the roof under the blinking light of an old flashlight in the blizzard.
Historical craniometric studies found that the Beaker people appeared to be of a different physical type than those earlier populations in the same geographic areas. They were described as tall, heavy boned and brachycephalic. The early studies on the Beakers which were based on the analysis of their skeletal remains, were craniometric. This apparent evidence of migration was in line with archaeological discoveries linking Beaker culture to new farming techniques, mortuary practices, copper-work
Not my mess to clean’
the materiality of 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971 6939937510 58209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679 82148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128 48111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196 44288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091
The words swirl in my mind as I sit at my desk, surrounded by the chaotic mess of papers and empty coffee cups. The weight of the deadline presses down on me, but my imagination soars. I close my eyes and let the visions take hold. I see a vast expanse of doors stretching infinitely in all directions. Each door leads to a different dimension, a different reality. Some doors are ordinary, blending into the background, while others shimmer and pulsate with an otherworldly energy. I imagine my prot
The deadline looms as the unearthly music swells around me. Another mysterious tale takes shape amid the flickering lights and scrapes of stone on stone. What monsters will crawl from the recesses of my mind this time? Mama Yaga's watching, as always, from her crooked hut in the grim forest. I can feel her beady eyes peering through the gloom, waiting to see what images I will weave with pen and ink. The pressure builds, a familiar intruder, but inspiration remains elusive. The radio spirits off
Not my mess to clean’

© 2025 Stablecog, Inc.