Placeholder: 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. 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.

@generalpha

Prompt

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.

distorted image, malformed body, malformed fingers

3 months ago

Generate Similar

Explore Similar

Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1024 × 1024

Similar

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
certain
[photo by David Noton on the field] Come and give your love away, don't play it safe. You may let them fall but I won't let them break. Wanna chase a sunset, are You ready yet? You won't get this chance every day. It's cold out there, don't fear the road just come along with us. You're not alone out there. Let's write a song, make up the melody: “if you're looking for me baby you know you can find me following the sun”.
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
In a place where no one ever came close to dreaming about... a place from a foaming brain, there is a tiny ripple of truth that duplicates sanity to reality... existence of self-pity and triumph! This is a long gone dream in which only lost souls find mercy from a god of an insane creation! Blowing cold winds that come from an uneven breathing pattern warm the frigid core of the sun! Rotting brain from inside the brittle bone of an old branch impatiently waiting to outgrow the sky… You are lost
[dark danger] מיד כלב יחידתי
[comics Head Lopper style by Andrew MacLean] winter sky loomed over the castle as the wooden giant closed in, each step crunching through snow and ice. The villagers huddled below, trembling in the chill of the cellars, clutching amulets, murmuring to gods who felt distant and silent. On the frozen bridge, the druid stood alone, breath misting as he raised his staff. His hawk shrieked above, circling. Roots cracked through the ice as magic pulsed through the cold air. Snow and splinters flew,
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
snowy scene,Holidaytown, 1960’s stop-motion animation style
It sis darlls focrapt arn alivel. I art live nothing pooff, Iny alive wimetbou, Late of nothing, It sis. tame, by alive, rairts dapllam, Mothing preofs and I rabe roead for raim, landensfite day.
A winter sky loomed over the castle as the wooden giant closed in, each step crunching through snow and ice. The villagers huddled below, trembling in the chill of the cellars, clutching amulets, murmuring to gods who felt distant and silent. On the frozen bridge, the druid stood alone, breath misting as he raised his staff. His hawk shrieked above, circling. Roots cracked through the ice, grasping the giant’s limbs as magic pulsed through the cold air. Snow and splinters flew, and the villager
Their dreams are our nightmares

© 2025 Stablecog, Inc.