Stone Staircase and Building on Rocky Coastline

Stormy Seascape: A Clifftop Retreat

139

Artist
Rachel
DDG Model
DaVinci2
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Public
Created
1w ago
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  Stormy Seascape: A Clifftop Retreat
  
  Model: DaVinci2
  
  Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)
  
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  Prompt: October 12th, 1898. The Old Girl’s bones are groaning tonight. Thirty years I’ve kept her lamps lit, felt her pulse through the spiral stairs, weathered gales that’d strip paint from iron… but this? This storm’s a different beast. A mad, roaring bastard clawing at the rock since yesterday’s dusk. It ain’t just the wind – though God knows it screams like a thousand lost souls down the chimney, rattling the very plates in the cupboard. It’s the sea. Never seen water climb like this. Great black mountains heaving themselves against the cliffs, exploding into the sky higher than the lantern room itself. The whole tower shudders with each impact, a deep, sickening thud you feel in your teeth, followed by the deluge – salt spray like gunfire against the thick glass, even up here. The light… keeping her steady is near killing me. The mechanism whines against the unnatural strain, the gale trying to wrench the lens off its track. Every half-hour, fighting my way down to the service room feels like a war. Leaning into the wind just to stay upright on the catwalk, soaked to the skin in seconds despite the oilskins. Hands raw from hauling fuel, ears ringing constant. Down in the cottage, the sound… it’s not just noise. It’s a pressure, like the island itself is drowning. The stink of salt and wet stone, the kerosene clinging to everything. Found myself shouting at the kettle just to hear my own voice. Remember ’68? A squall compared to this. This feels… sentient. Hungry. Saw the wreck of the Marianne flash in my mind earlier – saw her bones in the white water churning below the point. Prayed no poor souls are out there tonight. Prayed the light cuts through this filthy murk. Back up top now. Lamp’s holding. Brass fittings weeping condensation. Hands trembling – age or fear, hard to tell. Glanced at Bella’s old chair. Could have sworn I saw her face in the salt-streaked glass for a second, pale and worried. Told her, silent-like: “Still standing, love. Light’s still burning.” But Christ Almighty… this storm. It feels like the end of the world trying to batter down our door. Hope dawn finds the island still here. Hope the light was enough. – Silas Crowe
  
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  Aspect Ratio: square
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Prompt: October 12th, 1898. The Old Girl’s bones are groaning tonight. Thirty years I’ve kept her lamps lit, felt her pulse through the spiral stairs, weathered gales that’d strip paint from iron… but this? This storm’s a different beast. A mad, roaring bastard clawing at the rock since yesterday’s dusk. It ain’t just the wind – though God knows it screams like a thousand lost souls down the chimney, rattling the very plates in the cupboard. It’s the sea. Never seen water climb like this. Great black mountains heaving themselves against the cliffs, exploding into the sky higher than the lantern room itself. The whole tower shudders with each impact, a deep, sickening thud you feel in your teeth, followed by the deluge – salt spray like gunfire against the thick glass, even up here. The light… keeping her steady is near killing me. The mechanism whines against the unnatural strain, the gale trying to wrench the lens off its track. Every half-hour, fighting my way down to the service room feels like a war. Leaning into the wind just to stay upright on the catwalk, soaked to the skin in seconds despite the oilskins. Hands raw from hauling fuel, ears ringing constant. Down in the cottage, the sound… it’s not just noise. It’s a pressure, like the island itself is drowning. The stink of salt and wet stone, the kerosene clinging to everything. Found myself shouting at the kettle just to hear my own voice. Remember ’68? A squall compared to this. This feels… sentient. Hungry. Saw the wreck of the Marianne flash in my mind earlier – saw her bones in the white water churning below the point. Prayed no poor souls are out there tonight. Prayed the light cuts through this filthy murk. Back up top now. Lamp’s holding. Brass fittings weeping condensation. Hands trembling – age or fear, hard to tell. Glanced at Bella’s old chair. Could have sworn I saw her face in the salt-streaked glass for a second, pale and worried. Told her, silent-like: “Still standing, love. Light’s still burning.” But Christ Almighty… this storm. It feels like the end of the world trying to batter down our door. Hope dawn finds the island still here. Hope the light was enough. – Silas Crowe

Prompt

October 12th, 1898. The Old Girl’s bones are groaning tonight. Thirty years I’ve kept her lamps lit, felt her pulse through the spiral stairs, weathered gales that’d strip paint from iron… but this? This storm’s a different beast. A mad, roaring bastard clawing at the rock since yesterday’s dusk. It ain’t just the wind – though God knows it screams like a thousand lost souls down the chimney, rattling the very plates in the cupboard. It’s the sea. Never seen water climb like this. Great black mountains heaving themselves against the cliffs, exploding into the sky higher than the lantern room itself. The whole tower shudders with each impact, a deep, sickening thud you feel in your teeth, followed by the deluge – salt spray like gunfire against the thick glass, even up here. The light… keeping her steady is near killing me. The mechanism whines against the unnatural strain, the gale trying to wrench the lens off its track. Every half-hour, fighting my way down to the service room feels like a war. Leaning into the wind just to stay upright on the catwalk, soaked to the skin in seconds despite the oilskins. Hands raw from hauling fuel, ears ringing constant. Down in the cottage, the sound… it’s not just noise. It’s a pressure, like the island itself is drowning. The stink of salt and wet stone, the kerosene clinging to everything. Found myself shouting at the kettle just to hear my own voice. Remember ’68? A squall compared to this. This feels… sentient. Hungry. Saw the wreck of the Marianne flash in my mind earlier – saw her bones in the white water churning below the point. Prayed no poor souls are out there tonight. Prayed the light cuts through this filthy murk. Back up top now. Lamp’s holding. Brass fittings weeping condensation. Hands trembling – age or fear, hard to tell. Glanced at Bella’s old chair. Could have sworn I saw her face in the salt-streaked glass for a second, pale and worried. Told her, silent-like: “Still standing, love. Light’s still burning.” But Christ Almighty… this storm. It feels like the end of the world trying to batter down our door. Hope dawn finds the island still here. Hope the light was enough. – Silas Crowe

More about Stormy Seascape: A Clifftop Retreat

A dark and stormy seascape features a small, stone house on a cliff overlooking a rough, dark ocean with waves crashing against rocks. A winding set of stone stairs leads up to the house, illuminated by an antique-style gas lamp post with an orange glow, casting light on the wet steps. The sky is filled with heavy, dark grey storm clouds, and the entire scene is bathed in a dramatic nighttime ambiance. The rocky shoreline is dark and rugged, matching the overall dark and moody aesthetic of the image.