Prompt: Realistic and painterly blend: soft photographic realism with oil-paint edges, loose brushwork in the dim background, fine ink linework tracing the forms, the light carried by the strokes. Medium-wide composition, full figure, calm and quiet.
A small neighbourhood café at first light, still mostly in cold blue dusk, a raw wooden counter, a warm red brick wall behind her, one low warm beam of the first sun crossing the counter and falling on her alone.
On a tall stool at the counter, seen whole from head to boots, sits eryn, a woman of about twenty-eight: short copper-auburn hair freshly and unevenly cut, one small tuft at the crown growing back in rainbow; pale sapphire eyes with a darker limbal ring and a single catchlight; fair skin, light freckles across the nose and cheeks; a soft, youthful, lived-in face, faint lilac shadows under the eyes, a touch of concealer not quite blended, a little too much rosy blush, a small old pale scar through one eyebrow. A simple ink-navy blouse, sleeves pushed to the forearm, an open camel wool coat she hasn't taken off yet, dark trousers, worn ankle boots, a thin old necklace, a fabric wristband, a bag at her feet. One boot hooked on the rung of the stool.
The barista is a woman, seen only as a canvas apron, a slender forearm with a rolled sleeve and a thin bracelet, and one hand setting a cup of coffee down in front of her, face out of frame.
On the counter beside the cup stands a tiny folded paper figure, the size of her thumb, folded from a white café napkin while she waited: a little witch with a pointed hat and long paper hair. The fingertip of her left hand rests lightly on its hat, absently, keeping it upright. Her right hand closes around the cup. Her head turns slightly to the left, toward the edge of the image, a sideways glance and a small wry private almost-smile, as if toward someone she left at home and is not sure she misses.
Colour lives on her: copper hair, the rainbow tuft, navy blouse, camel coat, the coffee, the sunbeam. Everything else stays muted and blue. A few early customers far behind in soft focus.
A torn paper border frames the image. Quiet, solemn, ordinary, faintly hopeful. No lettering anywhere. Out-of-time and timeless. The first ordinary morning after. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and painterly blend: soft photographic realism with oil-paint edges, loose brushwork, fine ink linework tracing the forms, the light carried by the strokes. Wide, still, symmetrical composition, solemn as a vigil, quietly sultry, seen from the doorway.
A lived-in family living room at the very end of the night, blue hour, the tall window just beginning to pale behind thin lace curtains. One small lamp still on from the night, its warm light weak and spent. Beside it a church candle burned down to a stub in a tarnished brass holder, wax pooled and cooled. A worn velvet sofa, a knitted blanket half fallen to the floor, a cold cup of tea, a book face down, a stopped pocket watch, dried roses in a jar, a single black feather on the low table.
On the sofa, half-reclined against the cushions, one arm along the back of the sofa, legs crossed under her skirts, head resting back, eyes closed as if she dozed off waiting, sits the empty shell of a woman. The figure itself is made of paper all the way through, a life-size paper sculpture, not a woman wrapped in paper, not sheets laid over a body: matte old grey paper for skin with visible fibres, the paper's thin edge showing at her fingertips and jaw, soft creases where elbows and knees bend, glued seams. Her face is printed on the paper like an old black-and-white photograph: soft, youthful, freckled, dark lips. Her long silver-white hair is curled strips of paper. She is a gothic witch as she was: an off-shoulder gown whose black lace is delicate cut paper filigree, a cinched corset of folded black paper, lace sleeves of papercut, a paper choker, many paper necklaces and rings, pointed laced boots. Creased, water-stained, old tears mended in places with yellowed tape. The top of her head is torn open like a cracked egg, the torn edges curling outward, and inside it is dark and hollow.
Her ornate dark witch's hat with a tiny closed wooden door on it rests on the arm of the sofa, set down with care. Beside the shell, the cushion still holds the dent of someone who sat there and has left, a few loose paper fibres on the velvet.
The shell is the only figure in the room. Entirely monochrome, black and silver-grey, in cold blue shade, the room around it muted. The only warmth is the tired lamp and the first pale line of dawn across the floorboards.
A torn paper border frames the image. Solemn, tender, still, a wake kept for someone who is not dead. No lettering anywhere. Out-of-time and timeless. What stays behind when she goes. by eryn
Dream Level: is increased each time when you "Go Deeper" into the dream. Each new level is harder to achieve and
takes more iterations than the one before.
Rare Deep Dream: is any dream which went deeper than level 6.
Deep Dream
You cannot go deeper into someone else's dream. You must create your own.
Deep Dream
Currently going deeper is available only for Deep Dreams.
