Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, camera directly overhead looking straight down, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every paper fibre, strand of hair, thread and grain of wood. The scene fills the sheet edge to edge, only its outer border ripped into jagged torn edges with loose white fibres, laid on black.
On dark worn attic floorboards, fine silver strands of cut hair drift loose across the planks like threads. Around her, about a dozen old photographs with deckled white edges, of uneven sizes, lie in a loose irregular ring, some overlapping, some askew, corners curling up. About half lie face down, their yellowed backs marked with faint illegible pencil scribbles, dates and an old studio stamp. The others lie face up: faded old photographs, washed-out colour, all the same idealised portrait repeated, her as a pale ethereal maiden with long flowing silver white hair, faint rainbow streaks, a crown of white flowers, flawless. One gap in the ring where a print is missing.
At the centre of the ring she sits cross-legged, compact, shoulders curved over her lap, a small round shape of copper and black. A slender grown woman of about thirty, the first faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose, cheeks and shoulders, skin with real texture. Head bowed, eyes lowered to the torn photograph in her hands, the blue catching the light under her lashes. Her hair is hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Mascara dried in faint grey streaks, lipstick worn away, lips softly parted, face unguarded, tired, honest, the smallest beginning of a smile. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top slipped low across her chest, a soft feminine curve and shadowed cleavage at the neckline, the velvet worn thin in patches, raw edges unravelling, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, sheer black tights with pulled snags and a small hole at one knee. In her lap, in both hands, she holds the missing print: the last photograph, torn halfway through.
Light. One unshaded bulb just above the camera pours a warm golden circle exactly over her, setting her copper hair and freckled skin glowing gold, warm dust motes drifting in the light. The pale prints fall away into cold blue moonlight and shadow toward the edges of the floor.
Intricate, precious, fragile, raw and honest, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, camera at eye level beside her, three-quarter view. The whole attic scene is printed on one torn photograph lying flat on a wide black ground, its edges ripped jagged with loose white fibres. She breaks out of it: her raised arm reaches past the top right torn edge, the flung hank spilling onto the black beyond the paper, and the toe of her right boot crosses the right edge, both casting soft shadows.
A slender grown woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, slim arms, sitting on the bare floorboards, leaning back on one hand, the near knee drawn up close to her chest, the other leg stretched out along the boards. She wears exactly two scuffed black knee-high boots, one on each foot. Soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara dried in grey streaks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, a small closed-lip smirk lifting one corner of her mouth, looking straight at you over her raised knee, cold and level, half fury half relief.
The dress: a fitted black velvet top with long sleeves, slipped off one shoulder, a deep softly ruched sweetheart neckline edged with a fine dark trim; a short skirt of layered black lace, an open cobweb-like lace overlay with uneven scalloped edges, every lace motif sharp, frayed loose threads at the hem; black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo; sheer black tights worn through in small round holes at both knees and one thigh, the frayed mesh curling at each edge, pale freckled skin showing through, a few pulled snags. Chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Her raised fist flings the last long hank out of the picture, fading to washed-out rainbow, the scissors dropped beside her.
A few long cut lengths lie scattered across the bare boards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, fading along each strand, the rest drained to ash grey.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain.
The room. A shabby attic, peeling floral wallpaper, dead roses on the windowsill, her starry overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, eye-level camera. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, laid on black.
A slight, fine-boned, youthful woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, thin arms and delicate wrists, a soft curve showing where the velvet has slipped low, kneeling on bare floorboards. Small soft oval face, delicate, gentle rounded features, small chin, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Old mascara dried in grey streaks on her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, lips parted on a hard breath, brows low, her bright sapphire eyes level with yours, blazing, half fury half relief, as if the hair had been choking her. Fitted black velvet top slipped off both shoulders and low across her chest, collarbones and upper back uncovered, its pile worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling into loose threads, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt over a dusty plum lining, every lace motif sharp, fraying at the hem, sheer black thigh-high stockings, fine mesh weave visible, wide intricate lace tops, a band of pale thigh between stocking and hem, one boot kicked off. Chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. She holds the last long hank up at arm's length in one fist, just cut free, copper fading to a tired washed-out rainbow, its severed ends dangling, the scissors open in her other hand.
The hair. A few long cut lengths lie scattered across mostly bare worn floorboards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the ones further out drained to pale ash grey.
Above her left ear a single short tuft has already grown back, finger-length, soft and fine as new growth, standing up from the plain copper crop in fresh vivid rainbow, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will.
Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain.
The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her starry midnight blue overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
Prompt: Cinematic night film still, photorealistic, 35mm, low available light, natural film grain, shallow depth of field, real skin and real hair, deep in the small hours. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, slightly crumpled, laid on black.
A slender woman of about thirty, narrow shoulders and slim arms, kneeling on bare floorboards, cutting off her own long hair. Soft oval face with gentle rounded features and a soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, wet and red-rimmed, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara run in grey streaks down her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, mouth pressed shut hard, jaw clenched, tears falling, brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the hair in her fist. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt, sheer black tights laddered at the knee, one boot kicked off. Clean pale skin with only freckles, chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. One fist drags the last long rainbow hank out to the side, pulled taut, the scissors closing on it at her shoulder.
The hair. The floor is drowned in it: long hair heaped in deep drifts around her knees, spilling across the boards to the walls, coiled over a kicked boot and the fallen lamp. It loses its colour as it lies: the freshest lengths beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the drifts further out drained to pale ash grey, like hair left out for a hundred winters.
One pinch at her left temple has already grown back, long past her collarbone, in fresh vivid rainbow bands, brightest at the root, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will.
Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf half slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the drifts of hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain. Dim, heavy shadows, every strand readable.
The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her midnight blue overcoat with a faint fleck of tiny stars over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and wrecked, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night portrait printed on a single photograph, then torn into six tall vertical strips, the strips laid on a wide black ground and spread apart unevenly, the gaps between them irregular, some narrow, some wide, each strip slid visibly up or down, misaligned, a little rotated, so the picture no longer meets itself. Every torn edge jagged with loose white fibres, the paper thin enough that light shows through it.
The tears cut through her body. The widest gap runs straight through her chest where her heart would be. Behind the strips a warm amber-rose light glows through every gap, brightest in that one, as if the light were coming from inside her, pulsing out between the pieces.
Across the strips, a slender grown woman of about thirty, the first faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, half-length, sitting on bare attic floorboards, knees drawn up, arms loosely around them, her body divided by the gaps and displaced strip by strip. Only her face is spared, whole on one strip: soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks, mascara dried in grey streaks, dark plum lipstick, lips softly closed. She looks straight at you, calm, tired, utterly unguarded, the stillness of someone past crying, beautiful in it.
Ragged jaw-length copper hair, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, sheer black tights with pulled snags.
Inside the photograph: dim blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain, peeling floral wallpaper, a few drained ash-grey lengths of hair on the floor. Cold and quiet, every texture readable.
The only warmth anywhere is the light breaking through the tears.
Torn, open and still beating, 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.
