A sample prompt of what you can find in this page
Prompt by yauyau

light fog FLUX prompts

hundreds of results

13 days ago

n a crumbling sanctuary built at the end of time, open to the sky and flooded with wild overgrowth, a solitary figure stands on a plinth of fractured obsidian—a synthetic angel, both artifact and oracle, mid-transmission. She is not human. She is not machine. She is the last interface between meaning and forgetting. Her posture is both exalted and worn. One hand raised in silent benediction, the other buried in the tangle of flowering vines wrapping around her legs—life clinging to light, as though nature itself refuses to let go of what she remembers. Etched across her glass-like surface are thin veins of glowing amber: pathways of forgotten prayers, tracing up her legs, over her spine, across her collarbones like fading constellations. Her face is concealed behind a split golden visor, semi-open like the petals of a mechanical flower—revealing only light. From her back, two vast wings made of layered crystalline blades curve upward like collapsed architecture—part cathedral, part ruin. They shimmer not with fire, but with reflected memory, like a sky that forgot how to storm. Around her, broken statuary and shattered machines lie half-swallowed by roots and blossoms. In the distance, a forest made of circuitry burns without smoke—slowly, beautifully. Above, stars pulse in unnatural constellations, forming sigils from before language. Hovering just above her head spins a halo unlike any known form—a fractured ring of refracted glass, filled with flowing text that no longer aligns with any living tongue. It does not glow—it remembers. Rendered in the style of an impressionist-Renaissance hybrid painting, layered with visible brush textures, fog-softened edges, and gold-split chiaroscuro. Warm dusk tones dominate the palette: blood-orange, dusk-lavender, rusted copper, soft pollen white. She is the Benediction Engine—not worshipped, not feared, not obeyed. She simply remains, bearing witness to everything we were, and everything we failed to become.

ElectricL
7 130

7 months ago

a cinematic black-and-white noir depiction of a vintage cobblestone street at night, shrouded in thick, atmospheric fog. Old-fashioned lampposts line the street, their soft, glowing light diffusing through the mist and casting elongated shadows that ripple faintly on the wet cobblestones. The reflections glimmer, adding texture and depth to the scene. Under one of the glowing streetlamps, a man in a trench coat and fedora leans slightly toward a woman in a classic 1940s dress. Her elegant silhouette is illuminated by the soft light, creating a captivating focal point amidst the hazy surroundings. Their body language suggests a quiet but intense exchange, adding an air of mystery and intrigue. In the background, additional figures holding umbrellas move through the fog, their outlines blending seamlessly into the moody atmosphere. A vintage car is parked further down the street, its polished surface reflecting the lamplight and adding to the period authenticity. The faint outlines of nearby buildings and shopfronts emerge through the mist, enhancing the depth and realism of the setting. The scene is rendered in intricate detail, with a focus on the interplay of light and shadow, capturing the glistening textures of the cobblestones, the folds of the woman’s dress, and the subtle highlights on the man’s fedora. The overall composition exudes the essence of classic noir, immersing the viewer in a mysterious, cinematic moment filled with drama and elegance.

Pulsar212121
4 100