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

silent reflection prompts

very few results

9 months ago

Two fluid, ethereal wolves howl at a colossal, melting moon, its silver light dripping into the vast cosmic ocean below, dissolving into waves of pure illusion and hidden truths. Their fur is woven from nebula dust, glowing in deep purples and electric blues, shifting with the tides of mystery and subconscious revelation. A floating staircase of mirrored illusions rises from the water, disappearing into an endless dreamscape of shifting labyrinths and ghostly apparitions. Around them, surreal figures with faceless visages emerge and dissolve, symbols of forgotten memories, past lives, and hidden fears lurking beneath the surface. The sky is a canvas of liquid neon, swirling and bending as if caught in a waking dream, reflecting the ever-changing nature of perception. In the distance, an all-seeing golden eye hovers within the moon’s glow, watching the dreamer as they navigate the realms of illusion and truth. Beyond the veil, phantom jellyfish made of liquid silver float silently, carrying secrets from realms beyond human comprehension. The entire scene pulses with an otherworldly energy, calling the viewer to embrace intuition, visions, and the unknown depths of the psyche. Salvador Dalí surrealism, hyper-detailed, neon dreamscapes, celestial illusions, subconscious realms, cinematic 4K masterpiece, shifting realities, surreal bioluminescence, spectral mysticism, atmospheric lighting. --avoid: malformed, extra limbs, distorted anatomy, blurry, low-resolution, pixelated, stretched features, exaggerated surrealism, oversaturated, unrealistic water physics, poorly drawn animals, unnatural textures, cartoonish, low-poly, noisy, CGI look, bad reflections, incorrect depth.

afdf066233c
3 120

8 months 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. Her body is constructed from a dual-layered material: an outer shell of liquid mirror-glass, always in motion, bending light in surreal ripples—beneath it, a lattice of golden memory circuits, softly pulsing, like script woven from heat and purpose. 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
2 140

9 months ago

(Spaghetti Western meets Hindu Mythology, Cinematic, Gritty, Mythic Americana, Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven-style storytelling, Hyperreal, Dust and Gunpowder, Sunset Over the Frontier) (Gritty Cinematic Western:1.8, Hindu Mythology Meets Old West:2.0, Dust & Heat Haze:1.6, Sunburnt Leather & Weathered Cloth:1.5, Volumetric Light Through Dust:1.4, Classic Spaghetti Western Composition:1.8) The frontier is vast, endless. The sun hangs low and swollen, a burning red eye sinking behind the jagged silhouette of the mountains, bleeding golden light across the dust-choked sky. A lone rider moves through the haze, his dark stallion kicking up a slow trail of dust, the sound of hooves muffled by the dry, cracked earth. Vishnu, the Divine Gunslinger, moves like a ghost through this godforsaken land, his presence a whisper on the wind, a warning before the storm. He is adorned in a weathered duster, its deep blue fabric threadbare yet regal, embroidered in golden Sanskrit that shifts and shimmers under the dying light. Beneath it, his celestial skin glows faintly, a blue so deep it seems carved from the twilight sky itself. His golden eyes burn like twin desert suns, reflecting the fire of the West, the violence of the frontier, the weight of justice balanced on the edge of a blade. From beneath his coat, his four arms rest with an unnatural stillness, each poised for retribution. One hand grips the Sudarshana Revolver, an ancient pistol forged from the molten core of a dying star, its barrel etched with the shifting symbols of the cosmos. Another holds a coiled lasso woven from the threads of fate, glowing with the light of constellations long dead. The third hand remains open, palm outward—a warning, or perhaps a blessing. The fourth clutches the eternal lotus, a reminder that even in this land of dust and death, something divine lingers. Behind him, the town of Black Hollow waits, a rotting wooden carcass of a town, its saloon doors swaying in the wind, the church bell rusted and long silent. Shadows move behind glassless windows, fear tightening in the chests of men who know their reckoning has come. The outlaws of this place have no gods, no law but steel and blood, and yet even they whisper his name. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of gunpowder and sagebrush, and in the distance, a gang of riders appear on the ridge, silhouetted against the sun. Their leader spits, grips his rifle, and laughs. "Ain't no man gets to play god out here," he sneers. The six-shooter spins once, slow, deliberate. A single breath. A moment stretched between eternity and the dust. Vishnu narrows his golden gaze beneath the wide brim of his hat. He speaks only once. "God don’t play, friend." Then the world moves like lightning, like judgment, like fate itself unfurling.

ElectricL
2 150

4 months ago

A dark, decayed factory steeped in dampness and neglect. Rows of broken, lifeless androids hang from chains and diagnostic cables, their battered forms suspended like relics of a forgotten era. Each android faces forward, their heads slumped and limbs dangling limply, as if gravity alone holds them in place. The androids are diverse—some humanoid with slender frames and fragmented synthetic skin, others industrial with exposed hydraulics, rusted plating, and shattered components. Many are missing limbs, their wires and cables hanging loosely, sparking faintly in the oppressive gloom. Among the rows, two androids stand out—their hands intertwined in a final act of connection before their power cells died. One is humanoid, its delicate features cracked and weathered, its synthetic skin peeling to reveal intricate, rusting frameworks. The other is industrial, bulkier, with heavier plating and exposed joints, its arm barely holding on by a tangle of wires. Their clasped hands emit a faint glow, flickering like dying embers, the last remnant of their shared existence. The factory is drenched in atmosphere. Thick haze and mist cling to every surface, illuminated by the weak, flickering glow of malfunctioning CRT screens and sparking cables. Dim red light spills from a cracked overhead lamp, casting diffuse shadows across the room. A faint, rhythmic drip echoes through the cavernous space, the sound amplified by the oppressive silence. A flickering sign above the rows reads: “ANDROID MULTI-PURPOSE FOUNDRY.” The foundry walls are lined with rusted, obsolete machinery and control panels. Pools of stagnant water collect on the floor, reflecting the faint, scattered light in jagged, broken patterns. Dust and smoke swirl in the air, cutting through the faint godrays that streak through shattered skylights, further obscured by the thick haze. The shadows of dangling chains and lifeless androids create eerie silhouettes on the mist-covered walls. The atmosphere is suffocatingly gritty, a testament to the decay of innovation. The androids stand as silent witnesses to a bygone era, their shattered forms a chilling reflection of the hubris and failure of their creators. The two holding hands, surrounded by rows of decaying machines, remain a quiet, haunting symbol of connection amidst the ruin.

ElectricL
1 64

27 days ago

A hyper-realistic cinematic horror scene of a terrified female archaeologist running for her life through a dense, rain-drenched jungle at night. She wears a soaked explorer’s outfit — tan shirt ripped and muddy, utility belt with small excavation tools, boots splattered with dirt — her expression full of fear and desperation. She is clutching a small ancient artifact that glows faintly with eerie golden light, contrasting the cold, blue-gray tones of the night. Behind her, an enormous horde of hundreds of rotting zombies surges forward through the mud and vegetation, their decayed bodies illuminated by flashes of lightning and faint moonlight filtering through the treetops. Their eyes glow faintly, their mouths open in silent screams, dripping with blood and rainwater. The jungle is dense, wet, and chaotic — towering tropical trees, tangled vines, thick fog, and puddles reflecting the stormy sky. The air is filled with mist and the pounding of rain, giving everything a heavy, suffocating atmosphere. In the distance, half-hidden by vines and shadows, the outline of an ancient stone temple ruin looms ominously, its carvings eroded and glowing faintly under the lightning. The scene is cinematic, dark, and full of motion — rain splashing, mud flying, the woman’s hair whipping in the wind as she runs in terror. Lighting & Style: dramatic, high-contrast lighting with cold blue and green tones, accented by warm flashes from lightning; cinematic composition, ultra-detailed textures, wet surfaces, realistic skin reflections, and atmospheric depth of field. Mood & Theme: terrifying, hopeless, adrenaline-filled horror; a sense of ancient evil awakening, survival against impossible odds. Rendering Style: ultra-realistic, photorealism, 8K resolution, volumetric lighting, motion blur, shallow depth of field, realistic rain simulation, cinematic realism. Keywords: horror, cinematic, dark realism, jungle ruins, night storm, undead horde, female archaeologist, terror, blood, fog, rain, decay, apocalypse, survival, ultra detail, terrifying mood, atmospheric horror, realistic lighting, dramatic scene, movie still.

7929da061a0
1 52