View allAll Photos Tagged artificial_intelligence
Image reconstructed using our artificial intelligence model. The image you see is from the Orion spacecraft and the Artemis 1 mission. The image depicts the Moon on 6th day of flight (21 November 2022) just before the Orion's flyby.
The resulting document is 25000x24662 pixels (616.55 million pixels).
Credit: NASA/PipploIMP (for reconstruction/enlargement via AI)
Our Facebook page: bit.ly/PipploFB
Our YouTube channel: bit.ly/PipploYT
The house had been unusually quiet that afternoon.
Seventeen year old Ginny Sinclaire had always found silence in a large house rather comforting. It made every room feel as though it were holding its breath, waiting for someone to return. But tonight the silence felt different.
Her parents were away visiting relatives in Carmarthenshire, and the invitation had arrived from one of her mother’s oldest friends — a kind, elegant widow who had no children of her own and insisted that Ginny should not spend the evening alone.
“You shall come with me,” she had said. “It will do you good to be seen.”
Ginny had laughed at the phrase.
“Seen? Good heavens, I’m not a painting.”
“No,” her mother’s friend replied. “Paintings are usually better behaved.”
And so, with a smile, Ginny found herself seated before her mother’s dressing mirror while the family maid carefully arranged the finishing touches.
Ginny held her pair of expensive marquise-cut diamond drop earrings in her hand. The maid carefully removed them and replaced them with a pair of long, intricate imitations—convincing enough to most eyes, but not to someone who knew the difference.
“Sorry, Miss,” the maid said, fastening the clasp of Ginny’s earrings. “Your mum, her ladyship, feels you ought not be wearing anything but rhinestone jewellery this evening.”
Ginny looked at herself in the mirror and grinned.
“Mama has finally decided I am too reckless.”
“She feels you can be too trusting in a place where others might take advantage of you.”
“That sounds much worse.”
“It usually can be.”
Ginny laughed softly.
The maid placed the small chandelier-style rhinestone earrings against her ears. They caught the light beautifully, little drops of sparkle that moved whenever Ginny turned her head.
“There,” the maid said. “Perfect.”
Ginny admired them.
“They also look expensive.”
“They look sensible,” the maid corrected.
Ginny smiled innocently.
Later, once she was alone, she opened the small drawer beside her jewellery box.
Inside rested the one thing she had been told repeatedly not to wear out in public.
An antique cocktail ring, large,inherited from her late great-aunt’s estate.
It was not merely a piece of jewellery. It was a family story wrapped around her finger. A deep blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds, old-fashioned and magnificent.
Ginny slipped it carefully into her silk purse.
“Only for tonight,” she whispered to herself.
A few hours later, as the car carried her toward the reception, she glanced around to make sure nobody was watching.
Then, with a mischievous smile, she slipped the exquisite ring onto her finger, admiring the way it caught the light.
___________
As Ginny’s limousine approached the old manor house where the reception was taking place, a pair of eyes watched from the shadows of the gardens.
From behind the hedges, he observed the procession of arriving guests—the sparkle of diamonds catching the evening light, the shimmer of satin gowns flowing beneath the lamps, the effortless display of wealth and carelessness.
He sat quietly with a cigarette between his fingers, a flask resting in his hand, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him.
To most, it was simply a grand reception. To him, it was a parade of possibilities.
For nearly an hour he remained unseen, watching faces, movements, and the glittering details others took for granted. Then, when his third cigarette had burned down to its final ember, he dropped it beneath his shoe and crushed it out.
Time to crash the party.
⸻
The reception was everything Ginny had hoped it would be.
A grand Welsh country house glowing beneath chandeliers. Music drifting through open doors. The sound of laughter spilling into the gardens.
Silk gowns fell in liquid folds along the ladies’ graceful figures as they drifted beneath glittering chandeliers. Gentlemen laughed over crystal glasses. Music floated through the room while diamonds caught the candlelight from every corner.
And Ginny, in the centre of it all.
Her bronze satin blouse shimmered beneath the lights, its smooth baronet fabric catching every movement like liquid metal. The high ruffled collar framed her face, while the cascading ruffle down the front gave the blouse an almost old-fashioned alluring elegance. Her black sequin skirt moved like a secretively sparkling dark river whenever she walked.
Several people stopped her.
“My dear, that blouse is extraordinary.”
“Those earrings are lovely.”
But the ring received the most attention.
“Oh, Ginny,” one woman said, taking her hand gently. “That is a remarkable piece.”
Ginny looked down at it happily.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Very.”
“It belonged to my great-aunt. Mama says I shouldn’t wear it out.”
“And do you listen to your mother?”
Ginny smiled.
“Occasionally.”
“Occasionally?”
“Yes. I find it gives her hope.”
The woman laughed.
Ginny had no idea how many people noticed the ring.
She only knew that everyone seemed delighted by it.
Ginny had always believed kindness was the natural state of the world, and she assumed everyone looked at things with the same harmless appreciation she did.
She mistook attention for affection, curiosity for admiration. The room had been full of compliments that evening, but not every pair of eyes had been drawn by the beauty of the ring alone. Some lingered a little too long. Some noticed a little too much.
Ginny saw only the warmth of the reception.
She never considered that admiration and desire could sometimes wear the same expression.
⸻
She first noticed Rhys because he was not trying to be noticed.
Everyone else seemed determined to appear important.
At 20 years old, already wise beyond his years, Rhys watched with quiet amusement as everyone played their part.
He stood near the edge of the room wearing an open grey shirt, a black silk waistcoat, and dark trousers. There was something unusual about him — not arrogance exactly, but confidence.
The sort of confidence belonging to someone who always knew where the nearest exit was.
Ginny was dancing her second dance with Sean, who had politely asked again after their first.
She had wanted to refuse.
But Ginny had never been particularly skilled at refusing anyone.
Sean was pleasant enough.
Pleasant was not always exciting.
And then Rhys appeared, as if he had been waiting for the exact moment to step in.
“May I cut in.”
It was not a question.
Sean looked surprised.
Ginny looked amused.
The newcomer possessed the sort of dangerous charm she had always found impossible to resist — a hint of mischief, a touch of rebellion, the kind of confidence that suggested he played by his own rules.
Sean left befuddled, and Rhys easily took his place.
“You are very brave.”
“I was hoping you would say charming.”
“I was thinking something closer to reckless.”
Rhys smiled.
“Dangerously close, then.”
Ginny laughed.
“That was terribly smooth.”
“I was hoping for charming.”
“It was dangerously close.”
Rhys grinned.
“And yet you are still standing here.”
“I suppose I am.”
“A promising sign.”
“For you?”
“For my dancing.”
Ginny shook her head.
“You are very confident.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Just optimistic.”
“There is a difference?”
“Certainly. Confidence says, ‘I know I will succeed.’”
“And optimism?”
“‘I may fail terribly, but it will make an interesting evening.’”
Ginny laughed again.
“You are rather strange.”
“I have been accused of worse.”
“By whom?”
“People who preferred ordinary conversation.”
“And you?”
“I have always found ordinary conversation suspicious.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow.
“Suspicious?”
“Yes. Usually it means someone is hiding how interesting they are.”
⸻
They danced several times.
Rhys was easy company.
He never asked too many questions. Never tried too hard to impress her. He simply listened, which Ginny found surprisingly rare.
Eventually, after another song ended, she sighed.
“I must confess something.”
“That sounds serious.”
“I am bored.”
Rhys looked offended.
“At a reception this magnificent?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.
“Why?”
“Because everyone here is pretending to have a wonderful time.”
“And you?”
“I am pretending not to.”
Ginny smiled.
“You are terribly honest.”
“No. I am selectively honest.”
“That sounds like dishonesty wearing a nicer suit.”
“Perhaps.”
She glanced toward the gardens.
“I prefer outside.”
“So do I.”
“Why?”
“Inside, people watch each other.”
“And outside?”
“Outside, people watch the moon.”
Ginny considered this.
“That was almost poetic.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. It needs improvement.”
“Would you like to improve it?”
She smiled.
“Lead the way.”
⸻
The gardens were quiet.
The music faded behind them until it became only a distant memory. They wandered past rose bushes heavy with flowers, past old stone pathways softened by years of rain.
Ginny stopped beside the roses.
“They smell wonderful.”
Rhys leaned slightly closer.
“They are dangerous.”
“Roses?”
“Anything beautiful enough has thorns.”
Ginny looked at him.
“That sounds like something an old man would say.”
“Then I am disappointed. I was aiming for mysterious.”
“You failed.”
“Completely?”
“Not completely.”
_________
They continued until they reached an old stone folly, a crumbling tower hidden among the trees.
Ginny looked upward.
“Imagine building something like this simply because you could.”
“People used to enjoy unnecessary things.”
“And now?”
“Now they call them impractical.”
“Perhaps they are.”
“Perhaps.”
She smiled.
“You agree?”
“I think impractical things are often the most memorable.”
Ginny touched the cold stone wall. The sapphire caught the moonlight, a sudden flash of blue against the old stone — a small, beautiful thing announcing itself in the quiet of the garden.
Ginny sighed.
“I suppose you are right.”
“I usually am.”
“Usually?”
“I have learned never to say always.”
“Why?”
“Because someone will eventually prove you wrong.”
“And you dislike being wrong?”
“No.”
“No?”
Rhys looked toward the tower.
“I dislike being predictable.”
He drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Ginny.
She gave a little giggle and politely declined.
“Papa smokes cigars.”
Rhys smiled as he lit one.
“These are my cigars.”
He exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, watching as Ginny wandered on, absorbed in the old folly.
He eyed the shiny blouse and sparkling skirt that had first diverted his attention from everything else.
The fitted waist gave the illusion that the blouse and skirt belonged to the same deliberate design — molten liquid bronze above, a glittering black river below — a silhouette that seemed less like an outfit and more like a carefully arranged temptation, one that the ballroom lights had chosen to reveal.
After her alluring attire, it was the glitter of her earrings that first caught his eye, drawing him closer. A disappointment. Nothing but fancy paste.
But then he saw the ring.
Aye.
That was something else.
A stone with considerable value . Far too tempting. And far too easy.
It wouldn’t be staying proudly displayed on her finger for long. Of that, he had already made up his mind.
So his attention was truly divided. Part of him admired her sleek, graceful figure. But his real attention lay elsewhere, waiting patiently for the smallest opening to relieve her finger of the ring she wore with such trusting abandon.
⸻
Eventually they continued their exploration of the gardens. Rhys fell behind every now and then, lingering just long enough to watch Ginny.
Her attire was impossibly fetching, every graceful movement setting the satin softly caressing her form.
But it was her jewelry that continually drew his eye. The rhinestone earrings were disappointing, mere imitation glitter swaying against her neck. The sapphire ring was different—it gleamed whenever her hand caught the light, a far more tempting prize.
They came upon a quiet pond and settled onto a weathered wooden bench, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Two swans drifted lazily toward them, their long necks curving with effortless elegance, perhaps attracted by the glimmer of Ginny’s sparkling jewels.
Rhys withdrew a silver flask from his pocket and lit another cigarette.
“Just a sip,” he coaxed.
Ginny smiled uncertainly. She lifted the flask beneath her nose, her long eyelashes fluttering as she caught the sharp scent. After a moment she took the smallest sip imaginable. The spirit burned immediately, and she laughed, handing it back. As she did, the sapphire flashed brilliantly in the fading light, almost as though the stone itself disapproved of what had just touched its mistress’s lips.
Still laughing, Ginny wandered toward the edge of the pond. The swans glided closer, hopeful for some forgotten morsel. She reached down toward the water, the sapphire sparkling once more before her fingers disappeared beneath the surface.
Behind her, Rhys was already on his feet, instinctually sensing the time had finally come.
He slipped a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and crossed the short distance between them.
But by the time he reached her, Ginny had anticipated him. She had already opened her little satin purse, withdrawn a delicate silk handkerchief of her own, and was gently drying her fingers.
In an instant, Rhys watched another opportunity dissolve. The earrings still danced untouched against her neck. The sapphire remained securely upon her finger. Even a wet hand—an excuse almost too perfect to ignore—had been denied him by Ginny’s innocent preparedness.
Rhys smiled politely, folding his unused handkerchief back into his pocket.
He offered her his arm instead.
Ginny accepted it without hesitation, and together they skirted the pond before wandering deeper into the moonlit gardens, the sapphire still resting securely upon her finger.
________
Farther beyond the gardens, where the trees grew thicker, they found the statue.
A weathered marble Cupid stood alone beneath the moonlight.
One tiny wing had been chipped away by decades of rain. His bow remained raised, frozen forever toward some invisible target.
The old Cupid stood alone at the far edge of the garden, pale marble beneath the moonlight.
Ginny stopped before him.
“Poor little fellow,” she murmured.
Rhys glanced at the weathered statue.
“Poor?”
“He looks as though he has forgotten where to aim.”
Rhys smiled.
“Perhaps he never misses.”
Ginny turned toward him.
“Because Cupid is supposed to be harmless.”
“Is he?”
“He is a child.
“A child with a bow.”
She laughed.
“You make everything sound dangerous.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I make everything sound interesting.”
Ginny studied the statue again.
“I think he looks lonely.”
“Perhaps he is waiting.”
“For what?”
Rhys looked at the marble figure.
“For someone to notice him.”
Ginny smiled.
“That was almost romantic.”
“Almost?”
“You keep falling just short.”
“Perhaps I enjoy the challenge.”
Then Ginny noticed the nest.
“Oh.”
She pointed toward Cupid’s raised arrow.
“Look.”
Rhys followed her gaze.
A small bird’s nest rested at the very tip of the stone arrow, balanced impossibly above the garden.
“How extraordinary,” Ginny whispered.
“A strange place to build a home.”
“Perhaps the bird liked the view.”
Rhys looked at her.
“Perhaps.”
“I wonder if there are eggs inside.”
Ginny stepped closer, then hesitated.
“No. We shouldn’t disturb it.”
Rhys watched her expression.
That was the thing he was quickly learning about Ginny.
She never looked at the world expecting harm.
She looked at it expecting wonder.
“Only a glance,” he said softly.
She smiled.
“You are very persuasive.”
“I have been told.”
“And yet I still do not know whether that is a compliment.”
“It depends who is saying it.”
Ginny laughed.
Rhys offered his hand.
“Careful.”
She accepted it without hesitation.
The moment was almost painfully simple.
A girl.
A garden.
A forgotten statue.
A young man helping her reach something beautiful.
Ginny stepped onto the pedestal and stretched toward the nest.
As he helped her onto the pedestal beneath the Cupid statue, Rhys held her sleek, shimmering arm gently to steady her.
Ginny thought only of the nest above her.
The moonlight caught the sapphire on her other hand, the stone flashing briefly against the weathered marble.
Rhys noticed.
Of course he noticed.
To Ginny, it was merely the hand of someone reaching toward a bird’s nest — trusting, curious, unaware.
To Rhys, it was something else entirely.
She stretched upward, carefully trying not to disturb the tiny nest balanced on Cupid’s arrow.
“Can you see anything?” he asked.
“Only broken shells,” she replied. “They have already gone.”
Her attention remained fixed above her.
She never looked down.
She never questioned why his hand remained so close.
The evening had taught her that he was thoughtful, gentle, and kind.
And that was the very thing that made what happened next possible.
For a moment, Rhys looked at the ring resting on her finger — the old sapphire surrounded by diamonds, glowing softly beneath the moon.
A beautiful thing.
A trusting thing.
As she stretched her hand upward to tip the little nest from the arrow’s point, his attention never left the opportunity presented to him.
While she was distracted by the fragile bundle of twigs above, his fingers moved quietly, whispering down the satin sleeve of her other arm — not hurried, not uncertain, but with the calm assurance of someone who had practiced patience more than speed.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to sound like concern.
With his free hand, he gently took her finger, almost as though steadying her balance. Then, beneath the cover of the garden’s shadows, he began the meticulous work of freeing the glittering ring from where it rested.
A slight smile touched his lips.
Not from triumph.
From the satisfaction of a task performed with perfect timing.
The ring, so carelessly trusted to remain where it had been placed, yielded little by little beneath his careful fingers.
Totally unaware, She smiled as she looked toward the nest.
“There is nothing left,” she said softly.
“No,” Rhys murmured.
His voice was quiet.
“Nothing left.”
She laughed, unaware of the second meaning hidden in his words.
When she turned back toward him, he was still the same charming young man who had walked with her through the gardens.
The same person she believed she had met that evening.
Only the secret between them had changed.
The sapphire ring that had drawn so many admiring glances that evening was no longer hers to wear… nor would it ever grace her finger again.
“Just broken shells,” she said again.
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
Rhys smiled.
“Then perhaps the nest has given us exactly what it intended.”
Ginny laughed.
“You really do make everything sound mysterious.”
“Perhaps life is.”
He helped her down from the pedestal, his fingers brushing where they need not have. She should have noticed the presumption of it, but instead she felt only the strange little flutter his touch left behind.
“There.”
Before stepping away, Rhys reached up toward the little nest resting on Cupid’s arrow.
“Best leave it as we found it,” he said.
Ginny smiled.
“You are very considerate.”
“Sometimes.”
He carefully adjusted the small nest, restoring it to its original position. The gesture looked innocent enough — the final act of a gentleman helping to protect something fragile.
Ginny watched with quiet admiration.
What she did not see was her sapphire ring being dropped inside among the twigs and broken shells.
The sapphire ring rested there now, tucked away where no one would think to look.
Rhys lowered his hand and stepped back.
“There,” he repeated.
The nest looked untouched.
The statue looked unchanged.
Only Ginny had no idea that the evening had changed forever.
“My hero,” Ginny said warmly.
She took his hand.
“You deserve a reward.”
Rhys looked amused.
“For helping you discover an empty nest?”
“For being thoughtful.”
He bowed slightly.
“The pleasure was all mine.”
Ginny laughed as they walked back toward the lights of the reception.
Behind them, Cupid remained beneath the moon.
His bow still raised.
His arrow still pointed.
And the little nest remained exactly where it had always been — a perfect hiding place for a secret no one would think to look for.
⸻
He offered his hand as they stepped away from the Cupid statue, the garden shadows falling behind them.
“Come,” he whispered. “One last dance.”
Before she could answer, he swept her gently into his arms, lifting her slippery figure just enough to make her laugh — a small, surprised sound that vanished into the quiet of the night. For a moment she forgot the empty nest, the moonlit garden, and the strange little adventure that had brought them there.
He carried her back toward the warmth of the house as though she weighed nothing at all.
Inside, the orchestra had begun the final slow number of the evening. The guests had thinned, the lights had softened, and the polished floor reflected the glow of the chandeliers.
When the music began, he held her close.
Her cheek rested against him as they moved together, her sapphire ring absent from her thoughts because his attention made her feel treasured. She smiled, unaware that the same hands that guided her through the dance had already taken away the one thing everyone had admired upon her hand that evening.
_____
Near midnight, before the announcement came, Ginny and Rhys had withdrawn to a quieter corner of the room, half-hidden from the whirl of the reception. The music softened there, the laughter of the other guests fading into a distant murmur.
She stood close beside him, her voice lowered as they spoke of nothing particularly important — the sort of small, intimate conversation that mattered only because of who shared it.
The bronze satin blouse she wore shimmered beneath the lights, its smooth baronet fabric catching every movement like liquid metal. The high ruffled collar framed her face with a graceful old-fashioned elegance, while the cascading ruffle down the front moved softly whenever she turned toward him. Her black sequin skirt flowed around her like a dark river scattered with tiny stars, each step sending fleeting flashes across the polished floor.
And then there were her earrings — long, extravagant rhinestone drops that swayed with every slight movement of her head, catching the chandelier light in little bursts of silver brilliance. They were almost impossibly bright, the sort of jewelry meant to be noticed.
As he half listened to Ginny prattling on, Rhys’s fingers drifted lightly through her hair, he forced himself to suppress the almost instinctive urge to lift them from her ears. It would have been laughably easy. Ginny scarcely seemed aware of how close he was, trusting him without the slightest reservation.
A pity they were imitation stones. Rhys suspected she owned the genuine article. Had she worn those with the sapphire ring, the evening might have proved even more rewarding.
Rhys smiled to himself as she laughed softly at something she had said, and for a moment the crowded reception seemed to melt away.
There was only the two of them, tucked into their quiet corner beneath the room’s warm golden glow.
Him. Ginny. And the teasing sway of her earrings, glimmering each time she turned her head, as though determined to keep drawing him closer.
Then, near midnight, Ginny’s ride was announced. She stepped into his arms one last time, and Rhys held her close, his hands gliding gently along the sleek satin that traced her figure. Every touch was measured, every reassuring gesture another quiet stroke of the illusion he had so carefully created.
She rested against him without a trace of doubt, trusting the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his smile, and the gentleman he had allowed her to see.
By the time they parted, she was smiling up at him, her earrings still glittering innocently in the light — untouched, unlike the ring that had shared their journey through the evening, only to disappear before the night was over. She looked at him with complete confidence, never suspecting that the man who had held her so tenderly was the same man who had already taken what she treasured most.
The spell was broken.
She looked disappointed.
“I suppose that means I must leave.
“Unfortunately.”
“You say that as though you are the victim.”
“I am.”
“Of what?”
“An enjoyable evening ending too soon.”
Ginny smiled.
“That was almost charming.”
“Only almost?”
“You are improving.”
“Then there is hope.”
She took his hand.
“Thank you, Rhys.”
“For what?”
“For making an ordinary reception rather unforgettable.”
He smiled, his eyes lingering on her long-nailed ringless fingers resting over her heart, pressing gently into the rich, sleek satin.
When he spoke, there was no deception in his voice.
“The pleasure was all mine.”
She fell into his arms and hugged Rhys with a warmth that seemed to carry her whole heart into the moment, then kissed his cheek.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Ginny.”
She walked away toward the waiting limousine without looking back.
At the car door, she turned once more and blew him a kiss.
Rhys remained beneath the garden lights, watching her disappear into the backseat of the limousine. Before the chauffeur had even closed the door, his attention had already moved on. Ginny had never held his interest as a young lady — only as innocence, a weakness, an opportunity waiting to be exploited.
Someone who should have known better than to wear a ring like that where wandering eyes could find it.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled a slow stream of smoke. His thoughts darted back to the small bird’s nest resting upon Cupid’s arrow — trusting his little secret had remained undisturbed.
He turned toward the garden to find out.
_______
The moon shone quietly over the old stone Cupid.
And for a moment, as clouds drifted past and the moonlight faded in and out, the little marble figure seemed almost to be smiling cunningly — as if it alone knew what had truly been left behind inside the bird’s nest.
Rhys stepped closer.
The nest was exactly as he had left it.
He reached in and retrieved the ring, holding it briefly beneath the moonlight. Not with triumph. Not with surprise.
Only with the quiet satisfaction of a man reclaiming something he had patiently maneuvered into his possession.
He pulled out his flask and took a long pull, savoring the satisfaction of a little deception perfectly played.
_______
Then he slipped it away.
For a moment, he stood beneath the old stone Cupid, the moonlight catching the faintest trace of a smile upon his face.
Then he turned and walked deeper into the gardens, leaving behind the music, the laughter, and the glowing windows of the reception.
By the time anyone thought to look for him, Rhys had already vanished into the darkness.
The moon shone quietly over Cupid once more — the little marble figure watching over the empty nest, as if it alone knew what had truly been taken that night.
Fini
Time again for some fake stuff 😄
----
Do you feel "betrayed" when (if) you found out a photo was an Artificial "photo"... are we getting used to being "lied" too.
Things are likely to become yet more complex as use of artificial intelligence by artists becomes more widespread, and as the machines get better at producing creative works, further blurring the distinction between artwork that is made by a human and that made by a computer.
(NOTE: on purpose I posted this also in "normal" portrait groups to get some reactions)
developers.mews.com/why-ai-lie-and-what-we-can-learn-from...
-----------------------
HIT THE 'L' KEY FOR A BETTER VIEW! Thanks for the favs and comments. Much Appreciated.
*********************
All of my photographs are under copyright ©. None of these photographs may be reproduced and/or used in any way without my permission.
© VanveenJF Photography
"Pentagon Turns to Silicon Valley for Edge in Artificial Intelligence" by JOHN MARKOFF via NYT t.co/b3lRJHqwzT (via Twitter twitter.com/felipemassone/status/730561378319253504)