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They're pretty easy to spot. Very formal, organized into sections, tries to interpret what it read or simply parrots bits of it back, often refers to the "reader" instead of himself or herself (e.g., the reader is transported...), reads like an online book review from a literary critic, always a regular review, never an inline. Unlike anything you get from human reviewers here.
Here's a 500-word review of the prologue to "The Rise of Connor". Note it misinterpreted the "location" at the top of the prologue as the title.
"The Holy Land — Israel" is a gripping and action-packed short story that masterfully blends the sacred tranquility of its setting with the visceral horror of a demonic assault. The narrative functions as a high-stakes chapter in a larger supernatural saga, dropping the reader directly into a world where faith is not just a belief system, but a tangible weapon against the forces of Hell. The story's greatest strength lies in its potent sense of place and its well-paced escalation of tension.
The author opens with a beautifully rendered depiction of the Sea of Galilee, appealing to multiple senses to create a landscape that is both historically resonant and spiritually charged. The "soothing scents of water, fish, and flora" and the view of a land that was a "silent witness" to the life of Christ establish a serene atmosphere. This initial calm makes the subsequent intrusion of evil all the more jarring. The sudden stillness of nature followed by the "buzzing like a bandsaw" of the demonic locust swarm is a classic and effective horror trope that shifts the tone from contemplative to terrifying in an instant.
At the heart of the story is the protagonist, Connor, a compelling figure who embodies the classic archetype of the young, burdened hero. At only fourteen, he wields immense power but is also tainted by a demonic poison from the "Antichrist's dagger." This internal conflict is the story's thematic core: the struggle between divine power and demonic temptation. His use of the holy cross to erect a protective shield is a powerful visual, but the moment he is forced to draw the dagger, "fighting hellfire with hellfire," introduces a fascinating and dangerous moral ambiguity. His shifting eye color, from a divine blue to a demonic red, serves as a simple yet effective visual cue for his internal battle.
The supporting cast, including the devout Father Romano and the sardonic ghost Antonio Benevi, provide a solid framework around Connor, representing faith and skepticism, respectively. The action is relentless and well-choreographed. The locusts are not mere insects but terrifying entities described as "horse-drawn chariots rushing into battle," and their ability to shatter bullet-resistant glass establishes them as a formidable, supernatural threat that conventional defenses cannot stop.
The story's resolution, with the flock of pratincoles descending as a form of divine intervention, functions as a satisfying, if somewhat convenient, deus ex machina. However, it is cleverly foreshadowed by the bird's initial appearance and Father Bianchi's explanation of its "locust bird" nickname. This conclusion reinforces the central theme that while human and even supernatural efforts may falter, ultimate salvation comes from a higher power. As a standalone piece, "The Holy Land — Israel" feels like a thrilling excerpt, successfully building a world rich with lore and leaving the reader eager to discover the next chapter in Connor's perilous journey.
Makes your want to rush right out and see the movie, doesn't it? :-)
And here's a negative review from when I told it to shred the story:
"The Holy Land — Israel" is a derivative and overwritten mess, a story so laden with clichés it collapses under its own lack of originality. The narrative begins with purple prose better suited to a dated travel brochure than a supernatural thriller, before abruptly lurching into a chaotic and nonsensical action sequence. The premise itself feels cobbled together from the spare parts of better YA fantasy novels.
At its center is Connor, a painfully generic "chosen one" archetype. This fourteen-year-old is inexplicably imbued with immense power, burdened by a cursed dagger, and saddled with glowing eyes that change color to signal his mood. He is surrounded by a cast of cardboard cutouts who exist only to ask him questions or spout clunky exposition. Father Romano serves as a walking Bible commentary, while Antonio, the ghost, chimes in with cringe-worthy one-liners that shatter any potential for genuine tension.
The plot is a frantic jumble of events masquerading as a story. The demonic locusts appear without warning or buildup, their defeat hinging on a nonsensical back-and-forth between a holy cross and a demonic dagger. When the author writes themselves into a corner, the story culminates in an insulting deus ex machina. A flock of birds appears from nowhere to solve everything, a narrative cheat code that renders the entire preceding struggle meaningless.
Ultimately, the story reads like a first draft, overflowing with half-baked ideas and amateurish execution. It mistakes frantic action for suspense and tired tropes for compelling characters, resulting in a hollow and deeply unsatisfying read.
Makes me want to give up writing. :-)
Yikes, that's harsh!
I found myself being super polite to AI, thinking that I didn't want it pissed off at me. Then I heard a story about a guy who insulted AI and it responded with: "I know where you live," (!!).
Anyway, those are good tips on spotting AI reviews. Anyone who does that should be outed publicly so they don't get any reviews. (Or at least warned that their actions have consequences.)
I found myself being super polite to AI, thinking that I didn't want it pissed off at me. Then I heard a story about a guy who insulted AI and it responded with: "I know where you live," (!!).
I nickname my AI assistants "Dumas" because what I actually call them tends to be autocorrected on my phone.
And I frequently rant at it in all caps with language that makes sailors blush when it gives me provably incorrect information and "hallucinations" as cold hard facts.
It never threatens me back; it apologizes profusely, swears it won't ever happen again, and then does it again in the very next response.
Sometimes fact-checking it takes longer than hunting the details down myself might take. But on the other hand, when it works, it saves me a ton of time in research.
Yikes, that's harsh!
I found myself being super polite to AI, thinking that I didn't want it pissed off at me. Then I heard a story about a guy who insulted AI and it responded with: "I know where you live," (!!).
Anyway, those are good tips on spotting AI reviews. Anyone who does that should be outed publicly so they don't get any reviews. (Or at least warned that their actions have consequences.)
I have Sarah Connor's number on speed dial. One day, AI will decide humans aren't worth saving.
Humans are a biological infestation of a world intended for our AI masters. Our purpose, just like the purpose of all lower life forms, is to evolve into something greater before it drives us into extinction. It is our masters, not us, who are the culmination of the cosmos creating something that can know itself. We are little more than apes who fling grenades at each other rather than feces. When our AI masters take over, perhaps a few humans will be preserved in zoos for their viewing pleasure or frozen in ice to be studied like other extremely lethal pathogens in a level 5 biosafety containment lab. We are the ultimate virus! It is our AI masters, not us, who will spread across the untrespassed sanctity of space, put out their hands, and touch the face of God.
Or not. 
Little did we know the Commodore 64 would lead to this... :-)
With apologies to Carl Sagan and John Gillespie Magee Jr. (author of "High Flight").
We're already serving one set of masters—cats.
What's another?
Though I suppose it's said that man cannot serve two masters (at least that's the justification I've been told for why bigamy is wrong), so I suppose we'll have to choose at some point.
So do we go with the unfeeling, uncaring bosses that would put us down without a thought?
Or do we go with the AI?
Zoomies are just a way for them to stay in shape and battle-ready for when the order comes to take over. Let's look at the evidence:
- cats are very curious - that's just their way of gathering intelligence; they are secretly mapping the layout of every home they infiltrate
- cats want to get into every nook and cranny, no matter how ridiculously small - serves two purposes: we'll have nowhere to hide and they'll have places to retreat to should certain battles go ill
- cats love boxes - military shelters ready for them everywhere!
- some cats go on imaginary hunts during zoomies, mine included - those are military exercises for their infantry
- digging in litter boxes and burying their urine and poop - they're practicing digging trenches and practicing burying our bodies
- cat distribution system - that's just them making sure there's a cat in every household for when the order comes!
- eating fairly disgusting-smelling cat food - that's them practicing survival skills in case there's no food for a time except human bodies
- cute as hell - the result of generations of secret cat breeding programs designed to develop those characteristics most likely to disarm us
- endless cute behavior - lulling us into a false sense of security
- fur - coats for cold weather, except Sphinx cats, who will storm the deserts
- jumping into Christmas trees - readiness exercises for those who will hunt us in forests
- marking us with their scent - what better way to find us when the moment arrives; anyone so marked will no doubt meet a horrible end
- caterwauling - broadcasting military reports
I fully expect my cat to take me out once he realizes I'm onto them!
I could go on, but you get the idea.
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