Human vs. AI writer

You have probably seen “human vs. AI” recognition tests. The question: can a human reader tell a story written by a fellow human writer from a story written by AI?

One example is on Mark Lawrence’s blog.

We are running yet another test like that. Would you want to be one of the judges? The six stories below are flash fiction, suitable for this kind of test. They all have the same prompt: an approximately 250-word story about Romeo and Juliet. At least one of the stories is written by AI. At least one of them is written by a human. Please make a selection in the poll below and comment as well. And make history.

A bonus. Is the pic above AI- or humanly-generated? Why?

Story 1.

The Bells of Moscow Wept

In the heart of Moscow, beneath the shadow of the Kremlin’s rising towers and the gilded domes of new cathedrals, two families held bitter enmity. The boyars of the Morozov clan and the princely Volkov line had quarreled for generations, their feud nourished by land, pride, and whispers at court.

Roman Morozov, eldest son of his house, was known for his courage on the battlefield and his sharp tongue before the tsar’s officials. Julietta Volkova, daughter of the rival line, lived in seclusion, her beauty shielded by veils and guarded by stern retainers. Yet one winter evening, in the candlelit halls of a wedding feast, their eyes met across the long table of roasted swan and honeyed mead.

In that moment, Moscow itself seemed to vanish. Words were stolen in shadows, and their hands brushed by the frozen Moskva River. But in Ivan’s Russia, where suspicion meant death and every noble’s move was watched by the Oprichnina, their love was perilous.

When Julietta’s marriage was pledged to an aging ally of the tsar, Romei sought to spirit her away through the snowbound forests. They planned their flight at dawn, yet betrayal struck. Black-cloaked riders of the Oprichniki, informed by treachery, descended upon them.

Roman fought fiercely, but no blade could cut through fate. Wounded, he embraced Julietta one last time. She, refusing to be taken, pressed a dagger to her breast. Their bodies lay entwined in the snow, crimson melting into white, while distant bells tolled for matins in a city already steeped in blood.

Story 2

Star-Crossed Stupidity

Romeo Montague swiped right on Juliet Capulet’s profile, her bio reading, “13, loves balconies, hates family feuds.” Their DMs sparked like a Verona wildfire—emojis, bad poetry, and all. “Meet me at the masquerade,” she texted, “I’ll be the one in the sparkly mask.” Romeo, ever the romantic, showed up in a borrowed jester costume, jingling embarrassingly with every step. Their first dance was magical—until Juliet’s cousin Tybalt tripped Romeo, sending him face-first into a tray of meatballs. “Capulet scum!” Tybalt sneered, but Juliet yanked Romeo into a broom closet. “You’re cute when you’re saucy,” she giggled, wiping marinara off his nose. They vowed to marry, despite their families’ beef, which was mostly about who made better spaghetti.

Friar Laurence, a sketchy officiant with a side hustle in love potions, wed them in secret. “This’ll end badly,” he muttered, pocketing their gold. It did. Romeo’s buddy Mercutio got into a TikTok dance-off with Tybalt, which ended in a sword fight—Mercutio’s last twerk was tragic. Romeo, in a rage, yeeted Tybalt into the next life, earning a banishment to Mantua.

Juliet, desperate, chugged a potion to fake her death. Romeo, offline and clueless, found her “corpse” and chugged poison himself, sobbing, “No Wi-Fi in death!” Juliet woke, saw his body, and daggered herself, muttering, “Typical.” Their families, finding the teens dead, cried over their pointless feud, but still argued over who’d cater the funeral.

Story 3

The Cryptic Future

The crypt hums with hidden engines. Juliet lies inside a glass coffin, her skin luminous beneath the starlit glow of Verona’s artificial sky. Romeo presses his palm to the barrier, whispering her name like a prayer, like a curse.

The vial in his hand burns. He drinks. The poison is quick—nanites unraveling him from the inside. He collapses to his knees, his last sight her stillness, her unreachable beauty.

And then the coffin exhales. The seal hisses open. Juliet stirs, her eyes fluttering like a dawn he thought he’d never see.

“Romeo?” she breathes, and gathers him close.

But he is fading, his lips already grey. She kisses him, desperate, and the nanites leap from his bloodstream into hers. Pain rips through her chest, but she clings to him, refusing to let go.

In one future, they fall together, side by side, bodies cooling in a chamber of light. Verona remembers their tragedy as data, archived in its endless memory banks.

In another, Juliet survives. The nanites stabilize her, rewriting her cells while Romeo’s body stills. She rises unsteadily, surrounded by the low thrum of machinery, forever marked by the ghost of his touch.

Dead and alive, the story fractures. Somewhere, they rest in peace. Elsewhere, she wanders alone through a city of steel and sorrow, searching for echoes of his voice in the circuitry of the stars.

Every version ends with longing. None with enough time.

Story 4

Et tu?

Juliet zips her leather jacket and kickstarts her Harley. A cough, then nothing.

No gas.

“Oh, cruel fate!” She fights tears. Five minutes until THE DATE—the man with the brilliant smile, curly black hair, bedroom eyes—the man of her dreams that she would now meet after two passionate weeks of wooing on PritheeHither.com.

Five minutes until their date at Café Thisbe—she pulls out her phone, bobbles, drops it on the cobblestones.

She dismounts, grabs the device, shakes shattered glass, presses an impotent button. “The gods HATE me!”

Her bicycle—surely he’ll wait at the Café.

Twenty frantic minutes later, she drops the bike at the door and rushes in. She sees only the usual characters. She grasps the bartender’s arm.

“Orlando, was Petruccio here?”

“Skinny guy, black hair, eye makeup?”

“Eye makeup?”

“Looked like liner, ashy stuff on the lids… Toothy smile. He hung out, then went off with Kate.” He shrugs. “What do guys see in that shrew?”

She turns away.

He calls, “Hey, stay for the lute player, eh?”

She staggers out the door just as a man trips over her bike. “Oh, gods—are you okay?” she asks the sprawled figure.

He sits up. In the light from the doorway, his spiky blond hair dribbles blood. His lute lies broken atop her handlebar. His eyes—blessedly devoid of makeup—find hers, and hold.

She kneels, heart tripping.

His hand gently touches her face. “I’m Romeo. And you?”

“Juliet,” she whispers. 

Story 5

Stone Dust

Romeo lingers by the crypt door, candle trembling in his hand. The air smells of wilted flowers and stone dust, the kind of silence that presses on the ribs. He whispers her name as if it could call her back, as if syllables could rearrange fate.

Juliet lies still, her lips parted in the shape of unfinished words. He imagines what she would have said if she had woken just moments earlier: Wait. Hold on. Live. The vial slips from his fingers, empty, its poison already burning in his chest.

Yet in that dim second before the blackness settles, her lashes flutter. She breathes. His heart leaps with terrible joy. She sees him—his mouth red with the drink, his hands cold.

“Romeo?” she croaks, voice fragile as spun glass.

He tries to answer, but his tongue falters. Only a rasp escapes. His knees buckle. She clutches at him, but he is already heavier, slipping from her arms.

“Too soon,” she whispers, pressing her lips to his. His skin is cooling, yet she lingers, trying to share her warmth, as if her kiss could restart his heart.

The torch sputters. Outside, dawn begins to bleed over Verona. The birds sing, unaware of who is leaving and who is left behind.

Juliet stays beside him, rocking gently, her tears falling onto his closed eyes.

Love had come like a storm, swift and blinding. Now she waits in its silence, broken, unwilling to rise.

Story 6

Juliet Balcony

Romeo stands on his second-floor condo balcony, looking at the courtyard below. It’s a so-called Juliet balcony, which means it’s a fake one. An architectural feature with a fake romantic name. It’s just a door and the railings. Nothing else. Nothing like their first balcony.

His life is fake now. Lonely, sad, painful.

Juliet lies on the ground below, face up. She’s whispering, but he can’t hear her. She’s smiling. She beckons him. He missed her badly. He must join her.

He sighs. No, it’s not his Juliet. She died the year before and was buried. She died in her sleep. As her death certificate claims, from total organ failure. What he sees now is just a pile of leaves ruffled by the wind, burned by the sun.

They say he must wait for the natural end. But what if that end never comes? Romeo is not a waiting type. He’s a man of action. A great-grandfather of action. He’s determined to succeed. He convinced Juliet to marry him 445 years ago. His friends had said it would be impossible, too.

He’s going to join her, or will die trying. Determined people live longer. That’s a scientific fact. Juliet was determined, too. Determined to live.

Romeo’s pulling his body up. He’s close now. One more push, and they will be together again. And then Juliet descends, wraps him in her wings, and they soar together.

The poll: