(cache)Slop Score

Less slop More slop

google/gemma-3-4b-it

85.2

google/gemini-2.5-flash

77.6

google/gemma-3-12b-it

70.6

google/gemma-3-27b-it

69.5

deepseek/deepseek-r1

67.9

qwen/qwen3-4b

62.2

z-ai/glm-4.5

59.9

inclusionai/ling-1t

56.2

mistralai/mistral-nemo

54.4

deepseek/deepseek-v3.2-exp

54.2

mistralai/Mistral-Small-3.2-24B-Instruct-2506

52.7

meta-llama/llama-4-maverick

49.2

openai/chatgpt-4o-latest

47.7

openai/gpt-5-nano

34.1

openai/o3

31.8

openrouter/polaris-alpha

30.8

claude-sonnet-4-20250514

27.3

openai/gpt-5-mini

26.3

moonshotai/kimi-k2

23.7

sam-paech/gemma-3-27b-it-antislop

20.8

claude-sonnet-4-5

19.5

moonshotai/kimi-k2-0905

18.3

human-baseline

10.4

google/gemma-3-4b-it

Writing Style

Lexical Diversity

Sample Info

Slop Word Hits?

Matches to a precompiled slop list produced with the slop-forensics toolkit. The list identifies words that are over-represented in LLM outputs compared to human writing, computed from 10 models' outputs on essay & creative writing prompts. View slop list

silas (293)unsettling (232)elias (142)profound (140)subtly (134)meticulously (126)relentless (120)scent (96)flicker (84)echoes (84)

Slop Trigram Hits?

Matches to a precompiled slop trigram list produced with the slop-forensics toolkit. The list identifies 3-word phrases that are over-represented in LLM outputs compared to human writing, computed from 10 models' outputs on essay & creative writing prompts. View trigram list

something else something (11)small intricately carved (9)intricately carved wooden (9)faint almost imperceptible (7)something else entirely (7)young woman named (6)air hung thick (5)dust motes danced (4)resonated deep within (4)voice barely audible (4)

Top Over-represented Words?

Words that occur more frequently in this text than in typical human-authored text (based on wordfreq baseline).

elara 30212.12×aethelred 10697.47×serendip 8069.72×unsettlingly 6574.89×shrieker 5261.39×chronal 2716.31×shriekers 2448.60×veridian 2354.81×somnus 2317.45×silas 2289.20×

Top Over-represented Trigrams?

3-word phrases that occur more frequently in this text than in typical human-authored text (based on human baseline corpus).

continued fall washing 411.96×fall washing away 260.91×flicker something akin 219.71×force physical blow 164.78×rain continues fall 151.05×hammered corrugated iron 137.32×rain hammered corrugated 137.32×knew chilling certainty 137.32×almost imperceptible shift 123.59×small intricately carved 123.59×

Not-x-but-y Patterns

NovaChem wasn't just dumping waste. They were actively *covering* it, spreading it with specialized equipment, claiming it was "soil enrichment.

His abilities weren't a gift; they were a symptom of a much larger, more dangerous problem.

He discovered a horrifying truth: NovaChem wasn't just dumping waste; they were deliberately experimenting with it, attempting to weaponize the radioactive compounds. They were trying to create a super-soldier, a bio-weapon, and Reginald, inadvertently, was their test subject.

It wasn't power he truly desired; it was simply a way to use his strange, unwanted gift to keep the city - and himself - safe, one subtly disrupted electronic device and strategically placed discarded lobster tail at a time.

It wasn't a hurried email. It was a direct, unassuming message, a tiny digital declaration of absence sent to Mr.

It wasn't just the workload; it was the constant feeling of being scrutinized, of being judged.

It wasn't an attempt to justify my absence, to offer a detailed account of my illness. It was a declaration of boundaries.

It wasn't a triumphant feeling, not exactly. It was more like a quiet acceptance, a surrender to the need for self-preservation.

It wasn't a smile of defiance, not in the aggressive sense. It was a smile of quiet understanding, of recognizing that sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is to simply say, "No.

The silence wasn't a void; it was a space for healing, for reflection, and for the slow, deliberate process of rebuilding a life that truly mattered.

It wasn't simply watching paint dry; it was observing the unraveling of a tense silence, the slow, deliberate shedding of the sharp edges of our disagreement.

These weren't flaws, not really. They were evidence of the process, a record of the paint's journey, a testament to its slow, deliberate transformation.

I realized that watching the paint dry wasn't just about observing a physical change; it was about observing a shift within myself.

The paint wasn't doing all the work, of course. It was merely a catalyst, a focal point for something that was already happening, something that had begun the moment we'd started to disagree.

That true beauty wasn't about speed or spectacle, but about the quiet, unwavering commitment to a process.

Suddenly, a small, unfamiliar feeling surfaced - not regret, not sadness, but a kind of…acceptance.

It wasn't just the wall that was calming. It was the space between us, the space that had felt so brittle and strained just hours before.

The wall, now a solid, unremarkable beige, wasn't a symbol of victory, but a symbol of something far more profound - a shared moment of stillness, a quiet acknowledgment of the imperfections that make life, and relationships, truly beautiful.

The first sensation was not pain, not exactly. It was… awareness.

I strained, not physically, but with a desperate, internal effort, to recall anything - any sensation - that might offer a clue.

It wasn't the emotional turmoil of before, but a kind of cognitive self-recognition.

Not a physical movement, but a resonance.

It wasn't a conscious thought, not in the human sense, but a feeling - a profound, abiding sadness, mirroring her own.

I realized that my purpose, even in this strange, silent state, wasn't simply to be a witness, but to hold onto the echoes of his life, to preserve a fragment of his memory within my wooden frame.

The biggest challenge isn't the physical aspect - though the accumulated aches and pains are certainly tiresome. It's the emotional weight.

Perhaps the point isn't to *be* something, but to *remember* everything.

It wasn't just rain; it was a deluge, a biblical outpouring that seemed determined to wash the city away.

It wasn't just the weather; it was the atmosphere, the sheer, overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

Not just home, but also, in a small way, he'd connected with the shared humanity of the city, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was still room for kindness, for connection, for hope.

The sketches depicted not just plants and animals, but intricate rituals, symbols of protection, and what appeared to be… alterations.

The drawings weren't simply observations; they were instructions.

I began to understand, with a growing horror, that the rituals described in the journals weren't just theoretical exercises; they were real, and I was participating in them.

The cottage wasn't a repository of a vanished life; it was the seed of a new one, a life born from a carefully constructed delusion.

And as I adjusted the intricate bone needle in my hand, preparing for the next ritual, I realized that the true mystery wasn't how I started; it was where I was going.

The end wasn't an endpoint, but a transformation, a shedding of the old self, a merging with the ancient, whispering heart of the forest.

It wasn't a dramatic unraveling, no sudden dissolving of my form. It was a slow, insidious erosion of Leo's attention.

It wasn't directed at Leo, not really. It was directed at the *situation*.

It wasn't born of malice, but of a desperate, aching need to exist beyond the confines of Leo's fading attention.

It wasn't destructive, not in the way a collapsing building might be. It was…selective.

Not in a dramatic explosion, but in a gradual fading, a slow retraction of my being until I was no longer a presence in Leo's life.

It wasn't a predatory attraction, not initially. It was the quiet, compelling sadness of a lost soul he recognized in himself.

He looked at Clara, her face illuminated by the firelight, and saw not a potential subject for his art, but a carefully constructed trap.

Time has become a viscous, grey sludge, measured not in days or weeks, but in the shifting patterns of their moods, the subtle variations in the shared silence, the increasingly desperate attempts to fill the void that stretches between us.

Not in a dramatic, attention-seeking way, but a quiet, deliberate surrender.

This cell isn't just a physical prison; it's a prison of the mind, a confinement of the spirit.

I look at them, at these three strangers who are now my eternal companions, and I realize that our shared fate isn't about the crime I committed or the injustice of my sentence. It's about the shared burden of facing the infinite, the crushing weight of an existence devoid of purpose, of hope, of anything beyond the confines of this cold, grey cell.

Not just stopped, but remained frozen mid-flap, suspended in the air, a feathered statue against the grey backdrop.

The rule wasn't about being completely invisible to *everyone*. It was about being unobserved *in the moment* of activation.

The realization wasn't a triumphant victory, but a quiet acceptance.

My power wasn't about grand manipulations or rewriting history. It was about the immediate, instinctive response to a need, a moment of vulnerability, a desperate plea for connection.

It was a subtle, localized distortion, a momentary ripple in the fabric of time, triggered not by will, but by empathy.

Not a biting, elemental cold, but a damp, persistent chill that settled deep in your bones, mirroring the feeling that had been clinging to Silas Thorne for the last six months.

But the talking heads, the analysts, the prognosticators - they weren't interested in understanding. They were interested in outrage, in ratings, in crafting a narrative.

He'd realized that the problem wasn't a lack of communication; it was a fundamental misunderstanding of his process, a refusal to accept that heroism wasn't a neat, linear equation.

It wasn't a dramatic display of power. It was meticulously, deliberately, boring them.

It wasn't designed to harm anyone. It was simply… inconvenient.

He wasn't enjoying himself, not exactly. It was exhausting, a constant exercise in micro-management of the city's flow.

They weren't the sleek, silver saucers of Hollywood lore. They were…organic.

' They moved with a disconcerting grace, a fluidity that defied gravity, and they communicated not with sound, but with shifting patterns of colour in their exoskeletons.

It wasn't a gesture of friendship. It was an invitation.

A jolt, not of electricity, but of something far more primal, ripped through me.

It wasn't painful, not precisely, but profoundly unsettling.

Not the gentle tremor I'd felt before, but a deep, guttural shudder that threatened to tear the landscape apart.

It wasn't a simple gesture of peace. It was an act of profound, devastating aggression.

It wasn't about trust. It was about dominance.

Not with lasers or missiles, but with a slow, insidious corruption.

The lava field was erupting, not with molten rock, but with pulsating, violet growths - the same chitinous material as the Xylos, spreading outwards with alarming speed.

They're not just attacking us physically; they're integrating us into their collective.

The tremor I'd felt before wasn't a geological phenomenon. It was the Xylos probing, assessing, preparing to assimilate.

I traveled the world, not shouting warnings from rooftops, but weaving narratives.

It wasn't that I expected everyone to immediately embrace radical change. It was that the sheer scale of the indifference was staggering.

This isn't a theoretical discussion, folks. This is reality.

But this isn't about politics. This is about survival.

It is not intended to endorse or reflect my own views on the topic of immigration, Islam, or political discourse. It is a deliberately exaggerated portrayal for creative purposes only.

It wasn't a dance of diplomacy conducted over tea and strategically placed gifts. It was, fundamentally, the slow, grinding erosion of hope, the deliberate layering of responsibility upon the weary backs of the people, and the constant, suffocating weight of stone - both literal and metaphorical.

It wasn't about persuading; it was about controlling.

Each Stoneheart, radiating a unique type of energy, was tied to a specific region, and the ruling families - the Stonekeepers - were chosen not by merit or lineage, but by the Stoneheart they were bound to.

The Stonekeepers weren't interested in the welfare of the common folk. They were interested in the flow of power, the preservation of their families' influence, and, above all, the strategic advantage offered by their connection to the Stoneheart.

The people of Aethelgard weren't simply subjects; they were pawns in a game they didn't understand, let alone influence.

These powerful organizations - the Merchants' League, the Alchemists' Circle, the Mages' Conclave - held considerable sway, not through political power, but through economic leverage.

The Guilds weren't inherently malicious, but they were shrewd and self-serving, and they understood that appeasing the Stonekeepers - and, by extension, the Throne - was often the most practical path to continued prosperity.

The problem wasn't simply a lack of representation; it was the fundamental corruption of the system.

The people of Aethelgard had learned to navigate this treacherous landscape, not through grand acts of rebellion, but through a careful cultivation of survival.

The weight of stone was not just physical; it was a psychic burden, a constant reminder of the compromises made, the hopes extinguished, and the relentless, inescapable reality that in Aethelgard, politics wasn't a profession; it was a sentence.

It wasn't a gentle, cleansing rain; it was a gritty, metallic rain that clung to my skin and seemed to seep into my bones.

Not with a dramatic flourish, not with a booming voice or a skeletal grin, but with a quiet, almost apologetic presence.

It wasn't a noble endeavor, I realize now. It was simply a distraction, a way to fill the seven hours with something other than the suffocating certainty of my demise.

They weren't tormentors; they were simply messengers. It was the knowledge of their presence that fueled the panic, the desperation, the madness.

This time, it doesn't taste like ash. It tastes like peace.

Using a series of geometric transformations, she deciphered a series of coordinates - not to a location, but to a date and time.

It wasn't a sharp, acidic rain, like it was in the lower districts, but a slow, clinging dampness that coated everything in a film of melancholy.

Veridia wasn't built on industry or innovation; it was built on Time Loans.

The Chronarium, a colossal obsidian structure that dominated the skyline, wasn't a temple of worship, but a monument to a terrifying bargain.

It wasn't a role I relished, but it was a necessary one.

It wasn't just the downpour, or the late hour, or even the sickly sweet smell of stale coffee and frying bacon that hung heavy in the air. It was her.

Not in the literal sense of a child tumbling from a chair, but from a higher, more ethereal plane.

The 'heaven' she referred to wasn't a place of worship or salvation, but a state of being, a realm of pure energy and unbound consciousness.

It wasn't a fear I recognized, not the sharp, desperate terror of a sudden danger. This was a slow-burning, consuming certainty, a knowledge that had seeped into my bones over weeks, months, perhaps even years, until it had become a fundamental part of my being.

"It's not just consuming," he wrote. "It's mimicking.

It wasn't a pleasant scent, not like wildflowers or ripe fruit. It was the smell of something fundamentally wrong, of decomposition and imitation.

What is Slop Score?

Slop Score is a leaderboard and analysis tool for computing how much a given text looks/smells like AI "slop". It looks specifically at words and patterns that occur more frequently in AI text than in human text.

Find the source code here: https://github.com/sam-paech/slop-score

Not an AI Detector!

This tool works differently than most AI detectors: It looks for glaringly over-used patterns, rather than trying to classify the text as AI or human. It will detect words and phrases that smell of AI, but it won't reliably help you avoid AI detection. The best way to avoid AI detectors is to write in your own words.

Tips for the Analysis Tool

Analysis works best on several pieces of writing on different topics. The more the better! It will still work on a single story or essay, but the results will be skewed by the topic.
The analysis is optimised for creative writing and essays. It may work for other domains, but will likely under-report slop.

Slop Score Calculation

The Slop Score is a weighted composite metric designed to detect AI-generated text patterns:

60% - Slop Words: Frequency of individual words that appear unnaturally often in LLM outputs
25% - Not-x-but-y Patterns: Frequency of contrast patterns like "not just X, but Y" which are overused by AI
15% - Slop Trigrams: Frequency of 3-word phrases that appear unnaturally often in LLM outputs

Slop Lists

The slop word and trigram lists are produced using the slop-forensics toolkit. This tool identifies words and n-grams that are statistically over-represented in LLM outputs compared to human writing.

The lists were computed by analyzing outputs from 10 different language models on a selection of essay and creative writing prompts, then comparing them against human-authored text.

View the lists: Slop Words | Slop Trigrams

Over-represented Words & Trigrams

These sections show words and phrases that occur more frequently in the analyzed text than in typical human writing, based on:

Words: Compared against the wordfreq baseline (a large corpus of human language)
Trigrams: Compared against a human baseline corpus of essays and creative writing

Additional Metrics

The tool also provides various writing style metrics including lexical diversity (MATTR-500), vocabulary level (Flesch-Kincaid), sentence and paragraph length, and dialogue frequency to give a comprehensive view of the text's characteristics.

Leaderboard

The leaderboard shows how different language models score on the Slop metric, based on their outputs from a standardized set of prompts. Lower scores indicate more human-like writing patterns.

Slop Score

google/gemma-3-4b-it

Writing Style

Lexical Diversity

Sample Info

Slop Word Hits?

Slop Trigram Hits?

Top Over-represented Words?

Top Over-represented Trigrams?

Not-x-but-y Patterns

Detailed Report

How does this work?

What is Slop Score?

Not an AI Detector!

Tips for the Analysis Tool

Slop Score Calculation

Slop Lists

Over-represented Words & Trigrams

Additional Metrics

Leaderboard