Genre storytelling carries a built-in contract: readers arrive with expectations. One of the key “rules” is to understand these expectations, to work with them, twist them, or break them with purpose. Neil Gaiman, in his Masterclass, highlights this dynamic. Genre is not a set of restrictions, but a shared language between writer and reader.
On a crowd-editing platform, I once described one of my stories containing a mysterious house. There were no ghosts, no shadows moving at the edge of vision, no whispers in the dark. A reader ranted at me, claiming I didn’t fulfill their expectations. To them, “haunted” implied a set of recognizable tropes, and the story had didn’t deliver. The critique wasn’t about content, but a broken promise.
Post-apocalyptic fiction holds on similar promises. Crumbling cities, fractured societies, roaming survivors, the lure of a cure, the desperate journey — these elements create the thematic and structural scaffolding of the genre. They ask enduring questions.
What happens when the systems that shape daily life disappear? When the conveniences, institutions, and routines that give structure are gone, what remains? In that silence, stripped of distractions, do people become more compassionate or more cruel? Do they band together for protection, or turn on one another for survival?
Tropes offer the framework for exploring these questions. The “safe house” offers a moment of vulnerability. The “traveling band” becomes a lens through which trust, loyalty, and human dynamics are tested. Even the possibility of a “cure” forces ethical dilemmas and exposes the depth of human hope or desperation.
In post-apocalyptic storytelling, the ruins are not the point. The people walking through them are. And within those ruins that the most revealing, unsettling, and meaningful human stories can be told.
When I first began writing, I was preoccupied with defining my genre. I never reached a definitive conclusion, but the process led me to study genre conventions more deeply—especially post-apocalyptic (PA) fiction, with its thematic clarity and recognizable structural patterns.
PA narratives often follow a familiar framework. There are foundational expectations, and beyond those, a set of recurring tropes that many stories employ—whether out of tradition or narrative necessity. Below is an examination of these patterns through a small, modern selection of works from both literature and film. This is not a “best of” list, but rather a personal frame of reference. With the exception of The Last of Us, these stories avoid zombies—an adjacent subgenre with its own distinct conventions.
Works considered: The Road Station Eleven The Way The Ancients Children of Men The Last of Us
(Note: I refer only to the film/TV adaptations of The Last of Us and Children of Men, not their original source material.)
Baseline Expectations Every PA narrative begins after an identifiable collapse. This event—whether political, biological, environmental, or technological—marks a distinct rupture between past and present. In some stories, the collapse is explained in detail (The Way, The Last of Us); in others, it remains vague or entirely unspoken (The Road). Regardless, the precipitating event is the foundation upon which the genre is built.
A second baseline is the persistent presence of the old world—its remnants and ruins. Crumbling infrastructure, obsolete technology, scavenged literature, and decaying cities appear across nearly all PA stories. These elements serve as more than setting; they allow the narrative to reflect on the excesses, values, and failures of our current world. The contrast between what was and what remains creates a kind of cultural estrangement, often evoking both nostalgia and critique.
Together, these two components—collapse and relics—form the minimum narrative architecture of PA fiction.
Common Tropes The Traveling Band A commonly used device in the genre is the journey: a group of characters traveling through a devastated landscape toward a defined destination. This structure serves several purposes. It provides narrative momentum and allows characters to encounter the full range of post-collapse society—its dangers, its ruins, and its rare moments of order. It also echoes older narrative traditions: pilgrimages, wartime marches, and epic quests.
In most cases, the journey becomes a test of character and endurance. Through this movement, the story explores survival, morality, and shifting interpersonal dynamics.
Examples: The Road, Station Eleven, The Way, The Last of Us, Children of Men
The Safe House Closely linked to the journey is the Safe House: a temporary refuge offering physical safety and mental reprieve. These moments often mark a turning point in the story. They allow for recovery, reflection, and sometimes revelation. The characters regroup, reassess, and prepare to continue. Dramatically, these spaces slow the pace and offer interior depth. The bunker in The Road, for instance, represents a brief return to comfort—highlighting how rare such moments have become.
Examples: The Road, The Way, Children of Men
The Cure The Cure appears where the apocalypse is tied to disease or biological transformation. It is often literal—a vial, a person, or a set of instructions that must be protected or delivered. It serves as both a plot device and an ethical question: What does it mean to save a world that no longer resembles the one that was lost?
This trope frequently intersects with both the traveling band and the safe house, adding layers of urgency and reinforcing themes of sacrifice, hope, and preservation.
Examples: The Way, The Last of Us, Children of Men
Recently, I’ve read several newly released post-apocalyptic novels, including The Ancients, Annihilation, and The Way by Cary Groner. The Way good read; a page-turning blend of familiar genre elements with original twists.
The novel follows Will Collins as he travels across the American Southwest, a region devastated by pandemics and the collapse of organized society. His companions are a raven and a cat… and he can speak with both. Early in the story, we learn that Will is attempting to reach California to deliver a potential cure for the pandemic.
One of the highest compliments I can give a novel is to describe it as a page-turner. While The Way doesn’t rely on the formulaic pacing of thrillers like The Da Vinci Code, I found it difficult to put down — particularly in the early chapters. Groner’s prose is immersive, drawing the reader into Will’s world. Ironically, as the plot escalates and the stakes increase, the narrative becomes somewhat less compelling. The quieter moments are more engaging than the action-driven sequences.
Two elements, in particular, set The Way apart:
Communication with Animals
Will’s ability to speak with animals lends a surreal-ness to the story. Rather than serving as a mere gimmick, the animal companions become fully realized characters. Their presence creates a sense of companionship within the traveling group, which evolves over time to include others — each with distinct roles and skills.
Integration of Buddhism
Will’s identity as a practicing Buddhist is central to both his character and the novel’s themes. Groner integrates Buddhist philosophy throughout the story, not as background detail, but as a structural and moral framework. Will’s commitment to nonviolence becomes his defining flaw — a significant challenge when survival requires force.
Like most post-apocalyptic fiction, The Way relies on certain well-established conventions: • Landscape of decaying infrastructure and societal ruins • Small band of survivors traveling toward a distant goal • “The Cure” that may save humanity • Safe, untouched house offering respite
Minor Critiques
A few plot elements are just too convenient. The talking raven, while a fun character, provides very helpful aerial and interspecies intelligence. A young girl with expert marksmanship conveniently joins the group just as Will’s pacifism becomes a liability. At one point, the group repairs a locomotive despite lacking any relevant expertise.
The Way is a strong post-apocalyptic novel. It is thoughtful, well-written, and unique its use of classic genre elements and the unique additions of interspecies communication and Buddhism. Recommended.
I usually begin my book reviews by sharing how I discovered the novel. I believed The Ancients by John Larison appeared on a list of top post-apocalyptic novels; however, I couldn’t find it on any such lists. Regardless, The Ancients stands out as one of the finest post-apocalyptic reads I’ve read.
The story introduces a solitary family living in the remnants of a tribal fishing village in a future world. While the exact setting isn’t specified, it may be the U.S. West Coast, set hundreds of years in the future. The narrative follows three siblings—Leerit, Maren, and Kushim—who are left alone after their parents disappear. Their journey across a treacherous wilderness in search of their community forms the emotional core of the novel.
The world itself emerges as a central character. Devastated by climate change, expanding deserts encroach upon the few habitable areas, and the oceans are depleted of fish, at least in the regions depicted. Subtle references to ancient, enigmatic structures suggest this dystopian landscape overlays our own collapsed society. I really liked the mentions of plastic harvesting and the elite’s reverence for plastic artifacts within the city.
A theme is the significance of storytelling and myth. In the absence of readily available paper, books, or digital media, knowledge is transmitted orally across generations—not merely for history or entertainment, but as essential survival guides, teaching skills like knot-tying or fishing protocols vital for enduring in this desolate world.
These elements collectively craft a realm steeped in myth and legend, complete with emperors, creation myths, and feudal systems. This mirrors common motifs in post-apocalyptic narratives, a topic I intend to explore in a future post.
Larison’s writing is exceptional, offering just the right amount of vivid description, authentic dialogue, and characters who evoke genuine empathy. Notably, he balances immersive world-building with enough exposition to keep readers grounded—a skill I deeply admire, especially as someone who grapples with this balance in my own short stories. This equilibrium between showing and telling is a hallmark of quality storytelling.
I highly recommend The Ancients. My only frustration was occasionally struggling to identify certain relics; for instance, large structures are described without clear identification, though the proximity of mountains to the coast led me to speculate about California. Perhaps a second reading would unveil these nuances more clearly. If so, challenge accepted.
I’m thrilled to announce that my short story, The Librarian of Truth, is featured in the latest issue of New Maps. This marks my second publication in New Maps, a quarterly journal showcasing short stories set in an age of limits.
I’m a longtime subscriber and fan of New Maps and appreciate the thoughtful, immersive fiction Nathanael curates. It’s an honor to have my work included.
The Librarian of Truth will also be part of my upcoming short story collection. It follows a librarian searching for answers at a Pennsylvania rest stop in the wake of the second wave. I hope you enjoy her journey!
I’ve previously written about my old-school, paper and bound books. When I first owned an iPad in the early 2010s, I read a lot of Kindle books. But patterns emerged; I retained little and wasn’t sure where I was in the book or chapter. Twenty pages or two hundred to the end? I almost never buy Kindle books anymore, opting for the tactile experience of proper books.
Actual books are fun to mark up with marginalia to note techniques I admire. I did this in my most recent version of The Stinging Fly, (“The Wrong Thing” by Keith Ridgway). I liked how Ridgway started the story and used it as a guide for my WIP. There are ways to do this with Kindle but it doesn’t resonate like words excitedly scribbled in the margins.
But not all physical books are good. I’ve been fooled multiple times now into ordering very low quality publications. The most recent one is this version of White Nights by Dostoevsky. I knew it was an issue the second I opened the Amazon package. It has this cheap cover and is oddly sized. Feels more like a pamphlet than an actual book.
Worse are the pages themselves. Oddly long with massive margins (1/3 of the page). Tiny print. I know little about the art and science of laying out print on the page, so I can’t fully express why this is done poorly… but neither can the people who cobbled this edition together.
Bad Page
And, similar to my experience reading on Kindle, the poor presentation carries over to the reading experience. I couldn’t get past 5 pages. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this cheap knockoff printing has fooled me. I’ve ordered (online, of course) at least 4 other books like this. Most of them have quickly ended up in the donation pile.
Part of my disappointment is the actual story, though. I was looking for another Russian classic, but didn’t want to invest months into a 1000 pager. White Nights and its svelte 51 pages. I thought I had read Dostoevsky before, but I don’t think I have. His writing, or this translation, didn’t land with me. So! Many! Exclamations! And the plot of a lovestruck fool doesn’t resonate with me like it does with others.
It’s amazing how the physical presentation of the story matters. My enjoyment of both Shopkeeping and The Creative Act were enhanced because of the care and quality of the physical book. Both have material covers, artfully arranged text, and thick pages, giving the words more weight. You can literally feel the care and craftsmanship put into each page.
I don’t know if White Nights would land with me if read in a different format. But the cheap packaging and terrible typography guaranteed I would not finish the novel. I wish I didn’t need multiple lessons on this topic, but perhaps this is what I need to make it stick. And internalize, as I get closer to putting out a book myself, how important the physical and typographic decisions matter.
I’ve previously mentioned my in-progress short story collection. The idea for “After the Second Wave” evolved from writing two short stories set in similar worlds, re-reading Ghostwritten, and the need to have a tangible target for my writing.
The project has had challenges. I knew, as a fledgling author, I needed help with the stories. Not creating them, but turning them into pieces others would enjoy. Hundreds of rejections (with nary a positive comment) forced me to get real help. I thought I could do it through peer sites (Scribophile) and one-off edits on Reedsy. But the continued rejections said otherwise.
After a frustrating false start, I found Jamie, my writing coach and Andrea, editor. And now the project has real momentum. Two narratives are complete; two additional ones will follow by March.
Next up are the handful of stories I wrote before working with Jamie. They need mass revisions. But, I know the characters and plot and can focus on the writing. Maybe 2 more by end of spring?
Then, onto the best part. The existing stories are set in the first few years of the Second Wave. I’m eager to explore a longer timeline and how our characters fare.
And this only covers the writing part. Tons of work ahead to assemble and publish a book. I’ll start work on publishing when a few more pieces are complete. Until then, the plan is to assemble 8-10 good stories, get 2-3 published on their own, and put together this bad boy.
In Part 1, I described my current Irish jag. Earlier in the year, I did an immersion in Japanese books and streams (also unintentional). The Japanese list:
Similar to the Irish immersion, the primary effect was a wish to visit Japan, a place I’ve never been. Crowded yet orderly Tokyo streets bathed in neon, misty shrines, long hikes up mountains and through prefectures, everything.
I am disoriented, though, after hearing and reading (translated) Japanese dialogue. While I love Murakami books I always found his dialogue strange. Like something out of bad 1950s movie. Lots of “Hey man,” or “… in a way of thinking”. This discussion on Reddit picks up examines the issue.
I know little regarding translation, but understand the translator matters. The odd or flat dialogue may be translator choices or the inherent difficulty in porting Japanese dialogue. This dialogue is evident in most Murakami novels (with different translators) as well as stories from Kazuo Ishiguro. The strangeness of the dialogue is magnified when compared to spoken Japanese in any of the above listed shows and movies. Japanese is lyrical, full of inflections, and a beautiful listen. The flatness must come from the translation.
The lack of translation from Irish literature (excluding any written in Irish) lets Irish dialogue jump off the page. I can hear and revel in the lyricism. As a native English speaker, the same doesn’t happen with written Japanese dialogue. Hearing it makes the gap feel wider.
The best way to learn is to immerse yourself in a subject. Tyler describes a deep reading process. I’ve followed this path over the past few months in a deep Irish “content” jag. I’ve either read or watched
The primary effect of this immersion is a desire to hole up in a cottage in Donegal with my iPad, printer, and notepads and churn out great literature. Soak in the landscapes and split G’s every night at the local pub.
On a more practical level, I notice the lyricism in dialogue. Not Shakespearean iambic pentameter or Mamet’s famed dialogue, but an Irish way of speaking. Even my flat ear can hear the music jump off the page with wonderful jumps and inflections. The dialogue sings in my head.
Sadly, this hasn’t touched my writing. Too many years of living in NJ with our fast-paced, rhotic speech pattern. A lengthy corporate career. My dialogue is realistic but not interesting. Maybe I need a cottage. Or a Guinness.
blows dust off the console for the website Apologies for the long delay since the last update for Chawner Writes. Thankfully, it’s not been for lack of writing. I’ve been cranking our short stories for my upcoming collection “After the Second Wave”. I have a healthy backlog of books to discuss. This is a combined review because of the relationship between the books and how they affect the reader.
Neither of these books are mainstream and probably not available in the local Barnes and Noble. I came across Shopkeeping on the Material Review. A bookseller in Seattle, Peter Miller, collected stories, lessons and anecdotes from a long career as a brick-and-mortar retailer. Fast and easy to read. Highly recommended, even if you (like me) never considered the art of shopkeeping.
While the content of the Shopkeeping is engaging, it’s only part of an overall experience. Miller writes like an American Zen master of his craft, inviting the reader to put the book down repeatedly, stare off into space and think what the words mean to them. Every part book’s layout, from its textured cover, author-drawn sketches of the shop, font, etc. engages the reader. Clearly Miller put the same care into the physical book as he does his shop. I’ve read a lot of books about creativity over the last few years, but only Rick Rubin’s invoked a similar reaction.
Miller mentions other books in Shopkeeping; books on art, design, rare books, etc. But one description caught my eye:
“(In Praise of Shadows) is a fascinating study of light and shadow and culture”. (Pg 54)
A book that relates light, shadows and culture? In Praise of Shadows did not disappoint. Written by Tanizaki, a famous Japanese author from the early 20th century, In Praise of Shadows is a short, concise, stream-of-consciousness examination of the elements that make the Japanese unique, especially when compared to the west.
As the title implies, many of his observations and theories revolve around shadows in Japanese architecture and life. For instance, he explores how traditional Japanese buildings limit the amount of light entering them, shaping the character of rooms, utensils, and the faces of actors with specific makeup. Jarringly (at least to this westerner) he discusses how the Western obsession with bringing as much light as possible into rooms has downsides. And this really highlights the true intent of the piece, contrasting between traditional Japanese use of shadows against westernization/modernization. Including a most interesting discussion of bathroom design.
Not only does Shopkeeping discuss In Praise of Shadows, the entire book is in conversation with Tanizaki’s treatise. By using aesthetics, both engage in a larger conversation on culture and community, exploring what is lost when physical shops and Japanese traditions are replaced. And both provoke deep contemplation about the world around the reader.
