Fish bones on the shores of the Salton Sea in California
A reference for anyone creating a post-apocalyptic wasteland: If the water is toxic then there’s a high chance the beaches are nothing but fishbones. While fish have the ability to adapt and change with their environment, most will die off after initial contamination.
A neat detail to keep in mind.
#002 -- Robots, Androids, and Cyborgs (oh my!)
It’s a common misconception with all three of these that they are the same thing. Nah. All of them are extremely different from the other and some people don’t seem to catch the difference. And this is where we come in.
Body Language Cheat Sheet for Writers
As described by Selnick’s article:
Emotions are a peculiar thing, they are. They swing, like a pendulum, like an executioner’s axe—and it is hard to keep track of them, Batter finds. With one minute he surges with pride at another triumphant battle, a successful purification—pleased with his work, that there is one less issue to allow concern to fester over—and with the next he returns to his neutral state, where his eyes only focus ahead, and his interest no longer divides between the next corridor and the creatures that lie at his feet, what should only be mist is crumbling in on itself; a broken artifact, aged stone cracked.
When he smiles, it lacks friendliness, familiarity—it is a curved slit simply mimicking pleasantry, mocking the notion of “kindness”. When others observe his actions, the warrior that is unleashed when he swings his bat, to crush the skulls of those he finds corrupt, it strikes a concern in the workmen that linger, the residents that watch; and it is a far cry from his former actions when he swings the bat up a final time, ferocity vanquished, and he bids the civilians a tense goodbye.
Neither parties feel an excitement in the mission—the civilians or the proclaimed Saviour. A lesser man would not kill himself with this burden—but Batter is different, and does not pursue self-eradication. To purify, that is his goal. The advice given by men that tremble like leaves, or metaphors granted to him by felines or vendors in masks; none shall shake him from his mission, that stands on the line between holiness and destructive.
Rifle circle him—wavering eyes of young soldier boys, bayonets extending like welcoming branches. His fingers grip in the soft, wheaten locks of the kneeling man, and the standing being closes his eyes, ears welcoming the sound of chattering metal.
"What is your purpose?"
Like a third party witnessing his actions, Montparnasse casts his eyes leftward to the voice. In his hand, the glass is clenched, and all eyes around him widen as it is brought into the neck of the leader’s loyal partner, air drawn in with a desperate need.
"It was for the life He took, you son of a bitch."
The triggers pull in a choir.
“Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”
Wake up. Wednesday. August 15. You told your boss you wouldn’t be able to come in today already. The morning is dense with fog but you’re sure it’ll clear up by noon.
It’s September 18th, 1943, and The Joy is in Poland.
It’s September 18th, 1943, and she’s looking for a specific man.
It’s September 18th, 1943, and she’s surrounded by armed forces.
He peers over the ledge with you. Darkness fills the ravine, with little of the setting sun managing to fall through. You frown. You don’t know how far it goes down.