tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65782462130458147792026-06-09T16:44:20.377+10:00Original stories of horror, violence, love, sex and death. (By Michael Cooper)Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-53639469135348847392013-01-19T09:19:00.000+10:002016-11-02T17:14:50.532+10:00

This is the old version of the story. Use "Sam At The End Of The World" link for latest version. Chapter 1 --- Chapter 2 --- Chapter 3 --- Chapter 4Chapter 5 --- Chapter 6 --- Chapter 7 --- Chapter 8Chapter 9 --- Chapter 10 -- Chapter 11 -- Chapter 12Chapter 13 -- Chapter 14 -- Chapter 15 -- Chapter 16Chapter 17 -- Chapter

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-34267967028727842482013-01-19T09:13:00.000+10:002016-11-02T15:19:43.769+10:00

'SAM AT THE END OF THE WORLD' (SATEOTW) is a horror story. A Zombie-genre inspired post-apocalyptic vision involving strong violence and references to sex. Profanity and drug use are affectations I have adopted to tell this tale. They do not necessarily reflect the author's personal values.Sam had no heroic delusions before the sudden plague of genetically engineered Parasites fell upon

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-41130722261621917422012-02-28T09:57:00.003+10:002016-11-02T14:34:01.474+10:00

Hello again Valued Reader and thank you for giving me your time (and hopefully some feedback) while reading my novel - Sam At The End Of The World. I hope it entertained you and made you laugh in the right places. This time round I have heavily edited the previously uploaded series. I've hacked away pages of unnecessary words, improved descriptions, changed Sam's incredibly verbose method of

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-71643521990990344602012-02-28T09:38:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:39:03.965+10:00

(INDEX) Some time has passed since the Holy day of my forgiveness. I’ve lessened my drug intake. The child grows; thriving on the love of a perfect mother and the teasing of a less an imperfect man. Kristine and I do not talk as often as we used to. When we do the exchanges have an undercurrent that may never leave. I’ve made several efforts to explain my experience after Shanna’s death and

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-63025961654994181332012-02-28T08:52:00.000+10:002016-11-04T12:37:45.549+10:00

<!--[if gte mso 9]> 14.00 800x600 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-AU X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-59280588945784644832012-02-28T07:59:00.004+10:002016-11-04T12:37:24.521+10:00

(INDEX) I am excluded from their company, reduced to eavesdropping on the baby’s contented gurgles and Kristine’s loving croons through closed doors. I step off a low point and fall further still into the depths of despair. There is no rocky bottom to hit; only sharp ledges to clutch at on the way down a misty void to oblivion. * When afflicted by overwhelming depression I tend to wander.

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-37823059875484993372012-02-27T10:22:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:37:02.235+10:00

(INDEX) There are many ways to recover from the experiences I’d faced. Pharmacology is one of them. A new daily routine develops. It is apparent Kristine won’t leave her room while I’m around. To give her the run of the place, and give myself a break from the crying machine, I withdraw to the roof for several hours every day. I try to obey George Thorogood’s wise lyrics, ‘when I drink alone;

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-87801806111462795832012-02-27T09:26:00.003+10:002016-11-04T12:36:36.153+10:00

(INDEX) ...a deep and lengthy appreciation of sleep’s tranquillity. Consciousness is rejected again and again in favour of that healing slumber until my brain starts signalling urgent bodily needs. “Uhhhhhhh.” Groaning scuffs a tongue drier than the Sahara Desert around my mouth. Each waking intake of breath aggravates a basketball-sized bladder. A cooling dampness beneath me indicates at

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-59439225020209409562012-02-27T08:27:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:36:07.636+10:00

(INDEX) The ramifications of this discovery seize and loosen my knees randomly, resulting in a stiff-legged, geriatric robot walk. The conflicting urges to fight and flee are maddeningly equal. I lean across one of the double doors and peek through the gap, inviting a severe fright if anything should lurk close by on the other side. No monsters await me. No sounds or movements either. Only

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-65224160884126276462012-02-26T20:02:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:35:40.832+10:00

(INDEX) Sodden selfishness protects me from sharp-edged guilt that should be cutting deeper. I bury this dangerous bundle carelessly into the depths of my flimsy cardboard mind so I can concentrate on driving. The route becomes more familiar with each turn. As the need to focus on the route lessens, self-pity increases. Numbly selecting gears on cue, I glance occasionally at the child. The

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-69878033784771451432012-02-26T19:28:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:35:09.096+10:00

(INDEX) My beautiful, beaten up truck is right where I’d left it; wedged between a pair of broken gates. We approach, feeling my soles tacking in sticky scraps of meat and blood that cover the ground. Gnawed bones are also scattered about. Presumably the remains of a stack of dead Hosts I’d shot have been snacked on after my departure. Before reaching the cab, I squat to survey the interior

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-45778809027855180462012-02-26T15:41:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:34:37.802+10:00

(INDEX) It’s the nursery where I’d been captured. Is this sign a mirage? A trick? A flashback? Am I really having a nice lie down somewhere, dreaming? Hot sunshine burns into my face, thawing icicles of disbelief that lock me in place. I lean down and look over the top of my stupid sunnies to re-read the last faded line: ‘1.3 kilometres, left turn Hanson Street’. Yes, I think I can just

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-23185599184061439762012-02-26T10:44:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:34:12.679+10:00

(INDEX) Ignoring the tyres loud vandalism of the car’s duco, I feed on the power. We fish-tail along a Creep’s trampled dual laneway, marking our own passage with pieces of hot rubber and scouring the car’s underside with long grass. A hidden roadside kerb announces itself by crashing hard against the chassis. New noise and sparks fly when the exposed wheel rim bites bitumen. A slight rise

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-38541695619729009932012-02-25T14:16:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:33:48.411+10:00

(INDEX) I slam on the brakes to stop fifty metres from the potential exit to mull over our chances. Bulling through a snarl of bodies in that skinny passage is a lot to ask of this under-powered car. Two strong men could tip us over if they put their minds to it. But the Creeps haven’t displayed the same willingness to act in concert since the Mother’s destruction so I decide to risk it. What

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-39297795161191080592012-02-25T13:55:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:33:24.941+10:00

(INDEX) I had secretly hoped all Parasites would conveniently die when I killed the Mother. Unfortunately the high-beam illumination says otherwise and refreshed fright tightens my chest with iron bands. I wrench on the emergency brake, almost ripping the lever from its mount. The little cars’ underinflated rubber shrieks across slick concrete. We do not perform the precision one-eighty

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-59541491432192417462012-02-25T12:14:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:32:13.787+10:00

(INDEX) …my thankful fall into unconsciousness is rudely interrupted by a heavy slap. Warm, bitter liquid washes over us and shoves me a few feet before the splashing wave loses its impetus. Spluttering awake, I open one eye. The background noise of a thundering waterfall induces a fuzzy illusion, but the fantasy of a green glade and swimming-hole is soon crushed by harsh reality. I have not

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-90410772509758137912012-02-23T16:45:00.007+10:002016-11-04T12:31:45.551+10:00

(INDEX) Our unlovely delivery stuns me a little. My wallowing hippo impression is fully authenticated when poo closes over my head. Fully immersed in shit I tightly close my mouth and eyes and thrust the annoying little package above the surface. Using only one unencumbered arm to right myself is awkward and complicated by a jumble of bone and broken concrete provide uneven footing. By the

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-37648348030098617452012-02-22T14:12:00.004+10:002016-11-04T12:31:17.335+10:00

(INDEX) ...at last! I’m reinstated inside my own crappy body! My blinking eyes roll in a concussed head, and my neck feels like it’s been painfully wrenched at some stage, but I immediately sit bolt upright. I am just in time. The first Parasite has its pincers raised and fangs extended, preparing to bite the child. Without considering any other course of action I slam my fist down upon it.

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-15728985475072735362012-02-22T12:28:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:30:52.591+10:00

(INDEX) ..I wake in a tiny body that is weighted heavily with the pain of its abuses. A stuffy atmosphere of stinking gas presses into the child’s nose. Opening her eyes, I fuzzily see rhythmically pulsing walls of throbbing red flesh, striated with fatty tissue, curving overhead. A warm, wet, soft floor is against our back. This is the Mother’s gut. Out of the frying pan... The poor view I

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-21978876315899274392012-02-22T10:42:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:30:27.831+10:00

(INDEX) I strain mightily to retreat, resisting the pull of an incredibly strong gravity. Their mental strength is even stronger here than I’d felt from those powerful Baby-pods outside. I claw at the nothingness to stay apart from the swirling luminous greyness. My Other-sight zooms in on the threatening, thick liquid until I make out the individual creatures swarming in this soup. They

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-55405853505866554542012-02-21T08:14:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:30:01.667+10:00

(INDEX) Our situation has deteriorated. The kid who was supposed to save my arse has gotten me eaten instead. So, here we all are, being swallowed by a Parasite Queen, and to top it off I’ve also departed from my body and gotten myself stuck inside a Parasite Host’s mind. There’s no time to fully appreciate the astounding complexity of the trouble I am in as the huge, circular mouth folds

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-89689979526496906152012-02-20T07:44:00.004+10:002016-11-04T12:29:28.999+10:00

(INDEX) ...I awaken feeling well and nourished; no hangover to speak of. The node in charge of my psychic abilities is alert, giving the impression it has watched over me. The manifestation I am has slept curled up in a protective ball, nose to tail like a frightened echidna. It is comfortingly dark in this closed up state. The question of whether I’m dead, alive, or somewhere in between,

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-11186687537153362372012-02-15T12:25:00.003+10:002016-11-04T12:28:58.056+10:00

(INDEX) I survive, dissolving into the floating black egg with a combination of sheer terror and exhilaration from the wild arrival. My mental abilities are not reformed as a singular identity. I am a soup of tiny parts travelling long, dark vessels at phenomenal speeds. Like shattered glass in a strong wind, sharp shards of me are dispersed in a roar of sound and light. Too scared to

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-60015235522405536562012-02-15T10:53:00.001+10:002016-11-04T12:28:13.385+10:00

(INDEX) Regaining the child has cleared my mind. I draw on her life-force like a Vampire. Reducing myself to the level of a Parasites partly spoils the rush of receiving free energy. The Parasite Queen’s previously emotionless voice changes and I sense her exasperation at my recovery. ‘The Meat draws from the new-birthed. If it will not be tempted, let it be consumed. Let the Melding absorb

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6578246213045814779.post-60272292534543142282012-02-15T10:07:00.002+10:002016-11-04T12:27:42.811+10:00

(INDEX) Fear of emasculation weighs heavily on my mind; a fear pre-empted by my unclothed exposure to those sharp, clicking claws and raised, thorn-pricked legs. The hand I use to cup my manhood unconsciously squeezes, negating its inadequate protection with pain. I moan deep in my throat and wish for someone other than myself to blame for this situation. Kristine would be an ideal scapegoat

Thought Controlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01325861935760312237noreply@blogger.com0