At age 2, he had taught the family cat to speak fluent Spanish. Two years later, he built a supercomputer in his basement using his toys and discarded junk parts. By age 7, he had his first Ph, D. On his tenth birthday, his fledgling software company went public and he became an instant billionaire. In his spare time, he synthesized vaccines to treat diseases that most people had not even heard of…yet. Of course, people of influence were drawn to him, looking for advice and handouts. Some even encouraged him to run for public office. However, he wouldn’t even consider that as he despised politicians and could’t even find one that he trusted. One day, an anonymous envelope arrived at NASA headquarters. Inside were the schematics for an Earth - Mars spaceship. It featured a sophisticated new propulsion system that until now had only been a product of fantasy. Now travel to and from the red planet could be achieved in less than a week. By his twenty-first birthday, the demands had become too much. Not just from the outside; as he was internally driven to create at levels that would be considered insane by most people. He simply disappeared. Nobody knew were, though it was speculated that he was living somewhere in the vast expanse of the Arizona desert. Isolated, with no electricity or running water. Not even a cellphone. Just a few cactus shrubs, rattlesnakes and the faint echo of dreams long gone. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

To say that Henry had a drooling problem was a bit of an understatement. But everyone has their issues, right? However, being that he was only four, his parents figured that it was something he’d simply outgrow. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Fast forward twenty years. Henry’s now a young adult. Brilliant, but also a massive drooler. Additionally, he had an uncontrollable habit of chasing butterflies which was a problem when he was driving. And, yes, who could blame the arresting officer who found the smashed car and a scraped up, drooling Henry chasing butterflies at the scene of the accident? Luckily, nobody was hurt. Now, here’s where it got interesting. While in court, defending his ‘driving while impaired’ citation, Henry met Jane. She couldn’t have been more than two years his junior. Jane was the court reporter. Typing away with a stream of drool running down her lower lip onto her dress. It was a match made in heaven. The two courted for only a month before the wedding was announced. Then came the baby. Junior was the product of two heavy droolers. It was inevitable, maybe even an act of God. He was a little freak of nature. Only six months old, but already exceeding the drool output of his parents combined! Then he got away.... email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Billy’s English teacher finally had enough. ‘Yes, Mrs. Crabtree?’ ‘Billy your writing is simply too over the top. Your subject matter is, for lack of a better description, disturbing. Most kids your age write about football or catching fish with their father. You write about things that consistently give me nightmares and sometimes even make me nauseous. Zombie attacks, mutant animals, vomit, vaginas that look like sea urchins, demonically possessed Teddy Ruxpin bears, sex robots! I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture. I don’t know how you come up with this stuff, but I really think you need help. I’m going to give you an ‘A’ on your last assignment because you have a talent for imagery. But, really, if you don’t start toning down your subject matter, then it’s going to be off to the school psychiatrist for you. And you know what that means?’ Billy responded, ‘Yes ma’am. It means that I’ll be medicated into a drunken stupor and then strapped naked to a cold metal table. Next thing that will happen is that aliens will enter the room dressed in 1950’s era US Air Force uniforms. They’ll perform experiments on me. Painful, invasive experiments. Then, after several days of studying and probing, they’ll become disinterested and return me to class. Just like the last time you sent me to the psychiatrist.’ ‘Billy….You know what? Just….Never mind.’ email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

10 minutes ago, Jack was serving the nice people of table 16. Now, he’s eating them. That’s kind of how things happen during a zombie outbreak. Jack had goals and dreams. He was an aspiring actor. Now he only has a hunger, and a sprint that would make Usain Bolt jealous. The infection had short-circuited his brain to the point that now his only purpose was to consume. And like the other zombies, that’s exactly what he did. Interestingly, every so often, he’d get a mental flash. Like a fading image of a dream or something that happened in his life long ago. And, that’s probably what drove him to especially focus on consuming children. It was an infected toddler that had bitten him and turned Jack the waiter into Jack the ripper. Call it revenge, or simply a meaningless receding imprint. Nevertheless Jack had a taste for the hair of the toddler that bit him. For some time, Jack lived the simple life. He ate whomever he could catch. But it was not to last forever. One beautiful Spring morning Jack was dining alone on a fresh catch. This time, a retiree. A bit bland and stringy, but Jack didn’t care. He was hungry. As he chewed into the soon to be reanimated carcass, his right arm was blasted completely off. There was no pain, however, only a brief interruption in his feeding. Jack turned and briefly met eyes with Jethro, a Kentucky redneck through and through. A second blast from Jethro’s twelve gauge was all it took. Jack’s head exploded into thousands of wet, gory bits. His body collapsed to the ground like a discarded rag doll. A thick, tar like fluid oozed from his corpse. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Lunch at the cafe was a little slow for this time of year. Nevertheless, the tips were good and Jack was enjoying the crisp spring air on what was supposed to be his day off. That’s when he got his first exposure to the zombie outbreak. Instantly, the mid-day serenity had gone from placid to all-out insanity. He had a tray full of fresh sandwiches and mouthwatering burgers and was heading towards table 16. Then, with the force of a semi truck, he was knocked down by a rancid, reanimated, former human. Now covered in sliced turkey, lettuce and ketchup, Jack quickly regained his composure and did what he saw the others around him do which was to run like hell. Now Jack was looking for any kind of weapon. And, he was flooded with the overwhelming thought of ‘why hadn’t he taken his brother up on the offer to go to the gun range?’ But, right now is a little too late for any advanced weapons training, or introductory, for that matter. Besides, where’s he going to get a gun right now? Then he felt a lump of dead weight on his right leg along with a searing pain. His pace staggered as he looked down to see what looked like a bloody a toddler biting into his exposed flesh. It was excruciating and gory. He fought to get that dammed ankle biter off of him. Then, the infection quickly took hold, and Jack’s final human thought was something like being surprised that the kids were zombies too. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

As the sun set, Martin gazed outward as a cruel thought kept looping inside his head. Was he too late to the game? Had he missed his last chance? A small tremor in his gut quickly grew into an overwhelming nervous sensation. Then he puked. Just like that, a six-pack of Busch and a Subway meatball sub went outward with a fierce projectile force right over the balcony. What a waste. He was now out of beer and he had used his only remaining Subway coupon. It didn’t really matter anyway as his wallet was completely empty. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told Michelle that he thought her vagina looked like a sea urchin. One thing was for certain, Martin had made many mistakes over the last 24 hours. It seemed like his ADD and thirst for cheap beer had really gotten the best of him. Fortunately, he knew how to handle himself in situations like this. But the gathering seagulls had grabbed his attention. He spent the next 30 minutes photographing the birds as they consumed the pool of fresh puke. It was vulgar, but somehow, in a strange way, creative. And it meant something to him. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Gus was the kind of person who’s genius only occasionally surfaced. Most of the time he simply blended into the mass detritus of mediocrity and as a result he was hardly ever noticed. But now he was hung over and with his term paper due in less than three hours, his brain switched in to ’a hardly ever used’ overdrive. Working diligently, he spent just under forty minutes crafting what was later to become known as the finest paper ever submitted in that university’s long history. He titled it ‘Constipation in the Early 20th Century’ and it was nothing less than groundbreaking. The problem was that the paper was for an advanced Physics class and his professor lacked any sense of humor, not that Gus had ever intended any. This was a serious paper about a serious subject, which unfortunately had nothing to do with the material covered in advanced Physics. Gus did however plead his case to the professor claiming that creativity can’t just be changed on a whim. He even went so far as to imply that the paper did theorize the vectors and velocities of hyper-output colonic evacuations. However, the professor would have nothing of it. Nevertheless, he did give Gus a ‘C’ for simply having the guts to submit such a paper. Later that year, Gus’ Physics professor applied for a patent for a new high-pressure enema. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Remember how I told you that if you were ever in one of my dreams to not get on an elevator? Of course you do. Well, there’s more. See, in my dreams, I can never, and I repeat, never ever, find my car. No matter how hard I look. No matter how long I look, it’s just not there. And the little beeper on the key fob that can remotely unlock or lock the car? Yeh, if it works at all, it triggers someone else’s car, so that’s pretty much useless. But, me being me, I keep on looking nevertheless, like it’s going to make a difference. Hell, I go from parking lot to parking lot searching in vain. Oh, and then let’s just say in the off chance that help arrives…. Like this one dream where my sister showed up to give me a lift to a remote lot where my car might be. You think she’s a bad driver in real life? Try her in make believe land!! It was just like being in one of those out of control dream elevators except in traffic. She’s complaining about the ineptitude of the other drivers as she cuts across several active lanes of traffic. I’m flying everywhere as I think that I probably should have not gotten in her car in the first place. Perhaps I was better off only having to find my nonexistent car because riding with my sister as the driver is the real nightmare! email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

When you’ve been out in space for as long as Jack has you begin to miss the little things. You know, like flush toilets, solid food, a blue sky. Hell, he hadn’t seen a human woman in decades and had just about forgotten what they looked like, or smelled like. You know, holographic images only go so far. Then there was the fresh air. He’d been breathing that recirculated shit for ages and his lungs were caked solid with the processed gunk that routinely accumulated in those old ships. He could hardly walk a flight of stairs now because his breathing was so inhibited. Though he was told a few months of medical rehab would get his lungs back to that of a 20 year old’s. He’d believe it when he actually experienced it. And the artificial gravity had played a number on his balance. Seems those early cargo freighters suffered from more than faulty navigation systems. Let’s just say that synthetic gravity has come a long way since Jack had first left Earth. But now that he was back, for real this time, what was he going to do? His family and friends had long since died. Though he had some distant cousin that was the son of a son of a long lost relative of his. The kid was probably an asshole though. At least they were serving meatloaf today. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

It was nothing short of a miracle that they had made it through the fifth grade. Each one dumber than the last, they represented the elite of the stupid, if that was even possible. Yet, they individually believed in their own personal genius, even though there was never any evidence of such. It was only natural that they became the best of friends and constant companions. Together, the four of them became responsible for such innocent and stupid mishaps as the fire that consumed the town’s only manufacturing plant. And the train derailment? Yes, that was their child too. As collectively, they decided that a beaver dam should be built right on the main tracks. And, quickly, they set to constructing the project. There it stood in all its splendor. Some twenty feet high, it was a sight to be seen. A giant pile of wooden debris. And when the train smashed into it, well, it was nothing short of disaster. Yet, the group could only weep for the dead beavers that inhabited the dam. In fact, there were no inhabitants in the human-made dam. It was then decided that the town should change its name. Shortly thereafter, all the signs with the old name were removed. And, the group was set to wander aimlessly, looking forever for the town of former name. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com