Story Lines

Here are the starts of some books I plan to write some day.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was heavy against his windshield, like seagull shit would be.

I remember the most remarkable thing about Bobby, was that he could write his name in the snow without using his hands.

There is nothing quite like a grilled cheese sandwhich. Two slices of bread, butter on each side, each side lightly toasted and then flipped over. Lay thin slices of sharp cheddar and provilone crossways on that toasted inside, and heat until its all melted and gooey. Finally, when the outside is toasted golden, put the two pieces together, take a bite, chew, savor, and finally wash it down by a nice, cold, swallow of whole, frothy milk.

Not that he was likely to ever taste one again, not stripped, and strapped to an examination table by the Grellic. Or was it a butcher table? He wasn't sure. Was this the bunch that ate humans, preparing gormet meals so scrumptious that it was (almost) an honor to be an ingredient? Or was this the bunch that kept them as livestock. Modifying humans as needed for milk production. And which was worse, really? As the main course, or dessert or whatever, at least the death was quick.