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Can I use the random paragraphs that this tool creates?
In private works, yes. The paragraphs are pulled from existing creative works on The Story Shack, and should be used only as a source of inspiration in most cases.
How many ideas can I generate with this Random Paragraph Generator?
The Random Paragraph Generator can generate thousands of ideas for your project, so feel free to keep clicking and at the end use the handy copy feature to export your paragraphs to a text editor of your choice. Enjoy!
What are good paragraphs?
There's thousands of random paragraphs in this generator. Here are some samples to start:
|Idea #1||Look at her, sitting outside talking to another client. What does that even mean? I can’t even focus on my video game, because she’s on the patio laughing at his stupid jokes. I’m unsure why we’ve been here for the past week|
|Idea #2||this is the longest we’ve stayed in a place like this. I hate it. This isn’t home. This is one of Nanny’s many rooms. | © Amanda Dolan|
|Idea #3||“Time of death, eight thirty-six am,” K.B., the Hospice nurse, said quietly. | © Jen Beaney|
|Idea #4||The women stand either side of the metal barrier, the mottled curved steel shines dimly under the bright lights of the airport lounge. Charlotte blinks and looks again across the space at her sister|
|Idea #5||a sister she didn’t know she had until a month ago. Alessandra mirrors the movement of her unknown sibling taking in her dark hair now flecked with grey, the lighter strands sketching out lost years. | © Carla Dow|
|Idea #6||As seen from the balcony the ocean was every bit a living, breathing thing. The rain created a haze above the land that stretched out beyond the beach and over the ocean, eventually swallowing the living, breathing thing into an indiscernible grey smear. The beach was empty of people or birds. The weather had reduced the beach to little more than a smooth and wet welcome mat for the ocean, should it ever decide to leave the ambiguous grey and venture further inland. | © Erich Earl Forschler|
|Idea #7||The little girl sits on the stoop, waiting and wondering. | © Carey Kight|
|Idea #8||I opened my apartment door, unprepared for the snapshot of death. | © Tyler Pipher|
|Idea #9||It started in the corner of the office, near Susie’s desk. Fifteen minutes later, the peculiar scent was wafting into the executive offices until everyone wished they had removal noses. | © Kristina England|
|Idea #10||My name is Professor Heltor Patrius, submarine biologist and the foremost authority on deep-sea excavation. Six months ago, I developed a blueprint for what could potentially be the next generation of submarines. Capable of plunging to depths of approximately twenty-one hundred feet in six seconds, without disturbing the equilibrium of anybody aboard, this was to be the future of underwater transportation. I called her Trident. | © David Jiminez|
|Idea #11||One dry afternoon at the height of the salmonfly hatch, in a cabin overlooking the Snake River, a real estate developer named Chevy Randolph ate psilocybin mushrooms for the fourth time in his life. Though he had always considered the dried mushrooms themselves foul on the palette, Randolph found it oddly comforting that the cabin’s owner, an enormous bearded semi-pro rugby coach from Seattle, commented that they reminded him of lichen, and treated them in a dessicator next to slabs of elk jerky. When it came to olfactory setting, it would be hard to beat the combination of game, earth and cedar that diffused throughout the cabin and out onto the porch. In between rounds of spinning records with his companions, and shooting wobble from the porch over the heads of applauding, flinching raft-paddlers in the gorge below, Chevy Randolph came to the conclusion that he had been taking the wrong approach to commuting. His entire professional career had been to entice the well-heeled to sleep somewhere else, that elsewhere being predicated on a city’s current neighborhoods, borders, county lines and country-club status. Some cities had well-established bedroom communities which his developments merely enhanced and expanded, while in others he identified lots bereft of transportation options and spun them as an ideal compromise to those who could afford not only a three- or four-pointed star to adorn the grill of a sedan, but also a punctual man to climb downstairs at dawn from his rent-controlled railroad apartment, kindle the engine and warm the seats. | © Benjamin Smith|
|Idea #12||Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd’s staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest’s lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar. | © Bob Thurber|
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