The Story of the Random Paragraph

C.C. Stenton

1
It was difficult for him to admit he was wrong. He had been so certain that he was correct and the
deeply held belief could never be shaken. Yet the proof that he had been incorrect stood right before his
eyes. "See daddy, I told you that they are real!" his daughter excitedly proclaimed.

Debbie had taken George for granted for more than fifteen years now. He wasn't sure what exactly had
made him choose this time and place to address the issue, but he decided that now was the time. He
looked straight into her eyes and just as she was about to speak, turned away and walked out the door.

He picked up the burnt end of the branch and made a mark on the stone. Day 52 if the marks on the
stone were accurate. He couldn't be sure. Day and nights had begun to blend together creating
confusion, but he knew it was a long time. Much too long.

He slowly poured the drink over a large chunk of ice he has especially chiseled off a larger block. He
didn't particularly like his drinks cold, but he knew that the drama of chiseling the ice and then pouring a
drink over it looked far more impressive than how he actually liked it. It was all about image and he'd
managed to perfect the image that he wanted to project.

The paper was blank. It shouldn't have been. There should have been writing on the paper, at least a
paragraph if not more. The fact that the writing wasn't there was frustrating. Actually, it was even more
than frustrating. It was downright distressing.

Cake or pie? I can tell a lot about you by which one you pick. It may seem silly, but cake people and pie
people are really different. I know which one I hope you are, but that's not for me to decide. So, what is
it? Cake or pie?

I recollect that my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one
side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and
reverberated by the angry echoes.

The headache wouldn't go away. She's taken medicine but even that didn't help. The monstrous
throbbing in her head continued. She had this happen to her only once before in her life and she
realized that only one thing could be happening.

At that moment he had a thought that he'd never imagine he'd consider. "I could just cheat," he
thought, "and that would solve the problem." He tried to move on from the thought but it was
persistent. It didn't want to go away and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't want it to.

Her hand was balled into a fist with her keys protruding out from between her fingers. This was the
weapon her father had shown her how to make when she walked alone to her car after work. She
wished that she had something a little more potent than keys between her fingers. It would have been
nice to have some mace or pepper spray. He had been meaning to buy some but had never gotten
around to it. As the mother bear took another step forward with her cubs in tow, she knew her fist with
keys wasn't going to be an adequate defense for this situation.

2
Trees. It was something about the trees. The way they swayed with the wind in unison. The way they
shaded the area around them. The sounds of their leaves in the wind and the creaks from the branches
as they sway, The trees were making a statement that I just couldn't understand.

It had been a simple realization that had changed Debra's life perspective. It was really so simple that
she was embarrassed that she had lived the previous five years with the way she measured her worth.
Now that she saw what she had been doing, she could see how sad it was. That made her all the more
relieved she had made the change. The number of hearts her Instagram posts received wasn't any
longer the indication of her own self-worth.

She reached her goal, exhausted. Even more chilling to her was that the euphoria that she thought she'd
feel upon reaching it wasn't there. Something wasn't right. Was this the only feeling she'd have for over
five years of hard work?

It really shouldn't have mattered to Betty. That's what she kept trying to convince herself even if she
knew it mattered to Betty more than practically anything else. Why was she trying to convince herself
otherwise? As she stepped forward to knock on Betty's door, she still didn't have a convincing answer to
this question that she'd been asking herself for more than two years now.

It was cloudy outside but not really raining. There was a light sprinkle at most and there certainly wasn't
a need for an umbrella. This hadn't stopped Sarah from pulling her umbrella out and opening it. It had
nothing to do with the weather or the potential rain later that day. Sarah used the umbrella to hide.

He stared out the window at the snowy field. He'd been stuck in the house for close to a month and his
only view of the outside world was through the window. There wasn't much to see. It was mostly just
the field with an occasional bird or small animal who ventured into the field. As he continued to stare
out the window, he wondered how much longer he'd be shackled to the steel bar inside the house.

I've rented a car in Las Vegas and have reserved a hotel in Twentynine Palms which is just north of
Joshua Tree. We'll drive from Las Vegas through Mojave National Preserve and possibly do a short hike
on our way down. Then spend all day on Monday at Joshua Tree. We can decide the next morning if we
want to do more in Joshua Tree or Mojave before we head back.

"What is the best way to get what you want?" she asked. He looked down at the ground knowing that
she wouldn't like his answer. He hesitated, knowing that the truth would only hurt. How was he going to
tell her that the best way for him to get what he wanted was to leave her?

The bridge spanning a 100-foot gully stood in front of him as the last obstacle blocking him from
reaching his destination. While people may have called it a "bridge", the reality was it was nothing more
than splintered wooden planks held together by rotting ropes. It was questionable whether it would
hold the weight of a child, let alone the weight of a grown man. The problem was there was no other
way across the gully, and this played into his calculations of whether or not it was worth the risk of
trying to cross it.

The towels had been hanging from the rod for years. They were stained and worn, and quite frankly, just
plain ugly. Debra didn't want to touch them but she really didn't have a choice. It was important for her
to see what was living within them.