Scrine ~ one part truth, two parts made up truth

What is Scrine?

• Scrine is the home of lost, forgotten, and lonely sentences.

What are the rules?

• Play nice. Be kind. Post only single sentences.

• Scrine gives everyone plenty of rope to play with, but reminds everyone that even the longest rope is capable of hanging a person.

• Censorship is ugly, but still not the ugliest bird in the sky. Happily, this has never been necessary.

• The appropriateness of all sentences will remain the sole discretion of Scrine's tender.

Who can play?

• Anyone. Reading along costs nothing but time.

• Membership is required to post your own sentences. Joining is quick and painless.

• With membership comes the unique privilege of calling yourself a Scriner.

What about privacy?

• Your information will never be sold, given away, shared, or even traded for an unimaginably delicious slice of pie.

• The above sentence may be the only sentence on this site that is 100% true.

's notes

Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.

This is a private space. Only you will see your notes.

Expiration date is not required, only if you want the note to magically disappear.

A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."

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  • Words, glorious words.

  • Bad puns and top-notch metaphors.

  • Free pancakes at participating restaurants.

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500 words :: heather :: 0
    TAGS: 500 words, perfection

I awoke from my long and scary nightmare, sweaty and breathing like a hard ridden horse, in the early dawn of that fateful day in late October, the day that would live forever in my mind as the oddest and yet the very best day of my life, in which I actually Found My True Calling (that is as long as one believes, as I did at the time, that working for a living setting up clunky bowling pins to be again and again knocked down by chubby hairy drunken middle aged men while they leer at you and spill beer and make lewd comments to one another about your boobs is not exactly worthy of being considered one’s true calling) as the Girl Who Brushes Sweat off of Hard Ridden Horses, feeds them, mucks out their stalls and whispers in their perky ears all the while flirting with the little gay jockeys (wondering all the while if having sex with a jockey is quite like the time she got laid by that midget during her brief but extremely interesting stint as a carnie in the course of the summer of her junior year at Brown before she got her degree in Public Engineering and Policy Administration which prepared her in no way whatsoever as to how to rid oneself of a profoundly horny and rather heartsick –but fabulous in bed- midget who turned rather suddenly and threateningly into creepy stalker guy) as they pranced about the stables (the jockeys, not the horses) in their teeny tiny little breeches and complained how “hungry” they were and jumped on and off of their scales and vomited up their teeny tiny little lunches which were comprised of a few pale limp lettuce leaves and no dressing at all leaving the poor horses with not a soul to brush off their sweat, once hard ridden, and muck the smelly piles of poop out of their cramped wooden stalls and whisper in their perky ears when THEY are the poor creatures that have to do the sweating and hard riding and carrying of the anorexic teeny tiny little men around the dusty race track while chubby hairy drunken middle aged men cheer and shout at them and spill their beer and make bets on who will finish first (and second and third) on this racetrack that I stumbled upon accidentally when I took a wrong turn on my way to the podiatrist where I was to have some large and quite painful (not to mention unsightly) verrucas removed from the bottom of my left foot, had a scary but not injurious (to either person or property) fender bender with a bookie who instructed me to follow him to the parking lot of a nearby track to exchange insurance information and identification (just in case of any problems that may arise in the future) as a result of the accident, and I saw the lovely horses in their stalls, and I Found My True Calling.

January 25, 2007 at 6:28 AM



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