More secret ingredients than a greasy piece of chicken






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."



Please Choose







Enjoy the Benefits!

  • Words, glorious words.

  • Useful duck information.

  • Best secret handshake west of the Mississippi.

Member Log In

Username:



Password:


 Remember me

Show my name in the online users list

      Lost your password?

Become a Scriner!

Username:



Email:



A password will be e-mailed to you.

Scrine Restoration

Sentences: 100% (19114)
Comments: 11%


Confessional: 100%
Scrineblog: 18.4%

boot blog: 100%
'mouse blog: 0%

Logged In

 

Subscribed To:

  • What? No tag subscriptions?
  •  
  • Do you require a doctor?








Big Band
The Radio :: OhNo789

Fizz of white noise, flickering sizzle of the empty waves, the ocean swells - some big band tune skulking in the dank summer evening air pounces with a crack of life in trumpet solo, conjured there, made real by the radio knob, then, as quickly as it came, fades back into the surf, and say we become the static on the am dial, bleating big band brass for mouths, roaring tympani for blood in our veins, and we dwindle off into the sea because our god(s) are looking for the game in the fourteen hundreds.

    TAGS:  death, music, life, Big Band, radios


 

Copyright @ 2005 - 2017


131 queries in 1.2837 seconds