• Scrine is the home of lost, forgotten, and lonely sentences.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
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."
Actually, Dave, Bronwyn thought as she listened to him hit the high note, there are at least 36 damn songs that can make me break down and cry.
At 3 p.m., as Bronwyn trudged back to her desk after learning that the conference call for which she had skipped her lunch hour had been cancelled, the thought occurred to her: I would strangle an orphan for a day off.
My, the ivy grows fast in here, doesn’t it?, Bronwyn thought; at that moment an angel, clad in a grubby pair of corduroy slacks and a Descendents t-shirt, smelling of Drum tobacco and Coca-Cola, and bearing a disconcerting resemblance to the surly guy behind the counter at Kim’s Underground, materialized, smacked her across the face with a rolled-up Penzeys Spices catalog, and hollered, “You have to cut this shit out and rejoin the fucking party RIGHT NOW.”
As Bronwyn’s 12-hour headache finally melted away, she felt the sense of euphoria that once only came from riding in fast cars with fast boys.
“Grinding your teeth while meditating is an act of aggression against the entire group.”
As Bronwyn contemplated the ever-speedier passage of time, she thought of three moments of her life when she was not as careful as she should have been, and was shocked to realize that, had things worked out differently, she would today be the parent of a 19-year-old, a 17-year-old and a 14-year-old.
“Our customer has asked if we’re equipped to submit certifications of compliance for this complicated new law on heavy metal and hazardous materials in China, which we’ve never had to submit before; here’s a really painful article about it by a pair of lawyers,” at which Bronwyn’s ears pricked up ever so slightly.
Bronwyn thought it would symbolic to jump off the high building holding her LSAT study guide over her head and screaming, but she discovered, quite to her dismay, that it caught the wind just right and she floated down like Mary Poppins.
Now that her kitchen had been turned into a cluttered, unfriendly minefield of toe-stubbing cardboard boxes, plastic shopping bags tumbling off the cheap shelving, and never enough lemons when she needed them, Bronwyn grew to loath making dinner, feeling that what was once her space no longer was; oddly enough, though, the kitchen was still more than friendly when the time came to bake cakes.
The bad news is that the pressure down here is enough to kill you unless you take precautionary measures; the good news is that from here, you can only go up, and if you’re smart, you can avoid sharks, 800-foot-wide jellyfish and the bends.
Bronwyn’s heart sank at the thought of going to the gym, not because her sorry ass was old and out of shape, but because the time spent at the gym would shave at least two hours off of her Valuable Outlining Time.
Normally Bronwyn considered a Saturday trip to the mall to be the most loathsome of ways to spend a day, but when her husband asked if she wanted to join him, she realized that she was barraged by conflicting emotions: pain at the loathsomeness of a Saturday at the mall; guilt over losing two hours of Valuable Outlining Time; and giddiness at the thought of stepping away from that goddamned desk.
Aloicious wondered when the curious people would start appearing in Club Alphabet, as he ordered another round of ‘in their honour’ cocktails -- Juan, Miss Jane, Bronwyn, Becky, Henry, Bob!
“So let me get this straight,” said the teenaged, purple-haired Bronwyn to the doughy middle-aged woman claiming to be her future self, “George Bush’s idiot son has run the country into the ground, the World Trade Center has been blown off the face of the earth, the Soviets aren’t called Soviets anymore, and nobody pays much attention to nuclear weapons unless they’re being built in North Korea or Iran, Arnold Schwarzenegger—Arnold Schwarzenegger? we’re talking about the guy who plays the killer robot and Conan the Barbarian, right?—is the governor of California, the most popular shows on television are called “reality tv” even though they’re heavily scripted by non-unionized writers, and the best political commentary on tv is made by the guy who does the sports features on CNN…do you have any more of that chocolate-chip-mint-flavored angel dust you are obviously on?”
I am not a carefully-worded contract with an airtight escape clause, and I will not be treated—or loved—as if I were.
Bronwyn knew that a decision in her client’s favor was all but certain thanks to her novel and well-researched Hypnotoad defense, even though Justice Scalia appeared unimpressed.
Bronwyn’s relief at being assigned to write an appellate brief on behalf of the good guys evaporated quickly when she realized that said good guys did not have the law on their side, and the odds of her winning the case on their behalf were very, very long.Edit: While the appeal itself is fictional, the relief, and the ensuing dread, are not.
Bronwyn used think that the phrase “my heart hurts” to convey heartbreak was a poetic turn of phrase; this stopped the day she received her first echocardiogram.
“Listen up, nimrod: Anyone who has a panic attack just because she saw a skunk in her garage doesn’t deserve to live in a beautiful place like this; why don’t you just move back to some cubicle-sized apartment in some anonymous concrete jungle of a city, and leave the Valley of Heart’s Desire to those who have the intestinal fortitude for it?”
As Bronwyn walked out of the hardware store, whistling a jaunty tune and looking six inches taller and ten pounds lighter than she did when she walked in, the clerk had to admit that the supervisor was right: there’s just something about a woman who not only buys herself a ten-pound sledgehammer, but also pays cash for it.
Bronwyn and the Droid, engaged in a life-or-death struggle for proxy rights to Bakerina on her first day of clerking, raised their fists and eyed each other like Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef.
“Believe me, I wish I could blame the radio silence on Facebook, because I hate that bastard Zuckerberg…but no, it’s because the man who wrote this is now my yoga teacher, which means I’m doing a lot of yoga now, and it’s all Juan’s fault.”
“That’s DOCTOR Hey Baby to you.”
Bronwyn also dreamed of the day when Juan would stop pointing and laughing at her shoes.
Bronwyn loved her sun-drenched, fruit-tree-laden neighborhood, she really did, but sometimes—usually by the fourth hour of Symphony in E for Weedwhackers, Leafblowers and Various Light Construction Equipment—she became nostalgic for the comparative peace of blaring salsa music, fire sirens and the occasional gunshot.
Bronwyn eyed the unopened bottle of Very Good Barolo and thought, Well, I promised Juan I’d open it as soon as there was a reason to celebrate…
“Your Honor, is there a way I can call my opponent a butthead without risking sanctions or contempt of court?”
The day that Bronwyn’s cat eschewed the $2 cream cheese for the $5 goat cheese and the melted $5 ice cream for the melted $13 ice cream was the day Bronwyn decided that the cat could get her own damn Draeger’s frequent shopper card.
“Just what I needed,” said Bronwyn, ruefully considering the mess of roving and overtorqued string in her lap, “...yet another strangely addictive way to get my ass kicked by a simple machine.”
“Oh, great, I forgot to clean up while things were quiet,” muttered Bronwyn, staring at the mess and clutter scattered about the cosmos.
Brownwyn wished she lived in a universe where she could pull anvils out of her back pocket, drop clutter on the floor and have it mysteriously disappear, produce six-course turkey dinners by simply opening a briefcase, and heal her own fireworks-based injuries by resuming the chase of smartalecky rabbits.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
191 queries in 1.3986 seconds