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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.



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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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Denver
No Place Like Home :: Br. Ezra

Denver is grimy in March and the city, unsure of itself, is conflicted between the death of winter and the outbreak of spring, your eyes smarting from the air that is cubic volumes of dirt clumped rock salt and the tears of melted snowmen and dead men whose fingers are frozen stiff around gallons of rotgutā€¦ their bodies sleep unforgotten until rivers of melting run off launch the fleet of ferrymen through old canals where the cities Nuevo riche toast each other from balconies of turn of the century office buildings cum condominiums, each dead men winking at them from below as their slowly winding trip returns them their sodden necropolis.

    TAGS:  Death, Denver, rotgut, Necropolis, Nuevo Riche


 

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