• 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."
Here’s some little known facts: 1) ghosts are mostly people who are sent back from the afterlife because they happened to die in that small, one-hour window of time just before clocks get set back, 2) the zombie population is comprised mostly of bad spellers, and 3) Hell sprung from the imagination of a Toledo, Ohio shoe salesmen, who for some baffling reason, continued to suffer a bad case of athlete’s foot even after his death.
So far I’ve broken up two fights, gotten homework done on time and enforced bedtime, all on the strength of the, “I have the power to take away all your Halloween candy” threat.
Miss Jane wiped the splatters of blood and carvings of pumpkin from her broadsword, and, lifting the madwoman’s head from the ground, she looked into her dull eyes and said “I promised another that I would end your pain, so I hope you can consider this a civic duty.”
That Halloween, they found that the crime scene laid out on the front porch, including an outline of a witch spattered with ketchup blood, did not go over as well as they’d hoped, particularly when the church camp kids trooped by.
Damon dressed as a zombie for Halloween - not a “Slow movin’, got time to run away” zombie; more like a “Chase after you and crash through windows unexpected-like” zombie.
“Best not to ask why they had to make these rules,” advised my daughter as I perused the permission slip for the school dance, exclaiming every once in a while over prohibitions such as “No Cross-Dressing”, “No Full Face Masks”, and “Chest-Area Decorations Must Be Fully Attached To Costumes”.
I had been to Koontz Manor many times before, but the charged atmosphere of Halloween and my adolescent imagination made the house seem more sinister than on those other nights.
The musty air smelled of dead things, unkown dead things and creatures made of mold and alien spores; the musty smell of ancient, lingering nightmares feeding off the fright of young children looking for a visceral, hormonal thrill, like I had when I last walked through the decaying home with my cousin Jolene, all those Halloweens ago.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
147 queries in 1.9869 seconds