• 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."
You need a biscuit.
Iced vo-vos, ginger kisses, venetians, tic-tocs, monte carlos, tim tams, hundreds and thousands, ginger nuts, soggy milk coffees, fruit rolls, ANZAC biscuits, and the now lost bush biscuit (two sandwiched together with vegemite and butter in the middle).
You learn something new every day if you hang around Scrine.
Next time I travel interstate, I am definitely going to have to buy a packet of Ginger Nuts and try the difference for myself.
Unexpected activities for this week; assesssing food for its ‘sogginess’ factor.
You will harass Australians into baking biscuits.
The ingredients lay in wait, the oven warmed the house, and the boot decided that photographic evidence would not be forthcoming; this would be a tale of words.
You will be able to predict the biscuity future.
I don’t know what it’s made of, but I’m certain that I’ll love it.
“Here, Fate, here, Fatey, Fatey, Fatey, Fate - I’ve a great big Biscuit of Trouble-Brewing for you!”
Bertha didn’t quite know what it would entail, but it certainly sounded like something she could get her teeth into.
The crumbly devils sprouted legs and scurried away across the cloth-covered table.
The biscuits of the night loomed guiltily in her mind.
Sorry, roomie, your oreos are mine.
The ghost of Herbert Hoover sometimes haunts my breakfast table, scaring the kids with his old-fashioned haircut and annoying me with complaints that my biscuits are dry.
Some material might not be practical for use as currency, but wouldn’t we all be just a little bit happier?
In fact, life is so tough that you may as well just put your feet up and have a cup of tea and a biscuit.
The tea sat nearby, biding its time.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
168 queries in 1.1102 seconds