• 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."
Harry Potter remembered the dreadful day Dumbledore had told him he must either kill Voldemort, or be killed; however, over the years, the lack of a timeframe for this showdown had stretched his fear into a kind of rubbery anxiety, so that often he could not recall exactly what was worrying him.
“If knowledge is power, and power corrupts, it’s got to be all these books making you so damn evil.” Mildred explained to Ursula.
I’m usually here till closing time, at which point I take a look around, bleary eyed, at my fellow bleary eyed patrons, and, overcome by the sense that we have become a community tonight, I stand up on a desk and say, just as last call comes over the loudspeakers, “C’mon, everybody, one more book, it’s on me!” to riotous applause.
Sometimes the only cure for what ails me is a good book recommendation.
I’ve decided to hook up my cats to small treadmills, and decode their little steps (long, short, long long short short) to write sentences.
If you find yourself watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, considering the major plot point and thinking, “you know, that’s not a bad idea,” rather than “yikes!”, you might want to get some help.
When did my little shelf of 30 books turn into the “room lined with bookshelves”?
Next time you read a book and are moved strongly by a piece of writing, get out your pen (I said pen, not pencil) and write something on that page.
They want to go to the Children’s Museum; can I get away with ducking immediately into the museum cafe with my book?
There are plenty of ways self-employment sucks, but when the boss decides to grant staff a two hour mental-health-break in the middle of the afternoon to finish reading a novel that’s just reached the exciting part, it makes up for a lot.
Having found a previously unknown secondhand book by one of her favoured, but now deceased, authors, Rosa read so voraciously for the next two days that people would bump into her book-wielding form as she walked waveringly down the street.
“The idea, Keith, is that you and I will travel around the country together eating pot roast, writing about the places we see and the people we meet along the way, as well as any thoughts or insights we might have about the pot roast, which we’ll then publish as a coffee table book.”
Ooh, I’m sorry; here is your brain - I only borrowed it to help me get through a Gail Godwin book.
The author would like you to please buy this book at retail price; but at the very least, he would appreciate it if you would rescue it from the bargain bin whenever possible.
Artificially big boobs will likely make your pile of books shrink.
When the walls first took on their mirror-like glow, allowing Henry to see his own reflection in just about any direction he happened to turn, he thought it amusing, a novelty of sorts, and he walked around the house looking at himself at every turn from every angle; but when the floors and ceilings took on that reflective quality, and then the couch and chairs and other furniture, the dishes and books and carpet beneath his feet began to reflect, he grew scared that he’d be lost forever, disappearing in some endless picture of himself, and he struggled for a way out, crawling on hands and knees as he bumped into all those things now lost to him, searching the reflection of his own frantic eyes for the door.
Every season the stores require a brand-new bunch of books, so new books must be written, right?
After thinking the matter through while sitting in the museum amongst the ancient dinosaurs and dusty books, the intelligent and pulchritudinous inamorata decided to dance all the myriad colours of the glittering rainbow.
The library was the gardenwhere my mother took me forswimming lessons and Ilearned to drown.
“When that day comes, I suppose I’ll be one of those dirty old men, white-bearded like Whitman, poking around in the stacks of derelict libraries, caressing the spines, perusing the neglected volumes, and contemplating how his desire for books only increases with age.”
The woman so intently focused on her book, ‘The history of the world, pt 1’, didn’t realise that her process of reading and ripping each page out as she was done was attracting the horrified attention of her fellow commuters.
The other woman tore one of the front pages out of her book, just because she thought the quote was interesting and she couldn’t be bothered writing it down.
I think I may just have realised why I initially felt such immediate affection for our very own ‘mouse.
Any book read following the completion of a truly great book is doomed before it’s started.
The little paperback trembled slightly as the forlorn woman foraged amongst the bookshelves.
The very tall woman gestured towards a part of the library that was ‘just for her’ and in all the excitement the little girl nearly forgot to breathe.
As all books are made up only of sentences and, similarly, Scrine exists only for sentences, doesn’t that mean that all books are Scrine?
A book, when published, is a finished work that should and must speak for itself out in the world; to see the touring author chase along behind it, gossipping to the readers about a venerable old character who deserves to rest in peace, is momentarily salacious but utterly tacky.
Apparently, there are people out there that don’t like books.
I would like to die peacefully and, of course, quietly in a library, but considering I don’t want to die, I may never be able to visit a library again.
“Read more books, read more books,” said the young woman who, coincidentally, was standing in front of a bookshop.
Although it’s a mild form of vandalism, Norman took great pleasure in going into the Fantasy section of book stores and adding a strategically placed ‘r’ to the word ‘Beast’ in all of the titles.
Some books get so far inside your head that, for a little while, you can only see the world through the author’s eyes.
It was a busy life, jumping from one book to the next, scurrying between the spines, avoiding any glances from prying human eyes.
Doesn’t it ache when your life, your body or your mind don’t allow you the luxury of, or the energy for, hours spent just sitting quietly and reading.
All the best books hurt just a little
Little bear gnawed on the corners of the book for a little while, then lay back to enjoy the dozy afternoon sun.
Cheri hated playing “truth or dare” style board games with her husband because he took it personally that if she was stranded on a desert island all she would want is a good book, a bottle of chardonnay and her favorite vibrator.
I do hope one day that my life will make as interesting a read as some of the living books on offer, but, more so, I look forward to seeing how I explain the big rusty Scrine-bird.
It was a tatty little fact book from 1957, written about a now-defunct irrigation district in the California desert; it was out of date, obsolete; there was no earthly reason for caring; yet the whole staff of the library’s History Section watched with nervous smiles as the little book was stuffed unceremoniously into a purse and carried out the door.
“It always seemed to me the greatest loss of the game Clue that one could never do it to Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the book.”
The novel Cellular, for example, made me want to vomit hot blood from my eyeballs…. and not in the good way.
Boots, scarves, hats, coats and plenty of excuses to stay inside and read books.
The books are yelling and shouting at me, leaving me no peace and with nowhere to run, as they haunt me and chase me down the echoing halls.
It’s a good thing the library doesn’t employ rent-a-cops to track down fines and missing books, because damn, I’d be first against the wall.
Books that are dusty, ones that are new, crisp and clean, books that are silly, some that are sharp, harsh and mean, books that are real, ones that have screams, books, give me books, let me dream.
Will you tell that beautiful sunshine and sweet Summer air to just shut up - I’ve got books to be reading!
Some books come from so rich and beautiful a place, they not only reach you, but reside within you forever.
Some books git inside your head.
Before Laura could finish IMing me her excitement about the new book she was reading, I’d already logged in to my local library and downloaded the ebook version to read this evening.
Perusing the aisles of his local used book store, Henry came upon the 1902 Perry, Iowa resident directory and was thrilled to no end to discover that the town, home to roughly 4,000, had just over 2,000 people who listed their occupation as either Engineer, Coal Shoveler, or Brakeman, and that the town even had its own college, offering study in a variety of fields including “the elocutionary arts.”
I hold the book I am reading on my knees, below the desk, out of sight.
Love me and leave me be, enveloped in my world of words.
The bird liked to imagine that the girl hiding behind the tree was the Johnny Appleseed of librarians, and that she’d given up the strict confines of the conventional library so that she was free to roam the land, neatly piling books wherever she went so that birds everywhere had something good to read whenever they got tired of flying.
It’s filthy, it’s obsessive, it’s materialistic and she revelled in it.
If I could only discover the alchemical secret that makes hate disappear I would feel much better about all those years spent in my study with occult books
I have three library cards and I swear, “I never buy books,” but I keep finding myself with an empty wallet and a guilty grin sneaking out of my local used bookstore with the heavy brown paper bag bearing evidence of my addiction.
He stared at the stacks of century old books, most of which he’d read himself as a young man when he’d first grown hungry for words, and was more than a little startled when the happiness he felt for his mom’s books finding their way safely into his care had turned somehow into an intense sadness that left him pondering the invisible, delicate connections he shared with others.
Dear authors, musicians and artists generally: Thank you.
I dreamt I wrote a book.
I read most of the right books, but I never found God, or some false god, or myself, or a giving tree with enough apples to sell and enough trunk to build a boat to take me far, far away from here.
I read Walter Mosley and wish I were a capable black man fighting injustice with strong fists and deep intelligence.
This year I started a book. It has a beginning, a middle, an end. It is not done, but a first draft has begun to smoulder and fire. It's true beginning - it's heart and soul - belongs here.
Eventually books became so rare that it was necessary to enforce rationing, so each citizen was issued only a small handful of individual letters to read each day.
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