• 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."
I don’t care how well that new industrial hallway carpet with the black, orange, brown and grey pattern hides stains—it’s a fucking atrocity and it gives me a splitting headache.
The entity known as boot is certainly 78, has pink hair and is keen on ladders, however, the real woman that wears the boot is definitely not 78, has had hair coloured purple, red, orange, brown and so on (but never pink) and is only interested in ladders as a functional device… but who are you going to believe; a boot or a woman?
“Whooh, look-it all the pretty coloured dots”.
As Becky stood in the middle of the earth, under the shade of the whippletree, amidst a streaming tunnel of fluorescing colours, listening to the sounds of a million voices collide and pop violently against each other, she wondered who else there was like her, she wondered if she were the only one truly alive in this steamy, underground version of reality, if all these other ‘people’ were just figments of her fig-scented imagination, if she were the only person that constantly received these giddy, swirling eddies of emotion that seemed to be simultaneously enervating and, yet, as stimulating as the stars in the night sky, these emotions of colour and noise and ice-cream which would swish fluidly around her body or if, indeed, there was another, one more, just one other entity who could wave away entire disenchantments with an insignificant brush of their hand, one who merely needed to think of the pastels and the paisleys to end the suffering (or begin it), one more being who would subtly, but oh-so surely join her in this licorice all-sorts land and bring her, finally, to her bursting and beautiful beginning.
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow.
Becky watched the swirling, shifting colours on her arm as they changed from pink to red to violet to green to blue and back again, and then she reached forward and gently removed both of her forearms, her left leg, her right ear and half of her tail and placed them all in the top her reverberating skull.
Dearest most colourful and bright beautiful sparklingness Becky, you are the wind, you are the reason for our life, we watch your every movement, breathless with awe, and with each sinuous step that you take, the winds of the sky swirl hypnotically and chaotically, and we, we are swept up and are aloft, gliding through the streaming ribbons of colour that is your love.
Becky raced down the lane, giggling and laughing, yelling confusing and contextless words, weaving and darting between the explosive rivers of colour, watching all the ducks bloom, the flowers exfoliate and the mammoths dance, and running recklessly forward towards the shimmering, magnetic and dazing light just that little bit further ahead.
As Becky swayed left and right during her happy dance of many colours, the colours sprayed out in ribbons all around her and the white lorikeets singing loudly nearby were coated with the most beautiful, unbelievable array of rainbow-hued feathers.
Becky ran in wild circles, skipping, twirling and leaping giddily as she went, and as she passed by the world turned into joyous frothy bubbles of colour and rippling textures (with the occasional miniature elephant).
Add a pinch of Miss Jane, stand well back, watch the flames.
Use one part rusty bird and one part mango; stir.
Take one duck, roll it out flat, watch it boing back up again.
Add a dash of frog, sing a song or two, wonder why you’re not a muppet too.
Take one dose of grudknows, mix well and relax.
Mix two swords well, one for the right hand, one for the left; voila, Inigo Montoya!
Count yourself lucky; what a pretty colour.
Crush one spoon of buttons, blend into the dry bugs, gradually combine with the walrus, bake for one hour and leave Becky to dry on wire racks.
Becky peered merrily at all the rusty reds and yelling yellows and nodded to the microscopic squirrel nearby as she said, “Looks like Scrine to me.”
Becky looked at her suddenly dull and colourless feet in a happily confused manner, shrugged and danced the dance of the morning sun shower.
Let’s start with rainbows and then…, actually, that’s pretty good right there.
As the crayon was smeared across the paper, the rainbow filing out stripe by stripe, roy-g-biving all the way, there was also a picture of something else, someone that raised above the rainbow, who brought all the colours together and lifted them up and into the sky, and it appeared that she was holding three baby echidnas and a small snowdome or two.
At the end of the world, through the dust-clouds and halos of amoebas, there was a shimmering light, one that fractured into a spectrum of every colour imaginable and a few that were not, and these they called life.
“It’s just that I feel so un-a-peeling today,” she said, looking down at her pale yellow skin.
The fluffy white clouds and the beautiful blue sky mocked the working man.
The sight of the three brightly coloured umbrellas drying out on the floor brought about spontaneous laughter and cheers of joy and delight.
As she leapt each ridge, the world around her changed suddenly, with the latest wave containing quite a collection of daffodils, some lovely little butterflies, a disturbing container of wax, one or two dozen bananas, a surprisingly big canary, and a whole field of roses.
Cast your mind back in time and imagine, if you will, an explosion of creativity and colour and celebrate this moment in any way you can.
She is colour, she is movement, she is laughter, she is the air, she is the sky, she is my soul.
And all the shapes and shades That made the colours see When they suddenly turned grey That they’re no longer there
And it was then, while staring at the rushing clouds in front of her, she realised her childhood friend had never left her, so she turned to her, squinting slightly from the brightly burning colours, reached forward into the mirage, took her hand and, together, they rolled gently into the sky.
Blue and yellow make green.
There’s something colourful on the horizon.
It turns out that when you mix all the colours of the world, they come out white and flutter softly down amongst the masses, which in turn makes my dear friend Becky laugh and giggle until the whole city stops to notice.
The crowds of reds were raging, and they were surrounded by the swaying oranges and boisterous yellows, who were in turn circled by rounds of graciously stepping greens and waves of undulating blues and, there, all alone, following the luscious layers of indigoes and almost violent moves of the violets, the girl danced.
Spend too much time seeing the world in black and white, and colour will revolt you, just a little.
Cyan almost sounds too nasty to be a colour.
Don’t even get me started on the so-called colour that is beige.
There’s yellow and then there’s yellow.
I sometimes suspect that we’re all figments of my imagination, but then realise I would have made a lot more polka-dot people, so it can’t possibly be true.
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