• 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."
Ideas and concepts, the visualization and the act of creating - these are the things that entertain me; the things themselves almost always bore me once they are complete.
The earth will not end in a nuclear exposion, it will just be sucked dry of all creativity and slowly return to amoebas and dust.
Today, I feel like I have all the creativity of a crushed grape.
These pockets of individuality and creativity, these people and places that have not been stamped out of the mass-moulding machine of homogenisation, they leave us, but we never know where they go; do they become hollow and cease to exist, or have they found another world, full of like-minded, but, of course, so very not alike people, a place we’ll never find, a place now only in our hearts.
As the words tumbled out of Rosie’s head in a seemingly creative manner, she wondered if this morning she had accidentally woken up with the brain of another.
All the scientists, musicians, artists, writers and madmen walked in columns, over hills, traversing rivers, towards the common man’s house, carrying gifts of pie and whistling merry tunes, for all their achievements and all of their creations were done in the name of this man.
Mr. Ashford recycled the words with such care that even the most staunch of us, including that grumpy old Mr. Beckins, couldn’t help but smile.
She wondered if there were some sort of tablet she could take to cure her creative constipation.
A big ol’ bulging bag of creativity and good old fashioned elbow grease landed heavily on the porch, leaking out into the lawn before anyone could pick it up.
There is winning, which is lovely, but then there is the engineering of a magnificently creative two point finish, which is, I can assure you, pure distilled joy.
The pain of uncertainty about your own creative vision has its own particular taste to it.
In an attempt to stimulate creativity, Keith moved his desk, which is actually hardly worth mentioning, certaintly not important, and is probably the sort of thing I'm supposed to report on Twitter, if that's still a thing.
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