• 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."
Oddly enough, a man with twelve toes is no more steady on his feet then then a ten-toed man.
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to make feet so far down there was badly mistaken.
Who knows what boot and grud are up to - and more to the point - why does grud have a fork instead of a spoon to stir her coffee…?
Even if you don’t feed your dogs at the table, they’re imaginative enough to place themselves where food might accidentally land.
When Dr Zimmel had finally successfully genetically modified his own feet, he wasn’t as pleased as he had hoped he would be, although it was probably because of the smell.
Excuse me, for my lips are as clumsy as my feet,And my words are as uncoordinated as my hands.
Jesus’ feet were size 10 1/2, but he’d only wear size 11 sandals because he had an irrational fear of fractions.
“There is no feeling named after me,” Sally pouted to the others, “but I don’t care so much, not as long as I don’t have ugly blistery feet like someone in the room.”
With reams of carefully worded sentences tucked under their arms, the Scrine historians made their way across the plaza, eyes and thoughts locked firmly on their destination, knowing full well that any deviation, any hesitation or more than semicolon-like pause in their steps might give rise to a multitude of oddities the world would not understand, and yet, if one had taken a closer look and peered into the eyes of the youngest historian, last in line as was his place, one might have detected the slight hint of a smile in those eyes as a lone sheet of paper somehow slipped from his grasp, unnoticed, or so it seemed, and floated out and across the grass, where it came to rest quietly at the feet of a young girl who was crying.
The girl, upset that her feet were not round like those of her favorite animal in the whole wide world—the elephant!—had been crying for nearly ten minutes when the single sheet of paper came floating across the plaza, coming to rest across her bare toes and distracting her just long enough from her podiatrary troubles that she was able to catch her breath and stop the flow of tears, but whether or not the sheet of paper knew what it was doing or had any thoughts at all concerning the girl or the shape of her feet, one can only guess.
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