• 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."
If you’ve hurt your baker’s feelings, you might consider bringing her a nice bouquet of flours.
Ah, it is winter in the Bay Area, and all the daffodils are in bloom.
Back in the scrineiverse, Mary-Beth knelt before the alter, placing tokens to represent the sacred icons of coffee, food, alcohol, pirates and words - later, she could never be sure, but she liked to think that the unusual rainbow that appeared in the sky and the way the flowers seemed to be dancing in the garden were a blessing from Becky.
Betty-Sue, brow wrinkled in concentration, measured the cham in exact amounts and reading from her Scrineiverse spell book chanted the ancient words until little astronauts appeared (or rather grew) out of the cham and presented her with beautiful yellow daffodils before heading off to inspect the world.
Becky was responsible for the rainbow and the dancing flowers, but she was also responsible for the short shower of sleeping gnus not five minutes later.
OK, Lily thought, the last of the annuals are installed in the garden, the patio pots are all filled and set in their places…it’s time to raindance, baby!
Little did the weary snail realise that the delicate blue flowers had a rather intoxicating effect and ...whoooah, look it the pretty flowwwers...
Bear, being unable to read, was not bothered by the world news as the discarded newspaper fluttered quite prettily on the dancing breeze over the field of wildflowers.
i always put plastic flowers on her grave because they last longer like i wish she might have so i could have known her better
Little Bear opened one sleepy eye to check if it was nearing dinnertime and discovered that in the space of just his afternoon nap the first tulip of spring had pushed its sprout half an inch out of the sun-warmed soil and was tickling his nose.
I wish I were living the life of a flower, brief, but beautiful and full of sunshine and rain.
She used to pick the flowers out of the cracks between the sidewalks, nobody knew why, but she would, day in and day out, as if her life somehow depended on it; we, we just laughed, deciding instead to invest in the stock market.
Spring was a hard-won battle that year, young potted daisies drooped with frostbite while we slowly all became snowpeople.
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