• 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."
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.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
131 queries in 0.7288 seconds