• 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."
Here’s some little known facts: 1) ghosts are mostly people who are sent back from the afterlife because they happened to die in that small, one-hour window of time just before clocks get set back, 2) the zombie population is comprised mostly of bad spellers, and 3) Hell sprung from the imagination of a Toledo, Ohio shoe salesmen, who for some baffling reason, continued to suffer a bad case of athlete’s foot even after his death.
“Whimsy, fulcrum, seminole, scribe; awesome, winsome, reconcile, jibe,” recited the ghost as he hopped off the bus, leaving in his ectoplasmic wake a vague, frowning confusion.
Bloody Mary, annoyed at having her nap interrupted yet again, sneered at the children from inside the bathroom mirror as she rolled up a copy of the restraining order and shoved it right through the faucet.
The ghost in my machine claims I’m the ghost in his machine.
The ghost who sometimes walked the tunnels under the library wore eight pairs of glasses on its long, sad face, and its voice was the whispery crinkle of antique paper.
Fred Astaire’s ghost glides restlessly through my old house searching eternally for Ginger Rogers, his feet occasionally tapping on the hard wood floors as he goes room to room.
Stewart couldn’t have cared less about the apparitions, and if it wasn’t for his having to untangle them from the cobwebs each morning, he probably wouldn’t have paid them any attention at all.
Sometimes J. Edgar Hoover’s ghost will take a swing at me when I bring up that whole business about the gunning down of Ma Barker, but the Bureau has no power in the afterlife, and his transparent fists barely muss my hair.
I know that J. Edgar Hoover’s ghost is still really jealous of Melvin Purvis, so sometimes I’ll say, “Hey, you remember that time Melvin shot down Dillinger after calling out, “Stick ‘em up, Johnny” and the papers couldn’t shut up about how great Melvin was?, well, I was wondering if since your name is also Johnny, if you found that ironic or uncomfortable in any way.”
Many visits now find me walking the halls of Scrine, empty and full of echoes of the day, in a ghostly, haunting way.
Do the living haunt the dead?
When the meeting was called to order, the ghost of Samuel Johnson proposed that they get right to work on the afterlife’s first ghost dictionary, but he was vetoed immediately by an overwhelming boo, and not the scary, haunting kind like you might expect from a room full of ghosts, but more like a “Will you shut up already about that dictionary business!” kind of boo.
The ghost of Herbert Hoover sometimes haunts my breakfast table, scaring the kids with his old-fashioned haircut and annoying me with complaints that my biscuits are dry.
Ghosts can see lumps under blankets, but only when they are shaped like scared little children.
Henry knew it’d be almost impossible to prove that the ghost of Vincent Price was slipping “Thriller” into radio playlists whenever he got the chance.
The thin ghosts of the dead make hardly a whimper as they fail at what they couldn’t even accomplish in life.
The house was somnambulant, each joist, each floorboard creaking like the unseen presence of some dry old man shuffling slowly from teapot to easy chair in the humidity of a late summer afternoon.
It feels as though we should wander from room to room haunting our own lives, making dinner, folding the laundry.
His dreams were so groovy that sometimes ghosts would sneak into the house on Saturday nights and use his head as a disco ball.
Not wanting to be rude when the man unexpectedly woke up, the ghosts made up some crazy story about using the man's head as a disco ball on account of his groovy dreams, but really they were just fascinated by how big and round the thing was.
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