• 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."
I thought about it before I hit the delete key, I really did, promise, because the delete key is death for those of us without any resurrection powers, and I don’t take anything lightly, especially deleting another person’s Scrine entry, and certainly not our friendship, and certainly, beyond reason, really, any concept of resurrection at all, but that’s way off topic and I don’t want that to happen, not when all I’m trying to say is that I thought I knew what the problem was when really I didn’t know at all, which I should have known all along because I know about as much about html and css as I do about what makes a giraffe’s neck work, which isn’t much, although I suspect it’s kind of like this apology, some sort of combination involving muscles and gravity, the idea that hitting the delete key on a friend’s Scrine entry is like an unchewed apple three-fourths the way down a giraffe’s neck -- it’s not coming back, no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.
The bear, the duck, the furry rhinoceros and the sad giraffe pottered along in their tinky truck, pulled along by the big yellow elephant.
The ground dove up and down in huge, deep pits of anxiety, throwing clusters of giraffes and banana plantations aside as if they were feathers, racing along in waves after the diminunitive and sparkling creature that flitted gently away into the distance.
My rules regarding giraffes in the house are simple: no running except in the hall, no kicking at the dog, no peering around doorways, and necks down in the dining room to avoid the chandelier.
Giraffes should never wear short skirts.
Keith became a rich man after inventing the stick-on Scrine scab, but lost it all after falling for a scam artist selling miniature house giraffes.
After years of therapy, I was finally able to admit that lying about owning a house giraffe was actually nothing more than a lifetime of pent up frustration regarding my mother’s embarrassingly long neck.
If your house giraffe is to remain healthy, it is important to schedule daily walks of at least thirty minutes; on windy days, however, walks should be avoided, or at the very least, scheduled for the evening hours in order to avoid your giraffe becoming tangled in the neighborhood children’s kite strings.
It was a grand plan—stay up late into the night making mad passionate love to a pad of paper and his long missing muse—but somehow everything went awry when his house giraffe, working that long, blue tongue of his for what must have been hours, managed to loosen the lid on the jar of tryptophan wine that he’d thought he’d stored safely away, high upon the shelf above his desk.
During his teen years, my house giraffe refused to go out into the rain, claiming that the neighbors laughed at his umbrella.
Harold did not consider himself a specist, even though he secretly blamed his neighbor’s house giraffe for bringing down home values in the neighborhood and once almost went as far as writing species-related slurs on the side of his neighbor’s garage.
When bathing your house giraffe, it’s very easy to forget to wash behind its ears, so always do that first.
When taking your house giraffe out for an evening at the ballet, keep in mind that he’ll be much more comfortable if you reserve him two seats; also, others attending will appreciate if you sit in the back.
“Bruised-apple eyed she ruminates towards the tall buildings she mistakes for a herd: her gaze has the loneliness of smoke.”
It irritated the giraffe that someone in Russia thought it necessary to flood his email inbox with a steady stream of longer neck promises; “As if a bunch of Ruskies know anything about giraffes,” the giraffe muttered, searching his wallet for the 100th time for a credit card that did not exist.
“Oh look,” the giraffe said, distracted for a moment from his unwarranted short neck concerns, “gnu has tweeted that he’s at the waterhole.”
The giraffe steadied itself, balancing the big stick carefully.
Damn, I'm glad I'm not a giraffe.
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