• 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."
Every time I tell someone I’m a scriner, their eyes dance about my head and then try to peer into my pockets, looking for my funny hat.
I walked towards the lab, John Doe bobbing gently in his jar.
I’m getting tired of living in my own head, so now I’m going to live in my armpits instead.
It was Timmy’s incurable case of misshapen head that led to his love of hats.
Cafe Press does not mention if the new Scrine caps are roomy enough for an inner layer of tinfoil.
Henry feared his best ideas somehow drained out from his head while he slept, pooling in the back of his neck until finally he would sweat them out onto his pillow, which was always cold and damp when he woke up in the morning.
Miss Jane wiped the splatters of blood and carvings of pumpkin from her broadsword, and, lifting the madwoman’s head from the ground, she looked into her dull eyes and said “I promised another that I would end your pain, so I hope you can consider this a civic duty.”
My tummy’s filled with teeth that grind, my head is filled with butter-
I would not recommend spending too much time living inside your own head, it’s far too cramped for one thing.
As things turned out, Henry’s horoscope mistress turned out to have her head in the stars.
It sounds funny until you actually see one and then it’s not.
Secretly, Henry called them his Barbie girls, on account of how easily they lost their heads.
Patty shook the young boy’s head and was satisfied to see it sounded as empty as it looked.
The young sergeant rubbed his sore head while listening to his D.I. shout, “... and next time you have thoughts about the innocence of those Spice Girls, you can damn well keep those thoughts to yourself!”
I’ve had the phrase Honky Tonk Chicken bouncing about in my head all day.
Although he’d never seen the Doves of Ambiguity, Peter worried that the two nesting in his head were only the scout birds, and that one day as dusk was settling in on his sleepy little imagination, the whole flock would arrive, squeezing into his head to begin building their summer nests.
It’s just a little freaky how many words are rattling around inside my head.
Paul Volcker, the now retired Federal Reserve Board Chairman, once gave me a two dollar tip for delivering breakfast to his hotel room; if I remember correctly, he searched for quite some time for the slot in my head, thinking I was some sort of bank.
After the accident, Buck was troubled when he realized that all the pretty girls now reminded him of old Army buddies—or was it the other way around?—he couldn’t be sure, and that fact alone scared him shitless.
Becky turned haltingly as her body transformed, slowly beginning to fluoresce and hum, each extra head bearing its own particular resonance.
As she gracefully walked down the steps of the plane, stepping around the heads of the airline, Miss Jane noticed how perfectly the blood trickling down the steps contrasted with her delicate beige shoes.
I’ve invented a new kind of pressboard that’s made out of unopened bills, which makes excellent coffin wood or squeak-free floor joists for soon-to-be repossessed dream homes; I’d mail you a brochure but I’ve used them all to build myself a more practical wooden head.
Thanks to my large and buoyant wooden head, I manage to stay afloat during these economically troubled times.
I’ve whittled my wooden head with great care, but I’m afraid I’ll never be a real man.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
177 queries in 1.8648 seconds