• 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."
The weekend is the time when all good Scriners do laundry and mow the lawn, hearts not quite in the job as their hands twitch on imaginary keyboards; they are prone to sudden outbursts of single convoluted sentences out of severe Scrinewithdrawal.
Not to be confused with the Prize Pants Troll, the Laundry Troll is infamous for sticking orange crayons and tax-deductable receipts into the pockets of pants that are about to go into the wash.
Many mistakenly believe in two types of men’s blue jeans—clean and dirty—which completely ignores one of the most overlooked kinds of all—clean enough.
Julia hung back, hoping to be the lost sock in the load of laundry that was the tour group from her small Texas town.
The towering Mt. Vesuvius of laundry decorated the middle of the room; Tammy glared at it menacingly armed with detergent, bleach and dryer sheets - there was only room for one of them in this small bedroom.
“Oops, two second rule,” she said, upon dropping her unmentionables on the dirty laundromat floor when moving them from the washer to the dryer.
If it’s Labor Day, then why am I doing laundry?
At night, everyone's pockets fill with tiny, glistening stars that they grab by the handful and toss up into the sky, although sometimes one or two will slip through a person's fingers and end up in the laundry, but that's okay because stars always make the clothes extra clean.
It feels as though we should wander from room to room haunting our own lives, making dinner, folding the laundry.
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