#Grammatical Sentence

[penhive]

Types of Sentences

Sentences can be classified into grammatical, semantic, and Philosophical sentences.

Grammatical Sentences are:

Simple Sentence

Simple sentence is the one which consists of one independent clause. Example is she dances well.

Compound Sentence

Compound sentences consist of 2 independent clauses joined by and, for or so. Example is I have done my homework and I am going home.

Complex sentence is  the one in which one dependent clause is joined by an independent clause using unless, until, and so on Unless you pay me money, I won’t let you go

Semantic Sentences come from culture and they are historical, cultural, and aesthetic sentences.

Historical Sentence

A historical sentence bears a historical aspect. For example: the holocaust bears witness to the sad plight of the Jews. Through Ahimsa Gandhi won the freedom of India.

Cultural Sentence

Cultural sentence is a cushion of connotation. An example is Coca Cola has become a piece of art for pop art.

Aesthetic sentence

An aesthetic sentence has a figurative meaning. For example: Eternity flies as Sadhus in white unveiling time on mystic flight. Here Sadhu is a metaphor for birds and times stands for streams of consciousness.

Philosophical Sentences

Philosophical sentences are synthetic sentences, analytical sentences and Meta-sentences (coined by me)

Analytic sentence and synthetic sentence comes from the philosopher Kant.

Analytic sentence

Analytic sentence is the one where the predicate depends on the subject. Example is all bachelors are unmarried men is analytic statement.

Synthetic Statement

A synthetic sentence is the one where the predicate need not depend on the subject. For example in the statement all women are blondes is only partially true and blondes need not necessarily depend on women.

Philosophical Sentence

A philosophical sentence carries an idea that is philosophical. An example: is Plato’s theory of forms is reference to an ideal world that exists with the physical world of the sentences.

Meta-Sentence

A meta-sentence is a combination of semantic meaning and a metaphysical truth. An example is: life given by God is a gift to live a life of celebration.

[aeolianblues]

This feels like a better summary of the last 14 years than any political correspondent can put into a neat paragraph. Save for Rishi Sunak, every single one of the Tory PMs of the last 14 years has been booted out.

[inloveforevr]

I love talking to people about art . Every time someone is like I’m bad at art . I just want to scream like, it doesn’t matter.!!!!!! Just create. Create anything!!!!! It’s part of our human essence to tap into creativity!!!!! We Must Create Things. What are our hands for if not creating a painting or moulding some clay? What r they for if not for writing in your diary or sewing your clothes ? Use your hands more!!! Scrolling is not Going to Fill your cup arghhhhhh!!!!!!

[hedgehog-moss]

One mistake I made a lot when I started learning English was writing both the auxiliary and the main verb in past tense—as in, "Did the rain stopped?" My English teacher had to really drill this grammar point into my head, she was like "the point of 'did' here is to indicate past tense, there's no need for another time marker." Me, genuinely baffled: "Why not?" Teacher: "Think of the 'ed' in 'stopped' as having migrated to the beginning of the sentence and become 'did'. So it's no longer in 'stopped'." Well I was sad to see it go. I pointed out that in French you'd say "The rain (itself) has it stopped?" and 'the rain' feels welcome to stay even though the whole point of the pronoun 'it' should be to replace it in a quicker way. But it would be sad if the noun & its pronoun never got to hang out together so we keep both <3

My teacher had a British look on her face that made my middle-school self wonder if maybe she thought my language wasn't optimally designed, and then she said that in English it would feel clunky to give the same piece of grammatical information twice, and "if you use 'did' then the -ed in 'stopped' doesn't add anything." That just sounded offensive, I mean since when do letters need to add something to a sentence? isn't it enough that they adorn the end of words & frolic with the others in friendship. If it bothers you so much just don't pronounce them. Idk, "did the rain stopped" felt so right to me. In the end my teacher said that "The rain has it stopped?" with the redundant pronoun is the more formal French phrasing anyway, and I was like yeah true we'd rather say "is it that it (itself) has stopped to rain?" and I felt like this really proved my point and I think she felt the same way

[inpermanences]

Caryn Pines, whose still alive to witness her little free spirit Stanley miraculously rise from the dead. The Stan twins buy a brand new sofa that extends into a bed just for her, so she doesn’t have to make a treacherous journey up the stairs. It’s her own slice of heaven, seeing her babies get along like they did when they were children. Seeing her grandchildren parallel to their uncles; Dipper, studious and reclusive, Mabel, crafty and eccentric.

It all comes to a head when Caryn wakes up at the witching hour. There’s ruckus being made in the kitchen, pushing herself upright and cursing at everything under the sun as she grabs a broom. She’s ready to beat whatever creature made the mistake of entering her sons home — pausing at the sight of her two sons.

“We need to put a lock on the sugar. I don’t know if my stomach can tolerate another Mabel’s Guide To Cooking experiment.” Ford grumbles. He opens the fridge, taking out a lemonade pitcher and pours out two glasses.

Stan’s chuckles. “Mhm. I know where you could get some sugar.”

Ford rolls his eyes at the cheesy line, having heard it a million times before. Thick fingers hook into the band of Ford’s boxers to reel him close to Stan. Ford narrows his eyes, raising an eyebrow as both his hands are preoccupied with glass, the condensation wetting his palms.

Stan grins, leaning in to steal a kiss.

It lasts for a mere few seconds before Caryn’s screams bloody murder.

The twins pull apart as if they’ve been electrocuted. Lemonade glasses crash into the sticky hardwood flooring, as they both snatch the nearest possible weapon. Stanley, an animal spinal cord with it’s ribs still attached. Stanford, a lamp.

“Mom? Mom, what’s wrong?” Stan asks, putting the bones down and taking a step closer. Caryn clutches the broom like a lifeline. She can only stare at this-this monster that’s inches closers with every step. He holds out his hand, presumably to take away the broom from her clutch. Motherly instinct kicks in, to protect Stanford from his own twin. Her arms rise to strike Stanley down. “Ow! Ow! Mom — that hurts! OW!”

“You freak!” Caryn screeches in agony and anger. Stan goes frigid underneath the safety of his arms from his mother’s blows. He looks down at his mother with her fury in his eyes — Stanley thinks she’s talking about Stanford. “You’re a monster!”

“I know it’s - OW! - the old age talking.” Stanley growls, one hand grabbing the handle of the broomstick. It only infuriates her further. “I don’t care if you’re our mom. I won’t let you talk about Stanford like that.”

“Mom, it’s really early in the morning. I think it’s better if we talk about whatever is bothering you with some breakfast.” Ford tries. They think she’s stupid. She’s known everything about them. How could she miss this? Ford places the lamp down, stepping closer to de-escalate the situation. “Please, stop hitting Stanley.”

“I saw you kissing your brother!” Caryn screams.

The twins freeze.

Caryn turns her focus back to Stanley. There’s no love for him anymore. Not for this depraved abomination corrupting her sons innocence. She tugs at the broom and the handle spilts in two. “How could you do this? After all the pain and misery you put us through, how could you?”

“Mom, I’m sorry—“ Stan starts.

Caryn doesn’t let him finish. She thrusts the broom handle forward like a sword and lets the splintered wood make a flesh wound into his left shoulder. Stan yells in pain, hand coming up to cover the bleeding.

“You ruined your own life! And now you you’re trying to drag your brother down with you!” She tries to strike another blow but misses as he stumbles backward, falling flat on his ass. Ironic, that even as he raises his uninjured arm to protect himself, it’s a strikingly all-to-familiar position. As a child protecting himself Filbrick’s coropal punishment.

Ford steps between them then, using himself as a shield to protect Stan from any further harm. “You’re worse than Filbrick. At least he wasn’t a fucking pervert for his own family! I want you dead, Stanley. DEAD!”

Ford takes the wooden handle out of her hands without a fight, tossing it away. Silence fills the room, none of them knowing what to say.

“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper calls from the kitchen entryway. The three of them snap their heads in his direction. He stands there with a bat in his hands, Mabel tucked safely behind him with her own grappling gun; looking worriedly at their bleeding Grunkle. Stanley scrambles onto his feet then, walking past the younger set of twins.

“Stanley, wait!” Ford calls for him. He raises his hand in a futile attempt to reach him, feet frozen in place as he lets the distance grow further. There’s the sharp sound of a door slamming, followed with a car speeding away from the Mystery Shack.

part two

[kujakumai]

"What's Ryou Bakura's level of English proficiency" is honestly an interesting question if you ignore the dub canon and assume he has no ties to britain. He's a good-natured nerd but switching schools a bunch of times can't be good for your grades even if you take out all the classes he would miss by getting stabbed or having a ghost take over his body; he's a TTRPG fanatic, a genre only available in English at its incipience, but I think by the late 90s there were enough translated or Japanese-made titles available that knowing English wouldn't have been a strict pre-requisite; he's implied to be pretty well-traveled via his dad and has lived outside Japan, but that was in Egypt, not an English-speaking country.

I could readily accept a world where Bakura has much better English than anyone else in the gang and I could equally readily accept a world where he's basically as bad as Jonouchi, or he's really bad except specifically when the sentence involves the over-the-top fantasy vocabulary you'd find in Wizardry, or he speaks no English whatsoever but has middling Cairene Arabic.

[silverhalla]

brosca is the only one who will ever see Duncan as a savior, at the end of the war.

you’re a human noble. you’re a proud, happy member of house cousland. when howe betrays your family and you’re there, terrified, in the cellar with the shattered remains of your dying family, it’s you and your mother against the world. your mother: the pain-in-the-ass, hardheaded, spitfire of a woman that sassed you yesterday about manners is beside you, her eyes haggard and haunted. “He’s my husband,” she says, begging, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “He’s your father, and he’s dying, and I love him. Whatever he faces next, he faces it with me.”

She cannot be argued with. She cannot be reasoned with. You can beg and beg and beg your mama to come with you, to survive beside you, but the outcome will always be the same. Duncan will ask you to leave, and she will choose to stay. How can you live with that?

(It’s poetic justice, perhaps, how quickly you come to understand it.)

—-

You are a dwarven princess, beloved of the house aeducan, noble of caste and certain of birthright, when your brother betrays you.

Not the brother you expected to betray you, of course. Your bosom friend, your sovereign sibling. The one who would’ve had your back eternally, if the wide expanse of the throne hadn’t stood in the way. If only love could’ve bridged the chasm. the warden bridges what Trian could not, what Bhelen would not - a last-minute pardon, excusing you from a game you never knew you were playing.

(you had a birthright, certainly, and it was taken from you. all else you cling to is stolen valor now.

checkmate.)

—-

You are the young bride tabris, and your husband stands there bleeding.

Your cousin has already been stolen away, and it hurts, how innocent she was, when so much of you had been stolen away. You would’ve stood in her place a thousand times, and all the evil, lecherous, unspeakably human hands in the world wouldn’t have stopped you, if it meant shielding Shianni. Your husband, bright-eyed and already dying, even if he knows it not, comes to save you. He does not know you, but he saves you from horrors that you have braced against a thousand times before, before he knew you, even if it does not matter. he is noble, in that way.

Duncan is noble too. He offers you a way out - a way out from your family, from your friends, from the only world you have ever - could ever - know. he offers you a chance to die on the battlefield instead of dying in the cellar, before you would ever know this suffering, the suffering laid on you at birth, by mere sin of being elven.

(To die without knowing. Isn’t that worse?)

—-

You are mahariel, free to the wind, to the rain, to the very corruption of nature.

shemlen in the forest was an ill enough omen. to come with grave warnings of burial grounds and curses and demons? you should have fixed your young dalish curses on them, da’len, on what they wrought, and you should’ve turned and fled

you did not, and, by your side, he did not. in another world, you would have lived by his side. in this one, you watch him die again and again.

(it is in your nature, after all, the watching over of dying things.)

—-

You are a mage, human or elven, and it makes little difference.

the maker hates you regardless, or so the templars say. You are good, perhaps, and you turn them in, or else you are kind. It matters little to Andraste, if she’s the one listening, or to anyone else.

Duncan speaks. He offers you refuge, outside of the Circle, far from home. You’ve never seen sunlight unobstructed before, let alone war. You have to choose - Tranquility, or a noble death, somewhere down the road.

(it isn’t a choice, not really. it was made for you before you were even born.)

—-

but you, grey warden, you are something special.

He offers you a worthy death, somewhere in that nebulous future, and you don’t have to worry about how it comes anymore. You know where death will take you - on the doorstep of one darkspawn or another, not here, gasping, in the dirt.

Your sister says this life is worth it.

And it is, isn’t it, for yourself, for your family, for the few lonely friends that you leave behind? for finally, desperately, clawing your w ay out of poverty, even when it costs you everything? for rica to be safe?

(It will be worth it.

It must be worth it.)

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

i'd let bearded and fanged ben ruin my life

[eggwishing]

library folk

[khaotunq]

nights with nothing but dark in them; you could be my armour then.

[finnlongman]

I'm working on typing up my Oidheadh Con Culainn translation and turning glosses into full sentences, and I just hit §34, which is an extended description of Cú Chulainn's ríastrad.

I've got to say. Even having read a lot of ríastrad descriptions in my time and having a vague idea of what kind of word combinations we might be dealing with here... these sentences are completely unpredictable, which means I did just spend ten minutes typing one out only to eventually go, "Yeah, I have no idea what that means."

Also, I've got a word that might mean sinew/muscle or might mean penis. I'm assuming it's the former, because it appears to be plural. But, uh, I've been doing this long enough not to rule anything out.

"And it made a many-shaped unrecognisable terror of him" IT SURE DID

[cant-get-enough-btr-forever]

Logan Mitchell + Logan Henderson's tweets

(Big Time Incorrect Quotes/Text Posts #55)

Sources: [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x], [x]

[legoliomanikas]

"Rather than collecting jewels that have already been shaped... I'm more fascinated by the process of turning an unrefined stone into a precious gem"

[Instagram]

(bonus images under the cut)

If you can't read my handwriting:

"Had a headcanon that some of Aventurine's most-used jewelery were gifts from Jade during the early days of him joining the IPC...

(...since his continued retaining of material objects serve as an extension of his character, representing different eras in his life:

Still holding onto items from his family (child era)

Wearing multiple rings on one hand + a watch in his main outfit (post-slavery era; emulating the style of his old slaveowner)

Ratio's note being a physical reminder to continue living (post 2.1 era; ratio being a 'supporting role' to aventurine's own mental health reflection + representing a bond he has in the current day, despite all his past losses).

Given Jade's importance in him becoming Aventurine a Stoneheart, it would make sense if he has something from her as well to represent that significant life transition.)

...so it was very funny that after I started drawing this it was confirmed that she does gift her proteges stuff LOL.

(And then it sat on my computer for a bajillion years until I posted it now RIP.)"

[wyvnspng]

Mum said it’s my turn on the writing.

Ive never posted a fic before call me cringe but oh well.

My interpretation of the au and characters! probably takes place somewhere during the world’s worst roadtrip arc or whatever we called it. I love monsters and Clyde is so cool to me.

Sorta beta’d by my good friend Clemin thank you kindly.

—-

Harold's job was a boring one. Just a cashier for some no-name gas station. Every day he spent his work hours hoping for something new and interesting to happen, and yet it never did.

Each day he entered the building was just as boring as the last, and as much as he wanted to, he could not quit in order to look for a more interesting job, as he needed the money to keep a roof over his head and food in his belly.

His energy was spent on the monotonous tasks that came with a cashier job, and his thoughts were reserved for daydreaming away the slow and boring days without directly falling asleep.

His mind yearned for stimulation, something to distract himself from the dreary repetitive days he found himself trapped in. Yet, as he eyed the literal monster currently occupying the room with him, his mind and body frozen in terror from it simply existing in such close proximity, he can’t help but miss the simple yet boring days of the past.

Whatever this thing was, it was definitely the eastridge demon or whatever it was called. He’d unfortunately never paid too much mind to the stories about the thing, instead brushing it off as some fairytale, but from what he can recall people saying about it, the thing in front of him matched the description.

Curiously, it was accompanied by a human. One Alex Williams if his memory is correct. He recalls briefly seeing (her? his?) their wanted poster. They were talking to the demon as if the two were friends, which might be the case. Probably why they had a wanted poster. Is conspiring with demons illegal? He’s not sure.

He’s also not sure how they are so calm around that thing. The sight of it makes his blood freeze in his veins and its voice makes his ears ring. He feels unbelievably cold, his terror so overwhelming that he can’t even shake in fear. Yet Alex(?) looks right at home around that thing. They don't even react to the terrible cacophony that is the demon's voice. Layers of voices and sounds that mix into a terrifyingly unpleasant sensation that grates at the ears, yet somehow this random person is completely fine. They even respond to the monster, as if the incomprehensible mess of sound was some understandable language.

A small part of Harold feels envious. How cool it must be to have befriended such a creature. He wonders how something like that happens. There’s probably an interesting story there, but he won’t dare to ask and risk irritating the demon.

The two seem to be arguing (how brave they must be to argue with it,) and from the half of the conversation he can understand without being distracted by his rising dread, the monster is asking to buy stuff that they can’t afford. Oddly childish for something so scary, but he won’t say anything.

The demon makes a new sound, which he is capable of recognising as a fucked up growl (or hiss?), and somehow his body gets even colder, nausea biting at his insides. If he was actually this cold he’s pretty sure he’d have hypothermia by now. Its long tail whips at the floor irritably, leaving noticeable scratches, and Alex scolds it. For some reason it listens, and seems to calm down somewhat, resigning to their shared fate of being poor.

Alex does allow it to grab one thing, and it picks a jar of jam for some reason. Oh well, who’s he to judge if the demon likes jam? It is pretty good after all. The duo then makes their way over to him, and he can’t help but flinch away from them. Neither pay mind to it, and simply pay for all the items they wanted. His movements are choppy and his limbs jerk around awkwardly, but they don’t comment on it. He specifically avoids looking at it, keeping his eyes on the more comforting figure of Alex. (He can still see its face in his peripheral vision.)

After paying the two just.. leave. No killing, no destruction beyond a few scratches and misplaced items. He didn’t calm down immediately, it took a while for his body to move properly again, and his arms shake for the rest of the day. He’s noticeably spooked by the time his shift is over, and he doubts that he’ll recover from this any time soon.

The rest of his day is spent looking over his shoulder, paranoia biting at the back of his neck. He can’t bring himself to turn the lights of his house off at night. Maybe that makes him a bigger target, but the image of something towering over him, the only thing he can see of it being a pair of eyes and maybe a wide grin of teeth. The image terrifies him endlessly.

Harold doesn’t sleep that night.

[reinedeslys-central]

more!! again!! for the nico after blood of olympus fic!! actually I thought of this while writing the last one but I just finished it.

His elbows buckle and he lets himself fall into Will, snorting at his theatrical groan under the weight. They lay there for a second until Will shoves him gently, and Nico lets him manoeuvre them into a more comfortable position.

"Hi," he whispers, moving a curl away from his cheek. The greenish tint of the loft window casts a weird shadow over Will's face.

"Hey yourself," Will murmurs back, winking.

Nico rolls his eyes. "You look like Apollo when you do that. Please stop." Will squawks in protest.

"I do not! Also, since when do you remember what Apollo looks like? Actually, no, don't answer that, you can't bring up my dad while we're in bed, Nico, why would you do this to me?"

Now it's Nico's turn to sputter and whack Will in the chest - getting another dramatic oof and a laugh in return - before turning around to face Hazel's bed. He's not sure when he'll ever be able to sleep facing the wall. Will can't do it either.

As Will's arms curl around his waist and draw him back against him, just like they did back in the infirmary that one day, he thinks maybe he'd be okay trying that with him sometime. One day, in a house with gates, no longer wary of monsters.

Will noses the back of his neck, causing him to twitch. "What is it?"

Will's answering smile presses through the rough cotton of his t-shirt. "Nothing, sunshine."

Nico frowns under the covers. "Hey, what do you think of houses with gates?" He whispers.

"Gates? Well, it'd be safer, I guess, but we'd lose the neighbours coming over -"

"As if you want to see random people at the door anyway. What if they're monsters?"

"Oh, come on, darlin', I'm from Austin. Of course I gotta keep space for the neighbours to come knocking."

"…Fences? Actually, hey, why'd you assume I was talking about us? Obviously - Obviously I was talking about random. Random houses. For architecture reasons."

Will muffles his laugh into the back of his neck, again. "Oh, my bad. And I'm only here because you ripped a stitch on the lava wall yesterday."

Nico feels his ears warm.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"..Still."

Will reels him in closer until his back hits his chest and he can press a soft peck to Nico's still-red ears. "I think a fence is a great idea, by the way. We could ask Hazel for help with some ward stones too, like you have in the cabin. Gotta make sure we've got at least one window and standing space in every direction, though, or at least in the east, because you know my dad would sulk if he didn't get to scream me awake in the morning."

Nico's blush gets worse.

"Now who's talking about your dad in bed?" He gives up on pretending. Will sees him through every time, anyway. "Also, shrines, obviously, and we need a spot to stargaze."

"Yeah, shrines, obviously. Maybe just yours, mine, and Lady Hestia's though, or else everyone else is gonna get pissy."

Nico barks out a laugh like it's shocked out of him. "Pissy? Don't let them hear you say that."

Will holds him tighter and settles against the pillows. "Sure thing, sunshine. Now can we sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah."

It's not long after that that Will's breath evens out behind him, his muscles untensing. Nico knows he's got a few minutes yet, so he thinks.

Today was…. good.

Today was nice. Normal, even. Just a day of camp schedules, working in the infirmary, an admittedly short campfire, and this. No monsters, and no mistakes. No deaths, but..

Unbidden, the moments in the infirmary come to mind. He thinks of helping Will scrub in for his one surgery of the day, a kid that had gotten parts of an arrow stuck in their leg a week ago and hadn't noticed til yesterday. He thinks of yesterday during capture-the-flag, stepping in and desperately trying to copy what he'd watched Will do, because Lydia was hanging crooked from a tree and there was no one else around but him-

He thinks of Patroclus tying the straps of Achilles' armour, watching his lover sleep peacefully. He thinks of what Connor had told him about at the campfire weeks ago, of Silena Beauregard taking on a drakon when Clarisse declared the Ares Cabin wouldn't be fighting.

He thinks he might understand.

Lydia wasn't the same (thank the gods), but if there was something to be done that only Will could do right, yet couldn't, and the only way Nico could take up his mantle would be to die trying - then, yeah. He'd do whatever it would take for these kids. To do what Will would do. He's gone to Tartarus already, hasn't he? At worst, he'd try his best and greet his father early if he failed to survive. Nico could even give Charon a tip on the way in for the hell of it, why not?

If there is a luxury that comes from being a child of Hades, after all, it is that dying is not the thing that scares him.

There's a brazier still lit outside the window. Its glow falls in slits across their bed.

Will grumbles, pushing his feet forward until their ankles are wound together. The sheets shift.

Nico smiles into the dark, into the chirping of crickets and the soft glow of the fireflies out the window, and falls asleep.

more for this fic:

scene 0 - prologue-ish scene 1 - the library of social awkwardness or here (or in my heart, 'kidney function is not a right, it's a privilege' lol)

general writing directory

also lmk if you want more lore. I am so down to talk about this fic + the worldbuilding ideas I have for it in the notes it is unreal

[why-the-heck-not]

14.09.23, thursday

It was a way better day than yesterday and I credit the hedgehog. I don’t know why, but it feels like there’s gotta be some kind of a thing like ”if u see a hedgehog, u’ll have good luck”. Like my bois have been around for 15 million years, they’ve had to have had some good luck with them

things done today:

5.5h of coding

grocery store x2 (bc they didn’t have what I wanted in the first store, so I walked 2km to another Lidl and guess if they had that either? Nope, bc that was pre-hedgehog sighting)