Parts of speech
What are the femboys
For and nor but or yet so
What type of sentence is this?
The afternoon sky drifted from a hard, bright blue into the kind of hazy, forgiving color that makes distant buildings look like careful drawings rather than structures of glass and concrete, and as Mira walked along the canal with her hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized coat, she felt that rare, trembling sense that the day might be quietly important even if nothing dramatic happened, because sometimes the weight of a life turned not on the lightning‑strike moments that people liked to tell stories about but on the small, nearly invisible adjustments of thought and feeling that slipped by without witnesses, like a boat passing beneath a bridge while everyone above was distracted by their own reflections in their phone screens, and she wondered, while a bicyclist skimmed past her with a quick apology and a rustle of wind, whether she was at the edge of one of those subtle turning points now, a place where she could decide to continue living as the slightly edited version of herself she had grown used to presenting or to lean, carefully but decisively, toward a self that fit less comfortably into the expectations of her friends, colleagues, and family, a self that might be quieter, slower, or in some ways more demanding of the world and therefore less convenient for almost everyone who thought they knew her well, yet more honest to the pulses of curiosity and unease that had been running, like underground water, just beneath her daily routines for years, shaping them in ways she did not quite see until she lay awake at night and mentally rewound the day, noticing how often she had laughed at things that did not amuse her, how often she had agreed to small requests that she resented, how often she had brushed aside the flicker of an idea simply because no one else in the room seemed interested in exploring that path, and now, as the water in the canal reflected the leaning clouds and the faint trace of plane routes like pencil lines drawn across the sky, she let herself imagine, not for the first time but with new seriousness, what would happen if she stopped smoothing her edges to match the surfaces around her and instead allowed those edges to remain a little sharper, a little more awkward, like a hand‑made bowl on a table full of mass‑produced plates, and whether anyone would truly push back if she spoke with just a bit more clarity about what she wanted, even in small things like which restaurant to go to on a Friday night or how she preferred to spend a quiet Sunday when there were no obligations nipping at her heels like impatient dogs, because it occurred to her that she had been waiting, perhaps for a decade or more, for a kind of permission that would never arrive, a formal letter from some invisible authority stating that she had tried hard enough to please others and could now be released into her own preferences, and seeing the absurdity of that fantasy made her smile despite herself, a small, private smile that she did not hide as a jogger approached from the opposite direction, his earbuds in place, his eyes distant, his mind obviously elsewhere, because she realized that everyone around her was probably carrying their own unrequested compromises too, trading tiny fragments of authenticity for a smoother passage through conversations, meetings, and social rituals, and that if she wanted anything different, the only realistic place to start was with a single, deliberate act of not pretending, perhaps as modest as saying no to an invitation that exhausted her or admitting that a project she was praised for did not actually interest her, and as she walked she composed, in her mind, several possible sentences she might say to different people in her life—her manager who believed she was perfectly satisfied with her current work, her old friend who still expected her to be the quiet listener at every gathering, her parents who took comfort in imagining that she lived according to a script that mirrored their own younger years—and she tested those sentences against her breathing, noticing where her chest tightened and where it loosened, using her own body as a tuning fork for truth, and by the time she reached the small metal footbridge that arched over the canal like a sketch of a rainbow, she had decided, not with fireworks but with the steady click of a lock turning, that she would make one small alteration that very evening, a straightforward message she would send before she could talk herself out of it, and although she did not yet know what the consequences would be, she felt an odd, lifting calm in simply choosing.
Compound complex
What are the fanboy/femboys in the sentence?
My mega dad went to get milk with my mom, but he never came back, nor did my mom, so I was sad.
So, nor and but
Make this sentence into 2 simple sentences
John eats a big, juicy, fat banana while his mother sucks on a lollipop.
John eats a big, juicy, fat banana.
His mother sucks on a lollipop.
What are the adverb/s in the sentence?
John ran quickly to grab the milk, which was slowly leaking.
Slowly and quickly
What type of sentence?
The books on the bookshelfs came in several colours such as, Scarlet, crimson, ruby, vermilion, and carmine bleed into mahogany, maroon, and wine before softening to coral, peach, apricot, and amaranth pink, while orange, tangerine, persimmon, pumpkin, and saffron brighten into yellow, canary, lemon, mustard, and banana, which then transition through lime, pear, wasabi, and chartreuse into green, smaragdine, emerald, forest, moss, hunter, and sage, eventually merging with jade, teal, cyan, aquamarine, turquoise, and azure until they deepen into blue, cobalt, navy, cerulean, sapphire, and indigo, which shift toward purple, plum, violet, orchid, amethyst, and lavender that fade into pink, rose, magenta, fuchsia, and burgundy, all while black, charcoal, ebony, slate, lead, and silver anchor the white, ivory, beige, cream, alabaster, and snow, yet further expanding into copper, bronze, brass, and gold that shimmer beside tan, khaki, fawn, and taupe, which bleed into brown, chocolate, russet, umber, and sepia, while periwinkle, sky blue, and baby blue drift toward mint, pistachio, and seafoam, which then collide with lilac, mauve, and thistle before darkening into charcoal, onyx, and obsidian, followed by terracotta, clay, and brick blending into melon, salmon, and flamingo, while neon green, electric lime, and kelly green rush toward olive, drab, and khaki, which settle into denim, steel, and slate blue, eventually finding raspberry, cherry, and strawberry swirling with cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg, while platinum, pearl, and opal gleam against coal, jet, and soot, until finally grape, mulberry, and boysenberry melt into vanilla, chiffon, and lace.
complex
what is the definition of a suboordinating conjuction?
A conjunction that introduces a suboordinate clause
What type of sentence is this?
My cousin sat on my lap because they are a baby, and there was no room in the car.
Compound-Complex
Find all the conjunctions in this
Although one might reasonably suspect that there must be, hidden away in some dusty archive or jealously guarded in the hard drive of a particularly obsessive experimenter in prose, an ultimate, unsurpassable record for the longest sentence ever composed in any language by any human hand, the reality is that the very nature of sentences—the way they can be extended by conjunctions and qualifiers and parenthetical remarks and happily meandering digressions—means that no such record can ever be permanent, because at any given moment a determined writer, sitting at a simple desk with a cup of coffee slowly cooling at their elbow, can decide to take an existing thought and refuse, stubbornly and playfully, to end it with a reassuring little dot, choosing instead to stretch it a bit further, to add another memory, perhaps of the first time they noticed how afternoon light slants across a classroom floor and turns dust into a slow, swirling galaxy, or another careful distinction, such as the one between people who read long sentences for the pure, perverse joy of feeling their eyes and mind pulled along like a kite in a gusty wind, and those who encounter them only by accident, in an exam passage or a novel assigned by a teacher with suspiciously avant‑garde tastes, and who wonder, as the line winds on and on, whether they have somehow missed the main verb or simply forgotten where the subject began, which in turn invites yet another elaboration regarding how language, for all its supposed rules and tidy diagrams, behaves more like a living creature than a machine, constantly shedding old habits, growing new limbs of meaning, and occasionally sprawling across the page in a way that looks almost undisciplined until one notices that each clause, each aside, each unexpected image—like that half‑remembered summer storm when the power went out and the only sound was rain on the roof and the distant, comforting murmur of grown‑ups talking in the dark—has been placed with deliberate care, so that by the time the sentence finally draws breath, gathers all its wandering threads, and at last descends, with something like relief but also a faint reluctance to stop, into the calm harbor of a full stop, the patient reader feels that they have not merely traveled from one idea to another, but have taken a small, oddly intimate journey through the crowded antechambers of another person’s mind.
Although, That, because, as, if, Whether, until, and, but, or, who and which
What type of sentence is this?
Although one might reasonably suspect that there must be, hidden away in some dusty archive or jealously guarded in the hard drive of a particularly obsessive experimenter in prose, an ultimate, unsurpassable record for the longest sentence ever composed in any language by any human hand, the reality is that the very nature of sentences—the way they can be extended by conjunctions and qualifiers and parenthetical remarks and happily meandering digressions—means that no such record can ever be permanent, because at any given moment a determined writer, sitting at a simple desk with a cup of coffee slowly cooling at their elbow, can decide to take an existing thought and refuse, stubbornly and playfully, to end it with a reassuring little dot, choosing instead to stretch it a bit further, to add another memory, perhaps of the first time they noticed how afternoon light slants across a classroom floor and turns dust into a slow, swirling galaxy, or another careful distinction, such as the one between people who read long sentences for the pure, perverse joy of feeling their eyes and mind pulled along like a kite in a gusty wind, and those who encounter them only by accident, in an exam passage or a novel assigned by a teacher with suspiciously avant‑garde tastes, and who wonder, as the line winds on and on, whether they have somehow missed the main verb or simply forgotten where the subject began, which in turn invites yet another elaboration regarding how language, for all its supposed rules and tidy diagrams, behaves more like a living creature than a machine, constantly shedding old habits, growing new limbs of meaning, and occasionally sprawling across the page in a way that looks almost undisciplined until one notices that each clause, each aside, each unexpected image—like that half‑remembered summer storm when the power went out and the only sound was rain on the roof and the distant, comforting murmur of grown‑ups talking in the dark—has been placed with deliberate care, so that by the time the sentence finally draws breath, gathers all its wandering threads, and at last descends, with something like relief but also a faint reluctance to stop, into the calm harbor of a full stop, the patient reader feels that they have not merely traveled from one idea to another, but have taken a small, oddly intimate journey through the crowded antechambers of another person’s mind.
Compound-Complex