Conlang Outline Info -TemplateName: Name of the conlang
Alignment: The Morphosyntactic Alignment
Primary Word Order: Default Word Order
Language Type: Synthetic, Agglutinating? Polysynthetic even?
Conjugated? A simple yes/no.
Amount of Phonemes: A simple 1, 2,(God forbid)3 or 4 digit number.
Basic Syllable Structure: Like CCVC, CNCVC etc.
Significant Sound Changes?: Another one of them "yes/no"s
Inflections?: Are there any? Or articles and apositons?
Cases? A simple yes/no.
Amount of Cases: A number of under four digits, please
Verb Categories: Moods, tenses and the likes.
Pronouns?: A simple yes/no. Rarely no.
Adjectives Agree with Nouns?: Simple
Purpose of Conlang: Artlang? IAL even?
the loneliest typewriterGabriel rosenbergthe loneliest typewriter5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has the loneliest typewriter
in the world
and he doesn,t know what
to do with it
so now it is just sitting
on his desk,
Conlang outlineName: Malbja-eljConlang outline3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Alignment: Probably nominative-accusative. I haven't studied morphosynthetic alignment enough to say. :,D
Primary Word Order: Extremely strict VSO. You can't really change the order and still have the sentences make sense.
Language Type: Agglutinative bordering on crazy polysynthetic, but strangely enough it can sometimes function as its direct opposite, an isolating language. It's mostly tenses that are completely detatched from the main word.
Declined?: Eh, I'll explain that in the fourth portion, I could write an essay on the nuances.
Amount of Phonemes: A mere 21.
Basic Syllable Structure: (C)(C)(J,L)V(C)(C)
Significant Sound Changes?: J is ʒ if followed or preeceded by a consonant, dʒ otherwise. Vowel height or backness dictates stress. T is aspirated at the beginning of a word. In the classic romanisation system, i (pronounced ee) turns to ʏ at the end of a w
memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mudmemories, making glorious mud6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...
no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.