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A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles driven into the water. How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her?
That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married—why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant trifles—a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream—at times moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.
A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. Calle Luz. Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.
Are you in town? His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs with a lighted candle to open the door. At last —he was shaking her hand.
She had not changed much—a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes.
She asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all.
He could not take his eyes from her face. What had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush. Gently—was it experimentally? Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him. The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-studded sky.
So that was all over. Why had he obstinately clung to that dream? So all these years—since when? An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.
Think as if you were this character, and then fill in the empathy table. This can help you empathize with the character and understand him or her more deeply. What was the choice that Alfredo had to make, and how did this choice make him feel?
What did Esperanza want, and why did she not get it? Part of fiction especially in short stories, is the challenge to the main characters: what do they want, and what do they do to get it? What is the intention of the character? This intention sets the plot for the short story, wherein you see how well-rounded the protagonist is and what he or she is capable of doing just to get what he or she desires.
Depending on the outcome of the story, the character may either triumph or fail, and seeing how the character reacts to these changes also sets the tone for the climax, until the short story is concluded. Short stories also express a lot of irony in life situations. There are three kinds of irony that you will encounter in short stories. The first one is verbal irony, when what is said by the character is not what he or she originally meant.
The second is situational irony, when the actual outcome of a situation say, the conclusion is different from the expected outcome. This is also known as the twists and turns in a story. Finally, there is the dramatic irony, which is when the readers know more than the characters in the story.
Merlinda Bobis is a dancer, visual artist, and writer who was born in Legaspi City, Albay. She completed her post-graduate degrees from the University of Santo Tomas and the University of Wollongong in Australia.
She writes in English and Filipino Tagalog and Bikolano. She tackles themes of diaspora, immigrant cultures, and magic realism in her fiction. She currently teaches at the Wollongong University. And she will not stop eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she will burst. On the bed, six-year-old Rica braces herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion— Nothing.
No big bang. Her tears are not even a mouthful tonight. And maybe their neighbours in the run-down apartment have been careful, too. From every pot and plate, they must have scraped off their leftover sighs and hidden them somewhere unreachable. So she can be saved from bursting.
Every night, no big bang really, but Rica listens anyway. The house is quiet again. She breathes easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face—a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still wary and a mouth forming the old silent question—are you really there?
She turns on the lamp. Even the unhinged window flaunts a family of pink paper rabbits. Are you there? Her father says she never shows herself to anyone.
She goes from house to house and eats the sadness of everyone, so she gets too fat. Are you really that big? How do you wear your hair? Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she might grow too fat and burst, so be a good girl and save her by not being sad—hoy, stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed.
Her father is not always patient with his storytelling. All quiet now. Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after her mother left for Paris, she was always listening intently to all the night— noises from the kitchen.
She has three boxes of them, one for each year, though the third box is not even half-full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons. The first year, her mother sent all colors of the rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe because her father did not know how to make it more graceful. He must have written her long letters, asking about how to pull the mass of curls away from the face and tie them neatly the way he gathered, into some semblance of order, his own nightly longings.
When you feel sadness, what do you do to cope with it? It took some time for him to perfect the art of making a ponytail. Then he discovered a trick unknown to even the best hairdressers. Rica simply had to turn around in place, while her father held the gathered hair above her head. Just like dancing, really. She never forgets, talaga naman, the a unties whisper among themselves these days.
A remarkable child. A very smart kid, but too serious, a sad kid. They must have guessed that, recently, she has cheated on her promise to behave and save Big Lady. Like tonight, when she hoped her father would come home early, as he promised again. She hates waiting. Why Paris? Why three years-and even more? Aba, this is getting too much now. Talaga naman! She wants to earn good money and build us a house.
Remember, I only work in a factory Her father had always defended his wife, until recently, when all talk about her return was shelved. Beneath her room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits up on the bed—the big one has returned? But she made sure the pot and plates were clean, even the cups, before she went to bed.
She turns off the lamp to listen in the dark. With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this year, she sent one of herself and the new baby of her employer. Cutlery noise. Does she also check them? This has never happened before, her coming back after a lean meal. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief.
Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. As we feed continually, we also acknowledge the perennial nature of our hunger. Each time we bring food to our mouths, the gut-emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, our whole table. Then we can claim self-sufficiency, a fullness from birth, perhaps.
But Rica was not philosophical at four years old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked, ordered, then scolded severely before she finished her meal, if she touched it at all. Rica understood her occasional hunger strikes quite simply. She knew that these dinner quarrels with her father, and sometimes her aunties, ensured dire consequences. Each following day, she always made stick drawings of Big Lady with an ever-increasing girth, as she was sure the lady had had a big meal the night before.
Sharp eyes, they can see in the dark, lightbulb eyes, and big teeth for chewing forever. Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort.
And always Big Lady as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned with pretty baubles and make-up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete the picture. Crimson velvet with a black satin bow. The day it arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a tiny head in the tropics.
It came with a bank-draft for her party. She did not try it on, it looked strange, so different from the Barbies and pink paper rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her mother, something was missing. Rica turned it inside out, searching-on TV, Magic Man can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out of his hat, just like that, always.
He told her not to be silly when she asked him to be Magic Man and pull out Paris-but can she eat as far as Paris? Can she fly from here to there overnight? Are their rice pots also full of sad leftovers? How salty? So he need not to improvise further on his three-year-old tall tale. There it is again, the cutlery clunking against a plate—or scraping the bottom of a cup? Cupboards are opened.
The sheets rise and fall with her breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak into the kitchen and check out this most unusual return and thoroughness. She collapses on the floor before his feet. Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight. White turtle. Sydney: Spinifex, Inc Another big element of fiction is the world created by the writer. This world, as imagined by the writer, may be fictional or real depending on the choice of setting.
The characters move in this world—they interact, talk, win, lose, leave, or stay in this world. In fiction, more often than not, these world and those in them have meanings or symbolisms, too. For example, a place may not just be a place—it was chosen by the writer because it fits perfectly the situation the characters are going or will be going through.
Things inside the world—such as a vase, a letter, a picture, a mirror—may mean more than mere objects. They may symbolize an important part of the story or may serve as objects of remembrance or memories for the characters. If the whole story is a symbolism for something, then the story may be an allegory. The Plot Structure of Fiction Aristotle once declared that for a story to be considered a story, it must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Plato agreed to this, and adhered to the idea of an organic unity in fiction—the interdependent parts of a story are all needed to create a whole. If one part is lost, the story cannot stand on its own. This is what he came up with:. The pyramid above summarizes, albeit comically, what the different parts mean.
To refresh your memory, here is a brief breakdown of the following parts of the pyramid: The exposition is the beginning of the story, wherein the writer sets the scene by introducing the characters, describing the setting, and sometimes will give a brief background of the story. It is also here, before the next part of the Freytag pyramid, that something happens to begin the action. This is called the inciting incident—small events and telltale signs that tell you that the conflict is about to begin.
The rising action is when the complication begins to show itself on the characters, setting, and events in the story. This is when the story starts to become more exciting. The climax is the event with the greatest tension in the story. This is when the characters know the truth, act on their impulses, make rash decisions or decide to do something, and so on.
This part usually signals how the story will end. The falling action is the result of the climax, and it is the part when things start falling into place for the characters. Reaching the conclusion of the story, the story reaches a premature resolution of the conflicts, problems, and issues that were raised in the previous parts of the story. It also will include an explanation of what had happened and how characters think or feel about this. Of course, the Freytag pyramid does not always apply to every single short story ever written.
There are some short stories, especially modern ones, which will lack or miss out on one part of the pyramid and are still considered as stories. However, in learning about literature, it is always best that you start with the Freytag pyramid so as to comprehend the deeper features of the story and its key elements—those that make it an effective and satisfying read.
Cheeno Marlo Sayuno is a young writer of short stories for children based in Cavite. Beyond Walls 3. Read it and think of how its key events reflect the elements of a Freytag pyramid.
Ya-a-ay, e-la e-la-lay," Abeong sings between sighs and whispers as the jeepney treads the rough roads downhill. It is only in Pasil, his hometown, where he ever has had friends, and now, they are leaving the place forever. He tries to sleep only to be awaken as the jeepney bumps and jumps.
He just then looks outside, but as the sun greets the day with its rays that warm the skin of the early- morning travelers, he feels like it is bidding him goodbye, teasing him even. For him, he will never see this giant ball of warmth the way he sees it from mountainside Pasil. Whether Tabuk will give him the same view, he does not know or care. There is a good opportunity for your father, and we cannot let it pass.
E-la-lay, ya-ay-i-lay. The voices of his playmates resonate in his head again, bringing back their laughter after Lindayaw, the youngest girl, would jokingly belt out the last line of the song, even when she knows that singing is not her talent. You can have all the friends that you want.
Everything that he sees and hears reminds him of Pasil. The huts clutching on the hillside remind him of the Binayon hut that they have for a school, which twenty pupils filled with laughter in chorus. It reminds him of the early mornings that they spent with Ms. The chirping of the crickets echoes in his mind the same harmony that used to be his only company during hide and seek, until someone would found him camouflaged with a pool of dry leaves or hidden behind a bunch of gabi plants.
The cascading river reconnects him to the splashes of water when he and his playmates would swim and catch fish after class. The tweeting of the birds now joins that of the crickets, humming in his heart the songs he and his friends used to sing. In fact, the folk song that they learned before he left keeps on resonating in his head. Reflect Upon Have you ever experienced migrating to another place or transferring to a new school? How does it feel? If you have not experienced it yet, how would you face this situation?
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Here we have the CBSE board syllabus and the links to the subject code books. Go through the book and solve the sample question for better results during your boards. If you need more support with solving the question, refer to your textbook or let us know.
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