FICTION AND CREATIVE NON-FICTION

“I have two pairs of reading glasses. One pair is for

reading fiction, the other for non-fiction. I’ve read the
Bible twice wearing each pair, and it’s the same”
- Steven Wright

The learner is expected to:

1. describe the elements of fiction
2. analyze the differences and similarities between Creative Nonfiction and fiction
3. analyze sample texts for comprehension
4. write preparatory notes for an essay employing the elements of fiction

COMPARING NOTES

The elements of fictions are the following: plot; point of view; character; setting; tone and
atmosphere; symbol and irony; and theme and meaning.
A story is made up of events and arranging thses events in a logical and causal manner is called
plot. Plot has four parts: beginning, middle, climax, and end. A good story begins in the middle of things-
something is already happening right in the beginning. In the middle is the exposition- revelations of
details about the characters and the background of the story. Part of this is the introduction of conflict- the
problem in the story that the characters shall deal with that will bring the story to the climax. Climax is the
highest point of the story. After the climax is the resolution where the characters will surpass the conflict
or will be overwhelmed by it. Then the story ends.
Point of view is the angle where the story is told from. There are two kinds of point of views: first
person (the “I” point of view) and the third person (the “he” or “she” point of view). There is also the
second person point of view (the “you” point of view) but is rarely used. There are also two types of point
of view: limited or omniscient. In the limited type, the story is only limited with what the narrator can see,
hear, smell, feel, and is thinking. Mostly, this is in the first person. In the omniscient type, the narrator is all
knowing. She can even know what the other characters are thinking. Mostly, this is in the third person.
Characters are the one doing actions in the story. Normally, they are the people inhabiting the
story. But there are stories with characters that are not human like in the case of fables where animals
are the characters. But one should take note that the animals in the fables act like humans. There are two
types of characters: major or the protagonist, and minor or an observer. A character may be complex or
simple. A complex character, also known as dynamic character is round or three-dimensional- meaning,
there are contradictions and shifting of character. A simple character (static character) is flat and two-
dimensional which is a weak kind of character because it is static or there is no change in the course of
the story.
The time and place of the story is called setting. Setting gives the sense of reality in the story.
The story becomes believable if the time and place is believable. Tone is simply defined as “the attitude
of the writer towards her material.” We should realized that when we use words, spoken or written, we
use with a tone corresponding to what we feel and what we want to express. When we say “thank you”
we can use the tone of being grateful or we can use the tone that is ironic, meaning we are not really
grateful but to express our disappointment. Atmosphere is also called mood and is closely related to tone.
Atmosphere has something to do with the overall psychological and emotional feelings evoked in a reader
while reading the story. This is usually the effect of the setting.
A symbol is an object in a literary work that represents something more than what it is. For
example, a yellow boat in a story or an essay is not just a literal boat. While the yellow boat may be real
(in the fictional sense) and is being used by the characters in the story, a small boat in the sea may mean
a fragile kind of life. One may also ask: why is the boat yellow? What is it symbolism?
Irony, connotes a disparity. There are three types: verbal irony which is about the disparity with
what the character says and mean; situational irony which is the disparity between what the character or
the reader expects and what actually happens; and dramatic irony which is the disparity between what a
character knows and what the reader knows.
A story, as well as the other forms of literature is about the significant human experience. The
theme of the story is about the general idea or general observation about life and people. The theme will
lead us to the meaning of the story- what is the effect of the story to the reader which in most cases would
include lessons learned. The meaning of the story is about how the reader is moved after reading and her
realizations of our existence as human beings.
 READER’S CORNER
A. Pre-reading
Have you heard of cases involving violence against women and children? Who
are usually responsible for the violence? In what ways can it be stopped?

B. Cultural-Historical Background
Manuel E. Arguilla is one of the canonical short story writers in English in the Philiipines.
He was born in a barangay called Negrebcan in Buang, La Union. This place is the setting of his
famous stories like Midsummer and How My Brother Leon Brought Home a Wife. He was the
editor of Literarature under the Commonwealth and the literary Apprentice. His collection of
short stories won the Commonwealth Literary Award in 1940. Argulla joined the underground
movement fighting the Japanese occupation. He was captured and executed by the Japanese
in August 1944. The “authenacity” and realism of his stories stems from his familiarity with the
countryside and its people for he, too, was one of them. His early death deprived Philippine
Literature of one of its most eloquent voices.

C. Previewing
Scan the selection to answer the following questions:
1. Who are the characters in the story? How are they related?
2. What domesticated animal also plays a role in the story?
3. Based on the title of the story, what do you think is its mood?

D. Vocabulary Building
Manuel Arguilla is known for the “local color” of his writings. Find out what each phrase
below means, and how it suggests local color.
1. bamboo foot-bridge 6. Piece of firewood
2. bare feet 7. Slender stalks
3. live coals 8. Fuzzy green leaves
4. rice straw
5. Husky legs

E. Reading
Read the selection below. While the countryside is often depicted as less stressful and
more tranquil than the city, this may not be the case all the time. Find out how these
complications are shown in the story.
Morning in Nagrebcan by Manuel E. Arguilla

It was sunrise at Nagrebcan. The fine, bluish mist, low over the tobacco fields, was lifting and
thinning moment by moment. A ragged strip of mist, pulled away by the morning breeze, had
caught on the clumps of bamboo along the banks of the stream that flowed to one side of the barrio.
Before long the sun would top the Katayaghan hills, but as yet no people were around. In the grey
shadow of the hills, the barrio was gradually awaking. Roosters crowed and strutted on the ground
while hens hesitated on their perches among the branches of the camanchile trees. Stray goats
nibbled the weeds on the sides of the road, and the bull carabaos tugged restively against their
stakes.

In the early morning the puppies lay curled up together between their mother’s paws under
the ladder of the house. Four puppies were all white like the mother. They had pink noses and pink
eyelids and pink mouths. The skin between their toes and on the inside of their large, limp ears was
pink. They had short sleek hair, for the mother licked them often. The fifth puppy lay across the
mother’s neck. On the puppy’s back was a big black spot like a saddle. The tips of its ears were black
and so was a patch of hair on its chest.

The opening of the sawali door, its uneven bottom dragging noisily against the bamboo
flooring, aroused the mother dog and she got up and stretched and shook herself, scattering dust
and loose white hair. A rank doggy smell rose in the cool morning air. She took a quick leap
forward, clearing the puppies which had begun to whine about her, wanting to suckle. She trotted
away and disappeared beyond the house of a neighbor.

The puppies sat back on their rumps, whining. After a little while they lay down and went back
to sleep, the black-spotted puppy on top.

Baldo stood at the threshold and rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes with his fists. He must have been
about ten years old, small for his age, but compactly built, and he stood straight on his bony legs. He
wore one of his father’s discarded cotton undershirts.

The boy descended the ladder, leaning heavily on the single bamboo railing that served as a
banister. He sat on the lowest step of the ladder, yawning and rubbing his eyes one after the other.
Bending down, he reached between his legs for the black-spotted puppy. He held it to him, stroking
its soft, warm body. He blew on its nose. The puppy stuck out a small red tongue, lapping the air. It
whined eagerly. Baldo laughed – a low gurgle.

He rubbed his face against that of the dog. He said softly, “My puppy. My puppy.” He said it
many times. The puppy licked his ears, his cheeks. When it licked his mouth, Baldo straightened up,
raised the puppy on a level with his eyes. “You are a foolish puppy,” he said, laughing. “Foolish,
foolish, foolish,” he said, rolling the puppy on his lap so that it howled.

The four other puppies awoke and came scrambling about Baldo’s legs. He put down the black-
spotted puppy and ran to the narrow foot bridge of woven split-bamboo spanning the roadside
ditch. When it rained, water from the roadway flowed under the makeshift bridge, but it had not
rained for a long time and the ground was dry and sandy. Baldo sat on the bridge, digging his bare
feet into the sand, feeling the cool particles escaping between his toes. He whistled, a toneless
whistle with a curious trilling to it produced by placing the tongue against the lower teeth and then
curving it up and down.

The whistle excited the puppies; they ran to the boy as fast as their unsteady legs could carry
them, barking choppy little barks.

Nana Elang, the mother of Baldo, now appeared in the doorway with handful of rice straw. She
called Baldo and told him to get some live coals from their neighbor.

“Get two or three burning coals and bring them home on the rice straw,” she said. “Do not wave
the straw in the wind. If you do, it will catch fire before you get home.” She watched him run
toward Ka Ikao’s house where already smoke was rising through the nipa roofing into the misty air.
One or two empty carromatas drawn by sleepy little ponies rattled along the pebbly street, bound
for the railroad station.

Nana Elang must have been thirty, but she looked at least fifty. She was a thin, wispy woman,
with bony hands and arms. She had scanty, straight, graying hair which she gathered behind her
head in a small, tight knot. It made her look thinner than ever. Her cheekbones seemed on the point
of bursting through the dry, yellowish-brown skin. Above a gray-checkered skirt, she wore a single
wide-sleeved cotton blouse that ended below her flat breasts. Sometimes when she stooped or
reached up for anything, a glimpse of the flesh at her waist showed in a dark, purplish band where
the skirt had been tied so often.

She turned from the doorway into the small, untidy kitchen. She washed the rice and put it in a
pot which she placed on the cold stove. She made ready the other pot for the mess of vegetables and
dried fish. When Baldo came back with the rice straw and burning coals, she told him to start a fire
in the stove, while she cut the ampalaya tendrils and sliced the eggplants. When the fire finally
flamed inside the clay stove, Baldo’s eyes were smarting from the smoke of the rice straw.

“There is the fire, mother,” he said. “Is father awake already?”

 Nana Elang shook her head. Baldo went out slowly on tiptoe.

There were already many people going out. Several fishermen wearing coffee-colored shirts and
trousers and hats made from the shell of white pumpkins passed by. The smoke of their home-made cigars
floated behind them like shreds of the morning mist. Women carrying big empty baskets were going to
the tobacco fields. They walked fast, talking among themselves. Each woman had gathered the loose folds
of her skirt in front and, twisting the end two or three times, passed it between her legs, pulling it up at the
back, and slipping it inside her waist. The women seemed to be wearing trousers that reached only to their
knees and flared at the thighs.

Day was quickly growing older. The east flamed redly and Baldo called to his mother, “Look,
mother, God also cooks his breakfast.”

He went to play with the puppies. He sat on the bridge and took them on his lap one by one. He
searched for fleas which he crushed between his thumbnails. “You, puppy. You, puppy,” he murmured
softly. When he held the black-spotted puppy, he said, “My puppy. My puppy.”

Ambo, his seven-year old brother, awoke crying. Nana Elang could be heard patiently calling him to
the kitchen. Later he came down with a ripe banana in his hand. Ambo was almost as tall as his older
brother and he had stout husky legs. Baldo often called him the son of an Igorot. The home-made cotton
shirt he wore was variously stained. The pocket was torn, and it flipped down. He ate the banana without
peeling it.

“You foolish boy, remove the skin,” Baldo said.

“I will not,” Ambo said. “It is not your banana.” He took a big bite and swallowed it with
exaggerated relish.

“But the skin is tart. It tastes bad.”

“You are not eating it,” Ambo said. The rest of the banana vanished in his mouth.

He sat beside Baldo and both played with the puppies. The mother dog had not yet returned and the
puppies were becoming hungry and restless. They sniffed the hands of Ambo, licked his fingers. They
tried to scramble up his breast to lick his mouth, but he brushed them down. Baldo laughed. He held the
black-spotted puppy closely, fondled it lovingly. “My puppy,” he said. “My puppy.”

Ambo played with the other puppies, but he soon grew tired of them. He wanted the black-spotted
one. He sidled close to Baldo and put out a hand to caress the puppy nestling contentedly in the crook of
his brother’s arm. But Baldo struck the hand away. “Don’t touch my puppy,” he said. “My puppy.”

Ambo begged to be allowed to hold the black-spotted puppy. But Baldo said he would not let him
hold the black-spotted puppy because he would not peel the banana. Ambo then said that he would obey
his older brother next time, for all time. Baldo would not believe him; he refused to let him touch the
puppy.

Ambo rose to his feet. He looked longingly at the black-spotted puppy in Baldo’s arms. Suddenly he
bent down and tried to snatch the puppy away. But Baldo sent him sprawling in the dust with a deft push.
Ambo did not cry. He came up with a fistful of sand which he flung in his brother’s face. But as he started
to run away, Baldo thrust out his leg and tripped him. In complete silence, Ambo slowly got up from the
dust, getting to his feet with both hands full of sand which again he cast at his older brother. Baldo put
down the puppy and leaped upon Ambo.

Seeing the black-spotted puppy waddling away, Ambo turned around and made a dive for it. Baldo
saw his intention in time and both fell on the puppy which began to howl loudly, struggling to get away.
Baldo cursed Ambo and screamed at him as they grappled and rolled in the sand. Ambo kicked and bit
and scratched without a sound. He got hold of Baldo’s hair and ear and tugged with all his might. They
rolled over and over and then Baldo was sitting on Ambo’s back,

pummeling him with his fists. He accompanied every blow with a curse. “I hope you die, you little
demon,” he said between sobs, for he was crying and he could hardly see. Ambo wriggled and struggled
and tried to bite Baldo’s legs. Failing, he buried his face in the sand and howled lustily.

Baldo now left him and ran to the black-spotted puppy which he caught up in his arms, holding it
against his throat. Ambo followed, crying out threats and curses. He grabbed the tail of the puppy and
jerked hard. The puppy howled shrilly and Baldo let it go, but Ambo kept hold of the tail as the dog fell to
the ground. It turned around and snapped at the hand holding its tail. Its sharp little teeth sank into the
fleshy edge of Ambo’s palm. With a cry, Ambo snatched away his hand from the mouth of the enraged
puppy. At that moment the window of the house facing the street was pushed violently open and the boys’
father, Tang Ciaco, looked out. He saw the blood from the toothmarks on Ambo’s hand. He called out
inarticulately and the two brothers looked up in surprise and fear. Ambo hid his bitten hand behind him.
Baldo stopped to pick up the black-spotted puppy, but Tang Ciaco shouted hoarsely to him not to touch
the dog. At Tang Ciaco’s angry voice, the puppy had crouched back snarling, its pink lips drawn back, the
hair on its back rising. “The dog has gone mad,” the man cried, coming down hurriedly. By the stove in
the kitchen, he stopped to get a sizeable piece of firewood, throwing an angry look and a curse
at Nana Elang for letting her sons play with the dogs. He removed a splinter or two, then hurried down
the ladder, cursing in a loud angry voice. Nana Elang ran to the doorway and stood there silently
fingering her skirt.

Baldo and Ambo awaited the coming of their father with fear written on their faces. Baldo hated his
father as much as he feared him. He watched him now with half a mind to flee as Tang Ciaco approached
with the piece of firewood held firmly in one hand. He is a big, gaunt man with thick bony wrists and
stoop shoulders. A short-sleeved cotton shirt revealed his sinewy arms on which the blood-vessels stood
out like roots. His short pants showed his bony-kneed, hard-muscled legs covered with black hair. He was
a carpenter. He had come home drunk the night before. He was not a habitual drunkard, but now and then
he drank great quantities of basi and came home and beat his wife and children. He would blame them for
their hard life and poverty. “You are a prostitute,” he would roar at his wife, and as he beat his children,
he would shout, “I will kill you both, you bastards.” If Nana Elang ventured to remonstrate, he would beat
them harder and curse her for being an interfering whore. “I am king in my house,” he would say.

Now as he approached the two, Ambo cowered behind his elder brother. He held onto Baldo’s
undershirt, keeping his wounded hand at his back, unable to remove his gaze from his father’s close-set,
red-specked eyes. The puppy with a yelp slunk between Baldo’s legs. Baldo looked at the dog, avoiding
his father’s eyes.

Tang Ciaco roared at them to get away from the dog: “Fools! Don’t you see it is mad?” Baldo laid a
hand on Ambo as they moved back hastily. He wanted to tell his father it was not true, the dog was not
mad, it was all Ambo’s fault, but his tongue refused to move. The puppy attempted to follow them,
but Tang Ciaco caught it with a sweeping blow of the piece of firewood. The puppy was flung into the
air. It rolled over once before it fell, howling weakly. Again the chunk of firewood descended, Tang
Ciaco grunting with the effort he put into the blow, and the puppy ceased to howl. It lay on its side, feebly
moving its jaws from which dark blood oozed. Once more Tang Ciaco raised his arm, but Baldo suddenly
clung to it with both hands and begged him to stop. “Enough, father, enough. Don’t beat it anymore,” he
entreated. Tears flowed down his upraised face.

Tang Ciaco shook him off with an oath. Baldo fell on his face in the dust. He did not rise, but cried
and sobbed and tore his hair. The rays of the rising sun fell brightly upon him, turned to gold the dust that
he raised with his kicking feet.

Tang Ciaco dealt the battered puppy another blow and at last it lay limpy still. He kicked it over and
watched for a sign of life. The puppy did not move where it lay twisted on its side.

He turned his attention to Baldo.

 “Get up,” he said, hoarsely, pushing the boy with his foot.

Baldo was deaf. He went on crying and kicking in the dust. Tang Ciaco struck him with the piece of
wood in his hand and again told him to get up. Baldo writhed and cried harder, clasping his hands over
the back of his head. Tang Ciaco took hold of one of the boy’s arms and jerked him to his feet. Then he
began to beat him, regardless of where the blows fell.

Baldo encircled his head with his loose arm and strove to free himself, running around his father,
plunging backward, ducking and twisting. “Shameless son of a whore,” Tang Ciaco roared. “Stand still,
I’ll teach you to obey me.” He shortened his grip on the arm of Baldo and laid on his blows. Baldo fell to
his knees, screaming for mercy. He called on his mother to help him.

Nana Elang came down, but she hesitated at the foot of the ladder. Ambo ran to her. “You
too,” Tang Ciaco cried, and struck at the fleeing Ambo. The piece of firewood caught him behind the
knees and he fell on his face. Nana Elang ran to the fallen boy and picked him up, brushing his clothes
with her hands to shake off the dust.

Tang Ciaco pushed Baldo toward her. The boy tottered forward weakly, dazed and trembling. He
had ceased to cry aloud, but he shook with hard, spasmodic sobs which he tried vainly to stop.

“Here take your child,” Tang Ciaco said, thickly.

He faced the curious students and neighbors who had gathered by the side of the road. He yelled at
them to go away. He said it was none of their business if he killed his children.

“They are mine,” he shouted. “I feed them and I can do anything I like with them.”

The students ran hastily to school. The neighbors returned to their work.

Tang Ciaco went to the house, cursing in a loud voice. Passing the dead puppy, he picked it up by its
hind legs and flung it away. The black and white body soared through the sunlit air; fell among the tall
corn behind the house. Tang Ciaco, still cursing and grumbling, strode upstairs. He threw the chunk of
firewood beside the stove. He squatted by the low table and began eating the breakfast his wife had
prepared for him.

Nana Elang knelt by her children and dusted their clothes. She passed her hand over the red welts on
Baldo, but Baldo shook himself away. He was still trying to stop sobbing, wiping his tears away with his
forearm. Nana Elang put one arm around Ambo. She sucked the wound in his hand. She was crying
silently.

When the mother of the puppies returned, she licked the remaining four by the small bridge of
woven split bamboo. She lay down in the dust and suckled her young. She did not seem to miss the black-
spotted puppy.

Afterward Baldo and Ambo searched among the tall corn for the body of the dead
puppy. Tang Ciaco had gone to work and would not be back till nightfall. In the house, Nana Elang was
busy washing the breakfast dishes. Later she came down and fed the mother dog. The two brothers were
entirely hidden by the tall corn plants. As they moved about among the slender stalks, the corn-flowers
shook agitatedly. Pollen scattered like gold dust in the sun, falling on the fuzzy· green leaves.

When they found the dead dog, they buried it in one corner of the field. Baldo dug the grove with a
sharp-pointed stake. Ambo stood silently by, holding the dead puppy.

When Baldo finished his work, he and his brother gently placed the puppy in the hole. Then they
covered the dog with soft earth and stamped on the grave until the disturbed ground was flat and hard
again. With difficulty they rolled a big stone on top of the grave. Then Baldo wound an arm around the
shoulders of Ambo and without a word they hurried up to the house.

The sun had risen high above the Katayaghan hills, and warm, golden sunlight filled Nagrebcan. The
mist on the tobacco fields had completely dissolved.

F. Questions for Comprehension

1. Analyze the story by completing the following table.
ELEMENTS ASPECTS ANSWERS/EXPLANATIONS
Point of view
Character Main characters
Main characters
Setting
Tone and atmosphere
Symbol/s
Irony
Theme
Meaning

2. The story was written several decades ago. In what ways does it ring a chord with the
contemporary reader? What social issues suggested in the story are “contemporary”?

Now read the sample Creative Nonfiction text below about the narrator’s reflection on
the changes that had happened in her hometown. Analyze the selection based on the elements
of fiction, if applicable, that were identified earlier.

MY HOMETOWN
Yazmin D. Raquiza

A five-star hotel has risen on the very spot where our house in Davao City used to be. I
literally grew up in that place, having spent the first 18 years of my life there. Since I left, I have
travelled and lived in various places, but I’ve been back almost every year. There’s a tinge of
irony in how my roots and peripatetic ways seem to be reflected in the fact that the hotel was
named after Marco Polo, one of the well-known travelers in history.
Happily, some of the old landmarks are still there. Despite the entry of numerous
shopping malls, the bargain hunters’ paradise called Aldevinco shopping center has survived
and remains in the same location. During my elementary and high school days, “sa harap ng
Aldevinco” was my stock answer whenever somebody asked where I live.
Another building that withstood changes in the community is Ateneo, although some of
the stores surrounding it have come and gone. Because of its proximity to our house, and the
fact that it offers the highest quality education in Davao, I would have studied in Ateneo except
that they would not give me a scholarship. I landed in UP instead, and began my journey to
other cities and other worlds.
Childhood memories came back when I noticed, with a chuckie I might add, that this tiny
eatery called Pilotos managed to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb right beside the high
wall of Marco Polo Hotel. I asked my sister what happened to the filthy canal at the back of the
eatery that wended its way through a row of squatter shanties. She said the hotel had placed
culverts and conveniently covered the muck. I remember our entire brood making a pilgrimage
to Pilotos for its special halo-halo on summer afternoons when we were kids. Once, my brothers
raced me to Pilotos from our house and I fell from the single plank that we had to negotiate to
cross the canal. There I was, hanging with both hands on the plank while my ankles and feet got
soaked in the brackish waters with its yucky creatures. That’s the origin of my phobia of flimsy
bridges, which is a real hassle in Palawan where we usually have to walk on slippery logs and
broken planks to cross rivers and streams.
These days, there are more changes than familiar places in the neighborhood. A bakery
and a coffee shop have replaced Dueñas store and the old beerhouse has gone to several
incarnations, from restaurant to something else, before it became the landscaped garden in
front of the hotel. Two decades ago, there were an ally between Dueñas and the beerhouse that
led first to our house, and then on to other houses in the small neighborhood sandwiched
between C.M Recto and Ponciano streets. The area was razed in the late ‘70s, forcing residents
to scatter elsewhere. There were rumors of arson, but as far as I know, this was never proven.
All the things I wrote in my first 18 years were lost in that fire. To this day, I still get nervous
whenever I smell something burning.
A small shopping mall has long replaced the old Boyscout building (although) old timers
still refer to the general area as Boyscout , and the Post Office has since undergone a much-
needed facelift. The “island” between the hotel and the mall is now called Clifford Park. This
used to be the playground of most kids in the neighborhood, the only open space where they
could fly kites and watch the stars in the evening.
On the street where I grew up, jeepney drivers impatiently honk their way and try to
outmaneuver each other in the one-way traffic. This is certainly a far cry from the days when the
jeepney driver would wait for us as we straightened our pleated uniforms and slowly sit down
before setting off again. Up to early 80’s, I still remember describing Davao City as a quiet place
with a very slow pace. These days, it’s the same old rat race one finds in Manila, Cebu, and
other big cities.
Revisiting my hometown has made me re-think the concept of home. It’s funny how a
place can be so familiar and yet so remote. The sight of the ICC building (now UIC since it
became a university) on the hilltop near Bankerohan market brought back nostalgic memories of
medals won and speeches nervously delivered. Traversing the same old streets in speeding
jeepneys and taxis, I looked for scenes from the past but found myself getting lost in the vastly
changed cityscape. In the street and the malls, faces from my childhood and the not-too-distant
‘80s called from the sidewalk and the stalls but I could no longer relate with them. The past
seems so far away, and the present has become a stranger. The thought seems almost
sacrilegious, knowing the Filipinos’ deep sense of affinity to family and one’s roots.
In the era of space travel and migration, whether forced or voluntary, there are growing
numbers of “citizens of the world” who’s concept of home must have shifted from the traditional
view to a purely personal definition. Home is where the heart is, the romantics would say. For
people who are used to “living out of a suitcase” home is wherever they are at any given time.
It’s like the T-shirt I once saw that read “Wherever you go there you are” or something like that.
It’s a popular phrase in the US where travel and moving to other places is a way of life for many
people.
It’s funny how we can feel so at home in far-away places and not in our own hometown.
It could be the sign of the times, and then again, maybe it’s just me.

WRITER’S BLOC
Using the element of fiction, write a short creative nonfiction about the changes
happening in your hometown the very day that community quarantine was implemented.
Observe the difference of your normal days before the pandemic from the new normal we are
embracing today. Make use of your creativity. Enjoy writing!

Note: A minimum of 5 paragraphs.

Prepared by: Noted by:

LOVELY APRIL I. BASIERTO GEMMA A.

TAN
Subject Teacher OIC Asst.
Principal