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Flash fiction > is a creative writing form that's probably best defined through examples, given that it's

continually being
reinvented by writers as they experiment, challenge themselves andstretch the boundaries of what they can do. (Ask ten authors to
define this form andyou'll probably get ten different answers.) It now includes a wide variety of types and lengths, from six word
stories, Twitter fiction (140 characters or less) and drabbles (100 words exactly) to longer pieces of a few hundred words.

The Times They Aren't a Changin'

"Experience has taught me that my job is rough." My great-great-grandfather wrote this down
on a piece of parchment more than one hundred years ago. He was obviously ahead of his time.
Worried about the future, inching away from the present. He was a disgruntled worker in a profession
that fret over the color of a man's skin. What did he care that the man was black? For all great-great-
grandpa cared, he could have been yellow, green, orange, aqua-marine, or maroon. He was a man, and
the only thing great-great-grandpa was glad about was that the man hanging there wasn't him. He didn't
have anything to worry about. He was a white man in the prime of his life doing the job of hanging the
supposed guilty. How he ended up with a job like that, you wonder. Well, he was probably sitting
around on his porch one day, soaking in the beams of sunlight, I suppose, when a man approached him
and asked if he wanted a job. Well, my great-great-grandpa, a man with a wife and three kids, one of
whom was my great-grandpa, he knew he had to take the job. The coal mine he worked in for the past
few months had caved in a few days previous, and no money was coming into the house. The kids were
hungry and great-great-grandma had caught a coughing spell, and was unable to see a doctor on
account of their lack of money. Great-great-grandpa shook the man's hand and said he'd take whatever
job he had to give. It was only after he got down to the courthouse that he realized what was
happening. A line of black folks was filed out of the building, and trials were ensuing. Times were
shouted out -- the times of the hangings that is. Great-great-grandpa knew right away that he was not
the right man for this job, but he was in desperate need of the money, and didn't know any other way to
go about making it.

One day when a young man by the name of Wilkins was to be hanged, great-great-grandpa had
a hard time getting out of bed, or so the story is told through the generations. He just laid there,
depressed. He had already hanged five young men in the two days he had held this job. He came home
every night sick to his stomach, disheveled, and exhausted. He was in no greater a state than great-
great-grandma, whose coughing spell had turned into pneumonia. The children were left to tend for
themselves during this time, and great-grandpa, being the oldest at twelve years of age, was able to
keep his brother and sister calm and fed, somehow. Anyway, the story that great-grandpa told to
grandpa, and that grandpa told to my dad, and dad told to me, goes that great-great-grandpa got up,
chanced a glance in the sliver of a mirror in his bedroom, and without changing his clothes or eating a
bite, left the house to be down at the courthouse by 7 am. They planned to hang Wilkins bright and
early. As great-great-grandpa fit the noose around the Wilkins boy's neck, he muttered some words
under his breath that he wrote down on that same piece of parchment later, because he was aware of
the impact of the words, but doubtful that they would ever change anything, or allow him to leave his
job. His job was rough, and he impresses that upon me when he writes this:

"Figurin' out which way to hold the noose is the worse part of it. When this donkey moves, it'll
just be another dead body to figger out what to do wit. What could this young'n have done to deserve a
hangin'? But I jus' do my job and don' ask no questions, because this is the way times are, and they ain't
bound to change no time soon."
A Mind's Journey

What made me different from my siblings as I was growing up, was that I preferred to have a carefree
and very often, quite reckless attitude towards life. While my elder sister and my little brother did their
homework at home, I was out chasing the stray dogs and getting myself all messed up, with the
neighborhood kids. My father always said I was a waste of life, but my mother always defended me
saying I would make the whole family proud one day. When you're 9, you don't really think about
making the family proud. All I could think of was when I'd get to go out and play again. But suddenly, in
the summer of '96, I came home to a rude shock. My father had decided to leave us and settle down
with another woman, who he claimed he loved. My mother refused to hand us over to him and he
looked visibly relieved. You see, by now, I was well past my 'always out in the sun phase'. I had begun to
look at people, and begun observing their facial expressions and begun to formulate stories and
situations that they were in. More often than not, I was right about what they were thinking as well.

Then on this day, my mother was not only heartbroken that her husband had decided to leave her, she
was absolutely terrified at the prospect of having to raise three kids alone. All I could do, at the tender
age of 13 was give my mother a shoulder to cry on. I did all the house work that I could manage along
with my siblings, before mum got home from work. Then we all sat and had dinner together and
recounted our day's activities. Talking, I realized then, has a very therapeutic effect on people. Whether
it's about the tiniest incident or a life changing one, you actually feel better when you talk to someone
about it. But even greater than talking is the art of active listening. When you actively listen to someone,
you give them their full attention and there's no better feeling than having someone giving you their
undivided attention. I tried it out with many people, friends, relatives, even random strangers
sometimes. I realized that I had the ability to make people feel better by just listening and talking to
them. It got me interested in the psychology of the human mind.

I was 16 by this time and at an important threshold in my life. Just waiting to graduate from high school
and looking forward to college. Having already read up a lot about the human mind and psychology, I
had already decided that a psychologist is what I wanted to grow up to be. I worked two jobs to
accumulate enough money to apply at your prestigious medical school. One of those jobs was as an
assistant to a practicing psychologist. Having assisted and accompanied him to various seminars,
conferences, etc., I can confidently say that I have a good idea of the daily life and the work that a
psychologist is expected to do. And this will definitely be an advantage for me if I do get selected for the
course at your institute. It is with great hope and admiration for the noble profession of helping
disturbed individuals that I seek admission at your institute. If you find me a worthy candidate, for which
you can go through my resum attached herewith, stating my educational qualifications, and my job
responsibilities, I request you to contact me at the numbers mentioned in my resum.
Autobiography is not the story of a life; it is the recreation or the
discovery of one. In writing of one's experience, you will discover yourself,
and in the writing create the pattern you seem to have lived. Often, of
course, autobiography is merely a collection of well-rehearsed anecdotes;
but, intelligently written, it is the revelation, to the reader and the
writer, of the writer's conception of the life he or she has lived. Simply
put, autobiography is a reckoning. This page will helps you shape a diverse
and colorful assortment of personal vignettes and stories about your being
into a graceful, coherent narrative that conveys the larger story of your
life.

EXAMPLE OF A SHORT AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I came into this world on the cold morning of January 29, 1983.
Born in San Miguel de Allende, a small town in the Mexican state
of Guanajuato, or so I was told. My parents, Patricia Merrill
and Roberto Navarrete had tried unsuccessfully for six years to
conceive their first child and I just happened to be the lucky
one.

My Family Background.

My mother and my father are the complete opposite of


each other culturally. Patricia, my mother, had lived in
Massachusetts all her life, her two brothers and her father were
in the military. She grew up with the Americana customs and had
spent only a couple of summers in Mexico. However, she spoke
Spanish. On the other hand, my father had lived in Mexico all
his life and his brother and his father were in the Mexican
military. He spoke no English and was raised in a very typical
Mexican family. Therefore, I guess I'm sort of stuck between
both cultures. You might be asking yourself how the two of them
ever ended up together even though they are so different. Well,
both of them are architects and they met while my mother was in
Mexico.

Childhood.

The majority of my early memories from childhood are


somewhat vague, but for the first years of my life, I mostly
spent the day either crying or sleeping, as babies do. A year
later I began walking around my house, or what I remember as
taking a couple steps and then stumbling awkwardly onto the
floor. I also began to utter my first spoken words in both
English and Spanish.

In 1986 at the bright age of three, I was enrolled at


a local kindergarten where I would learn children's songs or
play in the sandbox all morning and spend my afternoons watching
the Disney channel at home. Most of my vacations included long
and tedious trips to Georgetown, MA with the purpose of visiting
my grandparents. During the weekends we'd visit my paternal
grandparents and relatives in Guanajuato. It pretty much stayed
that way some time.

Once kindergarten was over with, and upon my mother's


insistence, I entered a bilingual institution in my town where I
studied up to my fourth year of grammar school. In that same
period my sister Monica was born and she came into the family.
Everything seemed perfect in my life at that point: I was doing
great at school, my family was great, I was as happy kid.
Suddenly, the whole picture fell apart when my parents filed for
divorced.

I was ten years old when my father and I moved to


Guanajuato, the state capital. I lived there for a stage and
despite the confusing situation, had some fun times. I studied
at Instituto Guanajuato and played soccer or biked in my free
time. I'd visit my mother and sister on weekends, yet I missed
them both throughout the entire week. Being only ten at the
time, I regretted not seeing my mother and sister as much as I
would have liked to.

Adolescence.

At the age of fourteen I was through with junior high


school. A couple of weeks earlier I'd been accepted to enroll at
Phillips Academy. Phillips is a boarding school in a small
student town called Andover, MA in north eastern area of the
United States. I had never lived abroad, or alone for that
matter, hence was a bit reluctant to the idea of leaving by
myself. My grandparents who had lived in Georgetown for many
years had moved to Texas by then. A couple of months earlier
they had decided to no longer have to cope with the cold and
snowy New England winters, thus my nearest relatives where now
in Washington eight hours away.

While I was at Phillips I played soccer for the junior


varsity team in the evenings and took the Amtrak and traveled
around the area on weekends. No one was allowed to leave the
campus during the weekdays but that wasn't a real problem since
the campus premises included most of the town and I'd easily
find ways to keep myself busy.

After what has seemed to be the longest year of my


life, I returned to Mexico and moved in with my mother and
sister. This decision was against the will of my grandparents
and father (I had a four year scholarship at Andover and they
considered I would miss out on a great opportunity). The main
reason I came back was that because of being so far away I'd
only visit my family twice a year. At that time I just didn't
feel ready for that.

I applied for entry at the Universidad del Valle de


Mexico in San Miguel de Allende and continued my studies there.
A hectic period in my teenage years had concluded and I was able
to slow down and enjoy my family. I matured quite a bit and
built up my self-confidence and independence.

The past three years I lived in San Miguel de Allende.


In my time of leisure I'd mountain bike through different trails
in the vicinity or travel with my family. I also had time to
think about what I wanted to study and took day trips to
universities nearby.

After I graduated from the Universidad del Valle de


Mexico a few months ago, I began studying at the Tec de
Monterrey in Queretaro where I'm currently majoring in
Accounting and Finance. My cousin and I are living together in a
small apartment in Queretaro, yet we manage to leave for San
Miguel de Allende and go home every Friday.

What's comes next?

I am now eighteen years old. After this phase I'd like


to study a Master's Degree in Financial Planning in the U.S. or
in Singapore, but I'm still not sure it, I just might change my
mind and do otherwise, although I haven't come up with what that
something else could be.

I was born on a warm, sunny day in July 5,2002 in Bulanao. Tabuk, Kalinga. I live in Bayombong, Nueva
Vizcaya, and I go to school at St. Marys University Grade School Department, Bayombong, Nueva
Vizcaya. I live with my dad, Benny and my sister, Renee. Renee is a sweet kid and she would do
anything for me, but like all sisters we fight like cats and dogs, especially when we argued of something
that we cannot agree together.

Who I am in life.

My name is Zita Dewi Nirvana L. Messakaraeng. I started school when I was five-years-old. I went to
kindergarten through fifth grade at Booker Elementary and while I was there, I won an award for perfect
attendance. I also won an award for honor roll all four terms. Then I attended Booker Middle School, and
there I also won a couple of awards: one for perfect attendance and two for being named Student of the
Year--one in sixth grade and the other in eighth grade. I am now a senior at Booker High School. I plan
on finishing school and maybe going to a community college.

What life means to me.

Life to me means friends and family who you can trust and who trusts you. I am pretty much on the happy
side of life, but like all teens I do I have my "days of." That means I do have some sad days or depressed
days. I have a few frinds here that sort of look out for me and when I am having a bad day, I have
someone here at school to talk to. I make my school days go by thinking of either the next hour or what I
will do when I get home or on the weekend. I'm not seeing anyone now but when I did have a boyfriend,
our favorite places to go were the movies and out to dinner. Sometimes we went to the beach. Only once
we went to an amusement park: Universal Studios. We were together for twenty-nine days and then we
broke-up; so no, I don't think it was forever.

What's my outlook on the future.

The year 2018 will make twenty years since I graduated from high school. I think I will probably be still
living here in Sarasota. I will be quite comfortable with my living situation, meaning that I will be married to
Paul Smith. We will have one child: Linda Treasa Smith, who at that point will be three-years-old and a
little devil. Paul is a sweet guy; he will do anything for anyone. He is six feet tall and built well. He has
baby blue eyes and blond hair. We will have been together for five years and will be happy together--this
is forever.

Conclusion

As I said in the beginning, I was born here in Florida and I've lived here my whole life. I would like to see
more of the USA but unfortunately, I don't have any money to leave Florida to go anywhere right now. I
hope you have enjoyed reading my life story as much as I have enjoyed writing it for you. Try to get as
much as you can out of school; you're only there for twelve years and when you graduate, you're home
free. Here's a tip for you to live or try to live by: If you think it, it can be done.

Written by Erika Baker

Works Cited, References, or Bibliography Sample Page

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Fall and Rise of an American Icon. Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks, 2002.

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Sample Songwriting

Youre My World
Verse 1
Your eyes sparkle and shine
And lately its like your always on my mind
Your beautiful in every way,
Head to toe, all day.
Finding it hard to put it any other way.
Youre the greatest girl eva,
And when Im with you,
I want it to last forever
Girl you like a puzzle piece.
We click together
Im always gunna love you, imma always care

Verse 2
When I needed you, you were always there
Through the hard times, through the pain
When I needed you, you always came
Even after all this time, youve stayed the same
Youre real with me, thats why I love you girl
Your my everything, my entire world
Your smile makes me shine wanna make you mine
Youre defiantly not a waste of my time
Damn girl, youre my favorite
Surprise your eyes,
Sparkle and shine

Verse 3
And lately its like your always on my mind
Your beautiful in every way,
Head to toe, all day.
Once I saw your face, I couldnt turn away.
And now I think about it every single day.
My heart skips a beat.
Can you feel that heat?
Girl you my every thing, my soul my heart, my life.
I love you baby. I wish you would stay for eva and always, neva leave my side.

Chorus
Girl you like a puzzle piece.
We click together
Im always gunna love you, imma always care
When I needed you, you were always there
Youre beautiful in every way,
Head to toe, all day.

SAMPLE SCRIPT PAGE


Here is a sample script page from The Godfather. It shows what proper formatting looks like. The font and
margins may vary slightly from browser to browser, so use the rules disc
lesson.
Playwriting Sample
AMERICAN ICONS
a black comedy about profits and perception
2 acts / 5 m, 3 f / run time approx. 100 min.
TIME & PLACE - The play takes in 1991 -- mostly at the executive offices of Matthews International, outside
of Baltimore, Maryland. They manufacture, broker and otherwise purvey collectibles, both historical and
manufactured.
THE SETTING - Basically a table, five office chairs, five phones and five computer terminals -- all mobile so
they can be reconfigured to represent different offices at Matthews International.
WE PICK UP ON THE ACTION during the prologue (where a series of short monologues and brief encounters
are utilized to define the characters and their particular world.)
AT THIS POINT WE SEE a single light on BENTLEY -- mid-thirties, Brooks Brothers look, the chief
broker/account exec, ceramic division -- as he swivels his office chair around and addresses the audience.
BENTLEY
Though he is a little, well, coarse, working with Morty Matthews is never dull. Last month, for example, I
went to him about our need for a new mass market product for the holidays. Something that will make
Grandmothers's will ... something that will grace your home ... (light up on MORTY MATTHEWS -- age 50,
Syms off-price look, the founder and energetic leader of the company -- as he swivels front)
MORTY
Not my home, I have a small apartment.
BENTLEY
Something your family will enjoy ...
MORTY
I have no family.
BENTLEY (patient)
At Christmas time, Christian families set out a creche.
MORTY
Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus and a bunch of farm animals.
BENTLEY
Ours is going to be different -- world class designers ...
MORTY
Christmas market's swamped. How 'bout an Easter series?
BENTLEY
Bunnies?
MORTY
Ya know, at Christmas, you arrange that little scene on the mantle, right? What can you put out at Easter?
BENTLEY
Reproductions of Faberge eggs, would be very nice.
MORTY
You want mass market here, Bentley, or what? Think! Easter! Not just thousands, but tens of thousands of
subscribers! What could people assemble on their mantles for Easter?
BENTLEY (thinks a moment, then)
Morty, no one's going to want to nail their own Christ to a cross.
MORTY (being patient)
Something to arrange on the mantle at Easter -- think!
BENTLEY
Display your own last supper?
MORTY
Now you're talkin'! There's what -- ten apostles?
BENTLEY
I think there were twelve.
MORTY
Whatever. Make it up from the Michelangelo painting and don't even have to pay a designer.
BENTLEY
It was Da Vinci.
MORTY
Bone China! And make your table from"giants cedars from the Holy Land!"
BENTLEY
There are no giant cedars left in the holy land.
MORTY
They don't know that!
BENTLEY
What about food?
MORTY
What about it?
BENTLEY
It was the last supper.
MORTY
It's for display, not for some kid to play house with!
BENTLEY
It was a Seder supper. He was Jewish ... at the time. (realizing:) Then again, you know what was on the
table -- the wine chalice!
MORTY
There you are!
BENTLEY
The Grail! The Holy Grail!
MORTY (on a roll)
Subscribe now and we'll throw in the Holy Grail! In 10 carat gold plate! We offer a piece a year -- "complete
your set before the 2000th anniversary of the Last Supper!" You getting this down? And, Bentley, check into
the potential for lawn ornaments. They buy life size manger scenes that light up their lawns for Christmas,
don't they?
Example Essay on Journalism

Journalism has transformed dramatically over the years. The advancement of technology has
helped the media evolve by giving people a better perspective of how the world is viewed today.
Radios, computers, telephones, and televisions are becoming important tools in the 21st century.
Now people have the opportunity to access global information, multimedia content, and
instantaneous news. Because journalism has become an important source of gathering information,
the history, present, and future of journalism will be presented.

In 1915, the Massachusetts Agricultural College first introduced journalism as a major. With a
masters degree from Harvard and Yale, Robert Wilson Neal taught journalism from 1906 to 1920.
At the University of Massachusetts, Neals work in modern journalism has been viewed for over 80
years. There were two books Neal wrote that were published by Oxford University Press in 1914
and 1918. They were called Short Story Writing in the Making, and Todays Short Stories
Analyzed. Also, Neal had studied law and taught at several universities in the U.S. such as
University of Kansas, University of Cincinnati, and Rutgers College. On May 18, 1915, Neal wrote in
an article that the press would be one of strongly influences in American lives and that it would
have an impact on societal issues such as religion, education, public morals, and it will either have
a positive or negative effect on the community (Neal).

There were not any statistics showing how many students actually joined the major or when it
finished. Therefore, Massachusetts Agricultural College did not create a strong program for
journalism. Nonetheless, after leaving the college, he decided to teach journalistic writing at Home
Correspondence School in Springfield and became vice president and a member of the board of
directors. Unfortunately, in 1939, he died at the age of sixty-eight (Grimes, L Sarah).

The opportunities the news media brings is growing in the 21st century. The wireless
communications such as broadband is helping news organizations by transferring media files faster
than ever. Digital tools such as high digital cameras, personal computers are giving reporters
limitless communication capabilities. The virtual newsrooms have taken journalism to the next
level. Journalists can feel at ease working with electronic emails, databases, and transmitting
media content without any difficulties. Also, news directors can think of countless possibilities of
how to construct newsrooms in an organized way. A networked computer workstation can provide
editors and producers with limitless opportunities to reconstruct the media content without having
to be concerned about where the computers are located. Limits are not a concern with virtual
newsrooms because it can capture a mass audience. Although the equipment is cheaper, the
audience can have a live video interaction with news organizations. With virtual newsrooms,
reporters can also get equal access to information, people, and processing power. The significance
of virtual newsrooms is that developing news events can be broadcasted from the exact location.
With this technology available, information presented will contain higher accuracy (106-107).

In the digital age, newsrooms are becoming far more convenient to journalists because they can
edit and produce a video without any complications. Leadership has become an important role due
to technological advancements. However, new technology can create a few problems. First, the
expenses are high. Second, it can confuse employees who may not be willing to learn the changes
because it may be difficult. There are 3 important principles a person should follow when
introducing new technology. 1) Include newsroom staff in process of identifying appropriate
technology. 2) Provide extensive training on new technology before expecting staff to use it. 3)
Provide sufficient technical support (111).

Another important factor is that relationships between audiences and news organizations must
have chemistry together. The press has an obligation to help citizens become informed about
democracy. The press is considered to be the fourth branch of government and, therefore,
protected by the 1st amendment. However, during recent years, people have drifted away from the
media. Trust is the glue that holds newsrooms together and ultimately binds readers to a specific
newspaper and to read newspapers in general(New York Times). Most people are becoming
pessimistic of online journalism. However, there are three reasons why online journalism is not the
problem. Firstly, online journalism will begin to thrive and will be credible to the audience as it
grows. But for now, it is only starting to gain recognition. Secondly, mistakes can be corrected
found in an article or column by readers who read online news. Thirdly, online capabilities offered
to news providers include hyperlinks, which provide additional details about the story (125-129).

When a journalist writes a newspaper, it is divided into three parts: a headline, first paragraph,
and the remainder of the story. Most people will read the headline first before reading the article
because it is in big and bold words, which usually is eye-catching. The first paragraph is always the
writers focus of the story that would include factual information. The writer will answer questions
using the five Ws, which are Who? What? When? Where? Why? and How? If a fire broke out, then
the writer would answer What? By answering Who? and Where? The writer would give the location
of the fire and whose properties were affected. The writer would answer the question When?, by
giving the time period from the beginning of the fire to the end of the blaze. By answering Why?
The writer would mention cigarette butts, which would be the cause. Finally, by answering How?
the writer could mention that the approximate cost of the damage done by the fire (90-91).

The future of journalism will change overtime. If you are a journalist at the beginning of your
career, this is an exciting time to be in, (Frum). He believes that the future of media contains
limitless opportunities and by making the media access easier, the market will become a difficult
challenge. However, Starowicz thinks that technology will isolate people and the wealthy will
control the market. Also, he feels that the news media will become dominant by commercialism of
television and the Internet and that readers will rely on online news media than newspapers or
magazines. But from Frums perspective, technology will have a positive impact on the Internet
because it will keep people informed about current events. Nonetheless, Frum and Starowicz
believe that in the near future journalists will face a lot of challenges (Berezowski, Sarah).

As technology becomes a part of peoples lives computers, radios, and telephones will significantly
revolutionize communication. Journalists will have to learn different skills to deliver news to
audiences with strong information. There is no doubt that telling stories will be the main focus of
journalists. There are 4 key points that will need to be addressed for the future of news: 1) How
will changes in communication technology affect journalists and news organizations? 2) How can
the quality, integrity and usefulness of the news product be maintained? 3) How can journalists
use these new communication tools to better serve the audience and our society? 4) How will the
audience react to this rapid pace of change? (Newsroom Resources).

Reducing alienation and distrust of media will expand because of technology. 3 points are usually
dominated by journalism. 1) To survey the world and report the facts as they are best understood.
2) To interpret those facts in terms of their impact on the local community or society at large. 3)
To provide opinion or editorial guidance on facts, thereby helping create public opinion on matters
of importance and to set an agenda for public discourse. In the 21st century, journalists will not be
the main provider for news information. Events being interpreted by journalists will grow and
change. As the audience obtains important information and its purpose, the roles of journalists will
need to develop by adding value to their work. Nonetheless, reconnecting communities will be a
vital role for journalists online and off. This will help the participation of citizens to get involved in
public issues and create a responsive audience (217-219).

In conclusion, Massachusetts has become the birthplace of journalism. With Neal and his
accomplishments, he helped transform journalism to what it is now today. Wireless technology
gadgets are providing journalists with faster media content. Virtual newsrooms are becoming
common these days because it involves the audience to give live feedback with their opinions and
giving journalists the opportunity to report live news media from any location. Also, leadership
roles have become an important aspect in the news industry to help media expand. Keeping a
relationship with an audience will be critical to journalists who want recognition and respect of their
work. Assisting people to become informed citizens of democracy and telling the truth will build a
circle of trust. Journalists should write articles that will improve their credibility by presenting
factual information. The objective of a journalist will always be telling news events. With
journalists value of information, the wall dividing journalists and the audience will be broken.

Creative nonfiction (also known as literary or narrative nonfiction) is a


genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create
factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other
nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted
in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. As
a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only
beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to
fiction and poetry.

Literary journalistic essays are a form of creative nonfiction whose purpose is to inform
and enlighten. In these essays, the writer employs literary devices, such as dialogue,
setting, characterization and plot structure to narrate a true story about a person, place,
event, experience or to write about a big idea.

Sample of Personal Essay


Personal Essay for Medical Course

When I was a child, my cousin, who was of the same age, died of a particularly vicious flu. This
case, however trivial it may sound, impressed me so greatly that I decided to connect my life
with medicine when I grow up, so that I would be able to study the disease, understand how it
functions and, probably, will be able to save somebody else from undergoing the same
experience. By the time I reached high school, this resolution became rather lukewarm, but still I
tried to apply it to several biology and medical clubs; and, surprisingly, it turned out that my
early decision was completely correct, for biology and medicine became the subjects that I
enjoyed particularly throughout my high school years.

Since then, I tried to further develop my interests and, throughout my undergraduate years, took
three public health courses in order to familiarize myself with the system of health care in this
country and understand how it works and, in perspective, how it can be improved. At the present
time, I study biology with specific concentration on microbiology and infectious diseases. I have
experience of work in a medical laboratory in Oldcreek, Kansas, where I had an opportunity to
see how real research in epidemiology is being done.

I am most interested in the reputation and facilities the Northern University of Alabama
provides, and heard a lot of most praising opinions of the people working there. I believe that I
may become a valuable member of this scientific community in future, and learn a lot from
renowned scientists who work there now. I am most interested in Doctor Baumans proposed
method of working on pathogenic bacteria and hope to make contribution in the research done
there.

After receiving the Bachelors degree in epidemiology, I intend to go on and further deepen my
knowledge of the subject. Masters and Doctoral degrees seem to be natural continuation of my
way, and I intend to go it up to the end.

In my research work I plan to go along the lines I have defined for myself from the very
beginning and try to find new, more effective ways of fighting contagious diseases that still
plague people all over the world.
ULLALIM, THE EPIC OF LOVE OF THE MADUCAYAN
ULLALIM, THE EPIC OF LOVE OF THE MADUCAYAN
By Melvin Banggollay Jr.

An ullalim epic is a traditional music and poetry form of the Philippines. These are long chanted
stories passed down for hundreds of years that tell the exploits of heroes. They are classics of the
Malayo-Polynesian language family. The most skilled poets would memorize epic cycles that took
two to four days to recite during all-night dramatic performances. Two examples of precolonial
(before the Spanish came) epics that survive today are Biag ni Lam-ang (Legend of Lamang) in
Ilocano (a northern Luzon dialect) and Ibalon in Bicol (a southern Luzon dialect) . The term ullalim is
sometimes used today to refer to that style of song, but the real ullalim is the epic poem of the
Kalinga people. An article I read says that the singer would dress up in brilliant, flashy clothes like
the hero described in the story.
It is the considered an epic of the kalinga people depicting the struggle of Banna and Lagunwa who
were the main characters of the love story Ullalim-this is a long epic song of the Kalinga about the
adventures of Banna, the hero of the epic. Tagalog Epic Story Maragtas is the counterpart of the
Ullalim Epic of the Kalinga people. Ullalim-this is a long epic song of the Kalinga about the
adventures of Banna, the hero of the epic, and his amorous relationship with Laggunawa. The story
tells us that Banna was a travelling adventurous man going from place to place in search for a
maiden to marry until one day he found Lagunnawa that truly mersmerize him until they fall in love
with each other. Lagunawa was known as the most beautiful woman in the villages he went though
while Banna was known to be a young, handsome and brave tribal leader with unmatched skill in
hand to hand with out without spear or bulo. He was feared by all men for having that lightning
speed during combat but so sought by many woman with his sterling qualities and handsome looks
and athletic feature.
One day, he came to a village and met Lagunawa that for the first time he felt in love with this
beautiful woman oozing with enchanting beauty of an angel. To get her, he serenaded her with a
song that started by giving a "moma" singing that if you like me oh woman of beauty so serene like
the melody of the moon shining above, take my simple offering from the bottom of my heart. The
woman on the other hand being so in love with this man whom he behold so handsome and kind,
accepted the moma and chewed it while singing, " oh you are the man of my dream that cherished
every dreams I have, come let me love thee with all the pearl of my heart. " Together, they dance
and sung song full of burning passion until they decided to get married and form a union of their
waring villages to end the conflict between their villages. From such marriage, the villages live in
peace and harmony and shared the spirit of love Banna and Lagunawa have for the two village.
Every village have their own Ullalim depicting the struggle and journey of Banna in search for the
woman of her heart, Lagunawa. Even the place of Maducayan, have such epic handed down from
generations to generations depicting the struggle of a man in search for true love and passion.
Banna was believed to originate from Maducayan an old village in the hinterlands of the
Mountainous areas of the Cordillera Region. Lagunnawa, on the other hand, was believe to be from
a village far away in the land of Kalinga.
FACTS & FIGURES

... At a Glance

Area 3,164.3 sq. km.

Capital Tabuk City

Total Population
201,613
(As of May 2010)

Population Growth Rate 1.95


(1990-2010)
Household Population
182,098
(As of Aug 2007)

Number of Households
34,858
(As of Aug 2007)

Average Household Size


5.2
(As of Aug 2007)

Population Density
63.7/sq. km.
(As of May 2010)

Number of Municipalities 7
Number of City 1
(As of Sept 2011)

Annual Per Capita Food Threshold


PhP 10,310
(As of 2009)

Annual Per Capita Poverty Threshold


PhP 14,781
(As of 2009)

Number of Barangays
152
(As of Sept 2011)

View CAR PSGC View Selected Provincial


Indicators

Kalinga is a landlocked province in the northernmost section of the Cordillera Region. It is bounded by
the provinces of Cagayan and Apayao in the north, Mt. Province in the south, and Abra in the West.
The greater sections of Cagayan and Isabela are found on its eastern part.

Sharp-crested interlinking mountain peaks, steep slopes, isolated flat lands, plateau's and valley
characterize the western side while the eastern section is generally rolling with gradually sloping
foothills, interlocking wide track of flat lands and floodplains along its main rivers. Among land and
waterforms which constitute potential tourism sights are its waterfalls, hot springs, rice terraces and
subterranean rivers.

Composed of seven municipalities and one component city, the province's land area as of 2010 is
3,164.3 square kilometers occupying 17% of the Cordillera Administrative Region's land area.
A sizeable 85.96% of the total land area has been declared under the Revised Forestry Code
inalienable and disposable or public land leaving only 14.04% as alienable disposable. This can be
counted as a major issue aside from the inaccessibilty attributed by the terrain of the province.

Under the national population count conducted by the National Statistics Office (NSO), as of May
2010, Kalinga registered a total population of 201,613 and a growth rate of 1.95 from 1990 to 2010.
The City of Tabuk has the highest population count 103,912 persons. This is because Tabuk City is the
capital of the province and is the center of commerce, trade and industry making the city an
immigration area. The least populated town is Tanudan with only 8,119 populatioln count.

The province is richly endowed with mineral resources, both metallic and non-metallic which are said
to be mostly found in the municipalities of Balbalan and Pasil. There are also evidences on the
presence of non-metallic reserves such as sulphur, gravel and sand.

Brief History

The name Kalinga is derived from the Ibanag and Gaddang "Kalinga" which means "headhunters." In
the past, headhunting was considered noble and it symbolizes bravery. Tatoos, a status symbol which
men respect and which women admire, are given to warriors as reward. Thus a "mingol" or warrior
enjoys a high status in Kalinga society.

The "Bodong" to the Kalingas or peace pact is an indigenous socio-political system that defines
intertribal relationships. This was developed to minimize traditional warfare and headhunting and
serves as an institution for renewal, maintenance and reinforcement of social ties. Recently, the
"bodong" was expanded into a multi-lateral peace pact providing a means of strengthening unity in
the Cordilleras.

The Spanish missionaries and politico-military forces successfully penetrated into the forbidding
Apayaos and Kalinga tribal territories as early as 1608 when Father Geronimo Molina started his
mission work in Pudtol (Apayao) and also in 1689 at Tuga (Kalinga) where the first Catholic Mass was
celebrated.

During the short-lived Philippine Republic, President Emilio Aguinaldo in his flight to Palanan crossed
the upper Kalinga areas in his vain attempt to elude his American pursuers. For 35 days, President
Aguinaldo established his headquarters at Lubuagan since March 18,1900. Here, he issued his orders
to his military generals and the civil officials of his revolutionary government until he was forced out of
Lubuagan upon learning that his pursuers were sighted at Mabongtoto. This prompted him to escape
towards Tabuk in that historic last leg of his fight to Palanan, Isabela where he was later captured.

On February 4, 1920, Act No. 2772 was promulgated reorganizing the Lepanto-Bontoc Province into
Mountain Province constituted by the five provinces of Benguet, Bonito, Ifugao, Kalinga-Apayao.
Lubuagan was the capital of Kalinga while Kabugao was the capital town of Apayao.

On June 18, 1966, Republic Act No. 4695 was enacted creating from the old Mountain Province five
separate and independent provinces: Benguet, Ifugao, Mt. Province (Bonito) and Kalinga-Apayao. On
March 26, 1967, President Ferdinand E. Marcos administered the oath of office to the new officials of
the four newly born provinces.

Presently, Kalinga is fast emerging as an "Eco-Tourism Discovery of the Cordilleras" since its operation
as a regular and separate province on February 14, 1996.

Points of Interest
HISTORICAL

Aguinaldo Hill - is located at Barangay Asibanglan-Pinukpuk Road at Allaguia junction. This hill was
used as a common post by Gen, Aguinaldo during the Philippine-American war.

CULTURAL

Mini-Museum of Kalinga - a mini-museum was initiated and established by the Kalinga Special
Development Authority situated in their office building at Bulanao, Tabuk.

NATURAL

Sungang View Point - the viewpoint affords a majestic view of the valleys villages and mountains of
Tinglayan, Tanudan, Tabuk and Lubuagan. A very good view of the Tulgao and Dananao Rice Terraces
can be seen at the view point.

Palan-ah falls and hotsprings - this waterfalls is located at Tulgao West, Tinglayan. The name is
derived from the native term "Pinalpallang-ah" which means chair. The falls spray down from
approximately 100 meters above forming a pool where during a sunny day, one practically swims at
the end of the rainbow.

Mt. Mating-oy Dinayao (Sleeping Beauty)- these fabled mountain ranges border the municipalities of
Tinglayan and Tanudan and they take the form of a sleeping lady supinely lying its back. A vantage
view of the profile can be seen from the Sungang view or from Basao.

Tinglayan Rice Terraces - from the Sungang View Point, the Dananao and Tulgao Rice Terraces can be
viewed. These rice terraces are like an amphitheater along the whole mountain slopes.

Lubo and Mangali Rice Terraces - the rice terraces surrounds the villages of Lubo. The best time to
view the rice terraces is during the planting season and when the rice terraces is already ready for
harvest.

Mount Binaratan - this fabled mountain is located in Dacalan. It is the entry point of General Emilio
Aguinaldo during his retreat to Kalinga.

Taga-aran aran Kabunian - this area is located above Barangay Lubo at the source of Gaburao Creek.
At the side is a cave where Kabunian stayed while sawing lumber for his house.

Ugid Maling Subterranean River - located four kilometers away from Poblacion, Balbalan and a good
three and a half hours ride from the Capitol Town. It is a maze of cavernous boulders and rocks a top
each other forming a cavern.

Balbalasang National Park - this is a monument of the opposition of the Kalingas against the logging
companies.

Buaya Caves - It is similar to Sagada Caves with stalactites and stalagmites formation. The caves are
interconnected with each other and cover the whole mountain slope.

Aciga Tree - this is perhaps the biggest acacia tree in Kalinga within a village. It is found at the school
ground of the Aciga Elementary School and it is rumored that the tree is a landmark for the treasures
of Yamashita.

Bonnong Lakes and Asibanglan Lakes - this is a mountain lake in Pinukpuk where eels thrive and can
be recommended area for research.
Aguinaldo Hill - this is the hill where the Katipuneros made their last stand in Kalinga from pursuing
the American from Abra.

Padcharao Lake - the name is derived from the plants that abounds in the lake called "Chargo" in the
Pasil and is located approximately from 1800 to 2000 meters above sea level.

Pasil Natural Dam - it is located at Puapo, Dangtalan and was formed after the mountain side eroded.
It is ideal for boating and picnic site during the summer months.

Kabunian Bridge and Springs - these two natural landmarks are found in Maglucsad and Galdang
respectively.

Guinaang - this village has its historical importance to Kalinga as the retreat haven of President
Aguinaldo. This is where the Headquarters were located and the campsite.

Malibong Weavers Village - this is the center of the ethnic weaving industry in the province. The
village is along the road and one can buy souvenirs right from the weavers.

Bananao and Manangol Viewpoint - this is along the road towards Tinglayan and on can have a
panoramic view of the Chico River.

Elephant Hill - this is located in Rizal and is a site of an archeological digging where the other half of
the remains of the elephant war dug.

Capitol Tourism Plaza - the tourism plaza is located at the Capitol Ground and one can have a view of
the Tabuk Valley.

Rizal Lagoon - a man made Lagoon fronting the Rizal Municipal Hall.

MAN-MADE

Chico Dam - project located at Sitio Ngipen, Calanasan, Tabuk, constructed by the National Irrigation
Administration.

Rice Terraces - rice terraces at Barangay Tulgao, Tinglayan, 14 kilometers from the National Highway
Road could be reached by vehicle. The barangay road was constructed by Father Gilbert Obin, a
catholic missionary assigned in Tinglaya. It offers a better panoramic view of the rice terraces and the
sprawling villages of the different barangays of Tinglayan
Novella is a written, fictional, prose narrative normally longer than a
short story but shorter than a novel. The English word "novella" derives from
the Italian word "novella", feminine of "novello", which means "new".[1] The
novella is a common literary genre in several European languages.

Sample Novella Excerpt


The van was different.
Sure, the logos were there. MARTHA'S CUPBOARD, they shouted in some ugly purple font. A
COMMUNITY-SOURCED HELPING HAND under that in a suffocated blue. The brakes
screeched at the same high-pitched note. And it was definitely Tuesday, which was the precise
reason Lou had dragged his stuff out to this particular alley instead of making more comfortable
arrangements. But none of that mattered. It was never pleasant, acknowledging the vague black
notion that something was fundamentally wrong, but there it was: the sky was blue, it was cold,
and the van was different.
His back screamed at him as he stood and stepped behind a dumpster to relieve himself. His
work puddled and steamed in the crisp city air. He wondered how the college boy behind the
wheel liked waiting on someone like him.
"Too bad," he muttered. His attempt to clear his throat after speaking became a whooping roar
of a cough that left him leaning against the wall and pressing a hand to his chest. He spat a glob
of foul-tasting gunk on the ground beside him, pulled up his waistband, and limped towards the
van. The driver's window was down now. Not a college boy there. Someone new.
Somewhere in his brain an alarm sounded.
The new guy was older than most of the others: middle-aged and, judging by the pinkish
patches running across his cheeks, intimately familiar with his rye. Tired. Worn down. Not the
type of person to offer free labor to a community outreach center.
A few years ago, a social worker at a day center Lou frequented told him coincidences were just
that. And if you thought about it, he said, most of them weren't really coincidences, but your
brain misinterpreting the data it recorded. An unoccupied payphone ringing, the same car
driving down the block twice, a new meal truck driver. These weren't indicators of something
larger. They were just things that happened.
"Occasionally, everyone will fixate on things that are, to be frank, completely false," the social
worker had said, his tiny pink hands folded over the top of his gut. "The steps we take to
eliminate these thoughts are what's important."
We, as if there were one common thread between him and his audience. Lou never bought it,
but it was easy enough to fake when the alternative included neither a temporary roof nor a hot
meal. He approached the vans window.
"You're new," he said.
"Nah," the man said. "Just covering. People get sick in this weather. Can't make the rounds."
Lou noted the lack of effort in the driver's response.
"Not hungry then," Lou said. His stomach growled disapproval.
"No food in here," the driver said. "They said you'd give me grief."
"Who's 'they?'"
"The CIA," the man said. "Who you think? The outreach center."
"You just coming to say hi, then? That what you guys do now?"
Lou searched the driver's face for a tell: a downward glance, a split-second grimace, anything
that would betray his reason for being here. The look he got instead was much more common:
head tilted down, mouth pursed, eyes shaped somewhere between confusion and annoyance.
Generally the people I do favors for don't mess with me, it said.
They stood there for a second, staring.
"You got it," the driver finally said. "Just a buncha hello trucks now."
His voice was small against the early-morning silence. Somewhere on the block a dog barked a
few times, yelped, and went silent.
"Now," the driver said, "we both know you ain't stupid. So I'm going to give you one chance to
stop being a smart aleck and listen. If you don't want what we have to offer, great. Wonderful.
That's a seat I can fill with a much more appreciative butt than yours. But knowing what I know,
if I was in your boots I'd shut my mouth and lend an ear."
Lou's hunger overrode whatever response he had.
"Fair enough?"
Lou nodded.
"All right then," the driver said. "You read the paper?"
"Huh?"
"The newspaper. You read it or just sleep under it?"
The slight hardly registered with Lou. Pride withered fast in the alleys and outreach centers of
Murphy City. There were too many real problems for a person to concern himself with.
Protecting a feeling, especially one so fragile and volatile, assumed a kind of energy that no
man in his situation had to spare. Early on he might have been kept awake by a particularly
cruel comment made by someone dropping a coin in his cup. Now he understood the only food
people gave rats was laid on a trap.
A fast food wrapper skittered across the pavement. The sound twisted at his gut.
"I don't. And I have a blanket," he said, motioning to the bedroll behind him. "Indoctrination.
Won't even watch TV at the day center. Puts their ideas in your head."
"Right. Sure." The driver pulled a paper from the passenger seat and held it out the window. "I
take it you ain't seen this then."
City fast tracks beautification plans in advance of governor's visit, the headline read. Waste bled
from a pile of trash bags at the corner of Williams and Peppertree in the picture below.
"Lots of trash. Lou didnt know what else to say.
"I don't think you understand, friend," the driver said. "There's different kinds of trash. I don't
share the opinion, but as far as the city goes, well, they ain't tolerating any of it. Even the
walking type."
It didn't surprise Lou. When you were on the fringe of toleration, you did your best to stay
invisible. "Thanks for the warning," he said. "I'll keep my head down."
"Not good enough," the driver said. "Not now. I'm here to pick you up before they do. Got some
temporary lodging for you."
"Why not just let them lock us up?"
"Who knows, bud? My thought is one of those 'wonderful benefactors' they talk about in the
shelter newsletters couldn't stand the thought of you all in a jail cell so the governor could have
a more, uh, aesthetically pleasing ride through town. You ever been to a fundraiser for a
homeless shelter?"
"Can't say I have," Lou said.
"Three hundred a plate and a valet for your walker," the driver said. "Old hags. More money
than common sense. It's a whole social thing. Makes em feel better for mistreating the help
when they were kids or something."
The driver opened the door, stepped out of the van, and slid the rail to the back bay open. It was
empty, save for the rows and rows of tray warmers.
"First stop," he said. "Your choice of seats. Just like royalty."
Lou felt bad for being so standoffish. He was accustomed to a routine, and if someone broke it,
it was easy to get upset. The other kid couldnt have explained the situation half as well. He
walked back to his bedroll, stuffed it in a black canvas backpack, and climbed in the van without
argument.
"Never caught your name," Lou said as the bay door slid shut. The driver took the captain's
chair and turned back to face him.
"Mike," the driver said, offering his hand around the seat at an awkward angle.
"Lou," he said. He accepted the hand and shook it.
"Lou, you made a real good decision here today. Real good."
Sample Of Novel
Random Acts of Heroic Love is a novel with two intertwining threads. The first, set now, is the story of a man coming
to terms with the loss of his girlfriend in a road accident in which he was present but about which he can remember
nothing. The second is loosely based on the true story of my grandfather who fought for the Austro-Hungarian army
in WWI and was captured by the Russians in 1915. He was sent to a POW camp in Siberia. Kept alive by his love for
a girl he hardly knew, he escaped in 1917 and spent three years walking back home across Russia through deathly
winters, through war and revolution until eventually he made it back to his village.

READ CHAPTER ONE HERE

The mind after a sharp blow to t he head is like a house after a hurricane; unrecognisable shards, shreds and
splinters. Fragments of memory lie scattered in the wreckage. All the pieces are there, somewhere - but the
landscape is so distorted that, stumbling across them, the brain has no idea what they are or where they are from.

Where is Eleni?

Muerta, says the doctor.

Leos eyes close, he is oddly calm watching the bomb hurtle towards him. One last look before he is swept away. He
searches his mind and does not recognise the view. A thick fog smothers everything; he can just make out a few
faintly familiar shapes. Muerta. He already knows she is dead. At the point of asking he had no idea but when he
hears the answer it sounds like the confirmation of a memory he cant seem to bring to his mind. Something lurches
out of the blur into sharp focus. Eleni. Droplet brown eyes, rich hank of ebony curls, bundle of electric energy, singing.
Always singing like others breathe. For a fleeting moment he feels her brightness and warmth. They were like a
single atom, indivisible.

The bomb is almost upon him. The atom is about to be split. The energy to be unleashed, ferocious and
uncontrollable.

Can I see her?

No es buena idea

Where is she?

Here, in another room.

A game is being played. The doctor doesnt want the patient to see his dead lover - at least not yet. He is saying
Lets pretend she is not really dead. Muerta its just a word. This is a game of damage limitation. Leo plays along.
He doesnt know where he is or how he got there. He has no memory of recent events. He knows only that he loves a
girl called Eleni and that he must see her at all costs. He senses the panic in the doctor. If he shows any sign of
cracking the doctor will keep them apart. So he plays calm.

Please let me see her


The doctor clocks the steely determination in Leos eyes and seems reassured; maybe the boy can cope after all. He
doesnt know the story of these two young foreigners. He doesnt know the strength of their relationship.

Venga he says softly and indicates the door.

It is only then that Leo realises he is lying on a bed and that he must have been unconscious. His waking words were
for Eleni. Something of that delirious soup lingers with him. Why does the doctor speak Spanish? The question hangs
in his thoughts like a piece of string whose other end is lost in the haze. He pulls it and a thread emerges from the
fog. A memory clings to it. Im in Latin America. I came here with Eleni. But where? Guatemala? No, we flew to
Colombia from there. Colombia then? No. He tugs at the string harder. No not Colombia. After Colombia came
Ecuador. Ecuador what comes after Ecuador. Where were we going next? He pulls harder, the twine is fraying.
Peru. From Ecuador to Peru. How? How did we get to Peru? The string snaps. No memory of getting to Peru. I
must be in Ecuador or Peru. Probably Ecuador. I cant remember Peru. He contemplates the broken thread, he has
no idea where to find the other end. He is at the edge of a hole whose size is as yet unfathomable. He stares into the
void like a senile man who in a moment of lucidity knows that his mind is lost.

He pulls himself to his feet. His head swirls and he puts his hand on the bed to steady himself. He blinks hard and
tries to focus on the enamel basin on the wall opposite. One of the taps dribbles annoyingly; it must have been
leaking for years because the water has left an ugly brown stain in the sink. Wherever he is it is in a state of neglect.
The paint peels from the walls and thick spiders webs hang undisturbed in the corners. A solitary gecko surveys the
scene from the ceiling. The doctor takes him by the arm and leads him down a corridor.

They stop in front of a closed door. Leo knows she is on the other side. The doctor pushes it open. Eleni lies on a
trolley bed. There is blood on her blue shirt; her shoulder is out of joint. There is a graze on her cheek. Now the bomb
hits. Something inside him yields and the full implication of events explodes inside him. His blood thunders out of
control, coursing through him like a river that has burst its banks; legs shudder and give way at the knees; breath
shortens and rasps in the throat. His heart rejects the returning blood and empties itself; stomach locks, sending
undigested waste crashing into the colon; anus pulls tight to prevent evacuation. His nose charges with fluid mucus,
eyes blink obsessively, vision blurs with tears. He collapses to the floor and screams a high guttural scrape. Nurses
three rooms away stop in their tracks like mothers responding to a babies cry. People come running from all
directions. The doctor closes the door. A murmuring crowd gathers outside. Some of the people know what has
happened. They are witnesses who are being treated in the clinic themselves. They have been wondering what
would happen when the gringo came round and was told his girlfriend had died. My God they have been saying,
when that boy wakes upit is too terrible to contemplate. And they cross themselves and thank Jesus that they will
see their loved ones again.

Leo is sobbing in a crumpled heap. He has never been so alone. Lost in some nameless South American town with
his mind half gone. He stands up and goes to Eleni. He caresses her face tenderly. Her skin is still warm. Perhaps
she is not dead, maybe she can be brought back to life. He looks at the doctor with a wild stray optimism in his eye.
The kiss of life; maybe he can bring her back with the kiss of life. He pinches her nose and opens her mouth and
breathes his desperate hope into her. Again and again he pours his life into her. Then he beats on her heart to make
it beat. Harder he pummels. He knows that he is hurting her, that she will be bruised but it is the only way. The doctor
puts his hand on Leos shoulder. But a pathetic tenacious hope has gripped him.

Electric shock. Have you got shock treatment. Er.. choc electrico. Tienes?

No hay signor. Esta Muerta.


She cant be dead, he will not believe it. He continues to breathe into her. He begs for a miracle and a miracle
happens. A low raspy breath comes up from deep within her. It is a sound he will remember for the rest of his life.

Shes alive. Shes breathing. Did you hear it?

The doctor is motionless. Leo is suddenly animated, he doesnt need this stupid, lazy doctor, he can resuscitate Eleni
on his own. He fills her up feverishly and each time she responds with a breath.

Signor, signor! the doctor places his hand again on Leos shoulder. He ignores it, his heart is flying, he almost wants
to laugh.

Signor, she is not breathing. It is your breath coming back from her lungs.

Leo feels for Elenis pulse. There is nothing. Once more he plummets into despair. He kisses her forehead and
whispers words learned from her native Greek

Matyamou, Karthiamou, Psychemou.

My eyes, my heart, my soul.

He strokes her hair as he used to sometimes when she was sleeping. Slowly the heat leaves her body. A minute later
he is howling like a dog. How long this lasts he has no idea.

The old doctor looks on from a corner. He battles back his own tears, he does not want to let his feelings conquer his
professional dispassion. Later he will return home and weep in his wifes arms and hug her hard for many minutes,
savouring her breath, her perfume and her love.

The story has spread through the hospital and the crowd outside the door have been overcome by that unsavoury
curiosity that grips people in the face of tragedy. Someone pushes open the door. They see a man ravaged in grief
his face raw and twisted and next to him a small woman lying gnarled and lifeless on a bed. As one they draw in a
sharp breath and for a moment their faces mirror his.

Go away, clear off. This is not a freak show. Leave me alone And even as he speaks Leos voice cracks and
fades away. They have seen enough, they are ashamed and someone closes the door.

The episode triggers a thought in his clouded mind. Why do I recognise those people? He turns to the doctor.

What is the date?

It is the second of April, signor

The second of April? he searches desperately inside for a connection.

Where am I?

Latacunga signor.

Latacunga he knows the name. Yes now he remembers that he has been through Latacunga before. There is a
busy market in the town square. He changed buses there with Eleni to go into the mountains. He is in Ecuador.
What date is it? He forgets that he has just asked this question.

It is the second of April

The second of April?

What happened?

You were in a bus crash signor.

Nowhere in his memory can he place this information. It does not even create the slightest ripple across his psyche.
He sits with the idea for a moment. No, he does not remember a bus or a crash. The thought hangs outside him like
an alien trying to gain entry. His brain refuses to connect this information to any synapse or nerve ending. And yet
somewhere lost in the internal wreckage sits the little black box, the flight recorder which carries the truth of what
happened. A strange protective mechanism has kicked in which prevents him getting too close to the epicentre of his
trauma. Like a witness in a court case who is not obliged to give evidence which could implicate himself so the body
refuses the mind access to the information which could damage it.

What date is it? He wonders if he has asked this question before.

The second of April, signor The doctor repeats patiently.

What year?

1992

Leo grapples with the year. He set off in 1991. When in 1991? The end, near the end. December 1991. So what
happened over the last four months. A small light switches on and he sees himself lying on a beach with Eleni. It is
New Years Eve they have taken a day trip from Cartagena in Colombia to a tropical island. Eleni is wearing her pink
swimsuit. They lie there in sunbleached bliss with the surf at their feet. He turns to her and kisses her warm cheek.

You know I cant think of anything in the whole universe that I want. Ive got you at my side and I love you and thats
it. Theres nothing more to life than this.

Eleni smiles, leans over and kisses him. Lets photograph it, she says. She takes out their small instant camera and
holds it at arms length above their heads and points it towards them. They check their positions in the reflection on
the lens and take the picture. Click.

He looks down at her corpse. The memory acts like a pair of hands that plough through his breast bone, rip open his
rib cage and expose his heart to the elements. His spine melts away and he stands before his dead lover like a piece
of limp flesh. He cannot breathe. His only thought now is that he wants to die and go with her.

From nowhere he feels a shooting cramp through his leg. He looks down and notices his jeans are ripped and
covered in blood. Next he feels a throb in his hands. They are cut and bleeding. Shards of glass stick out from the
skin. For a moment he becomes quite self-absorbed picking out the splinters.

His right shoulder is badly bruised and his hip joint fires sharp warning shots up his back. He realises that he has
suffered injuries all down his right side. But worst of all is his right knee. He cannot bend it or even feel it. How could
he not notice the pain until now?
What is the date he wonders? He is too embarrassed to ask again. The door opens. The crowd has disappeared. A
policeman enters and asks him to accompany him to the bus station to identify his bags. Leo is reluctant to leave
Elenis side but he is strangely open to suggestion. There is no fight left in him and he obediently follows the
policeman out of the room. The doctor follows and Eleni is left in peace.

What is your name? asks the policeman.

Leo Deakin

It is very close Leo, it wont take a minute, he says in Spanish.

They step out of the clinic into the blinding evening sun and a wall of heat. The huge central plaza sprawls before
them. A bustling South American market in full flow. On one side live cattle are being auctioned, llamas and cows foul
the floor and chickens, foot-tied in hanging clusters, fill the air with fevered clucking. The fruit sellers sit on blankets in
rows with their produce fanned out before them and the wealthy Otovalo Indians, hair in long plaits, hawk their
multicoloured hand-woven hammocks and ponchos. Leo breaks out into a sweat. How unbearable the world is, so
callous and indifferent. He shudders and recoils like a snake prodded with a stick. Lives beset with trivia and
humdrum chores. Tedious mundane pathetic existences spent serving material gain. He is looking at the world
through binoculars held the wrong way round. All is small and distant, unreachable and detached. He belongs to
another world now, a bubble where he can hear his heart beat and feel his skin wrinkle. The market place is a muffle
a million miles way. Sounds are cushioned and unreal. He is under water and no one notices that he is drowning.

On his previous visit to that square he and Eleni could barely walk a yard before being swamped by hawkers and
draped in clothes or jewellery they did not want. They resisted all offers until Leo caught sight of two tiny carved Inca
heads, one male and one female. He bought them without bartering, and gave the male head to Eleni as a keepsake.

But now as he walks through the square the traders instinctively turn away. For once he is avoided and ignored.
There is something in the eye of this man who is locked in a state of tragic bewilderment that disturbs the stallholders
and dries the throat. This man is definitely not on a shopping spree.

The policeman leads them to a small hut at the bus terminal. Normally it is full of bus drivers and ticket collectors but
today they are huddled outside animatedly discussing the accident. They fall silent when they see Leo approaching.
The hut is packed high with bags and there, right in the middle are two large rucksacks. He clambers towards them,
unsure if they are his. He tries to lift the bags but a wave of dizziness overcomes him and he totters and winces. The
doctor steps forward and picks the two bags up. Leo notices an ice pick and a pair of crampons sticking out from one
of the bags. He stares at them curiously. He double checks the nametag and sees Leo Deakin written on it.

As they walk back across the square Leos eyes flick side to side as he desperately tries to remember. Neurons and
synapses spark inside him and suddenly something bolts out of the gloom. They are in a mountain hire shop in Quito.
Leo loved climbing mountains; it was one of the most perfect pleasures in life. Perfect, because once you had gained
the summit you knew you could go no further. You had a complete sense of achievement. This was a rare sensation
for him in a life where so many activities were on going, never ending, where you had to look into the future for any
sign of contentment. Cotopaxi which towered over the plateau like an alluring cone-shaped exotic dessert was going
to be a huge challenge. The assistant in the shop told them to spend the night at the mountain lodge at 5000metres,
maybe even two nights to acclimatise. He advised them to set off at 2 a.m. on the day of the climb so as to reach the
summit for dawn and return before the afternoon thaw which would be treacherous. Crampons and picks would be a
necessity but if the weather held the walk would not be too difficult.
Are you both going to the top? he asked.

Not me, said Eleni. Im climbing to the lodge and thats as far as I go.

Dont take any risks, he warned, a couple of novices died up there last year.

He recalls eating breakfast. They had gone to their favourite caf near their hotel. He had eaten a fruit salad with
granola and honey. Breakfast of the Gods he had called it; pineapple, maracuya, mango and passion fruit. As he
recalls it he tastes it again. Eleni had scoffed down a banana pancake with melted chocolate and could not prevent
the hot sauce dribbling down her chin. They had lingered over coffee. Afterwards they had returned to their hotel and
picked up their heavy backpacks and set off for the bus station. There it was at last, the bus station. They were later
than they had planned by over an hour. Would Eleni be alive now if they hadnt taken so long over breakfast? His
memory stops at the bus station; he still cannot see any aspect of the journey in his mind. Perhaps it is better not to
know but he cannot seem to stop his thoughts racing. The holes are slowly filling up and despite itself the brain will
work until the job is completed.

A Short Story : The Ignorant Man

This Short Story The Ignorant Man is quite interesting to all the people. Enjoy reading this story.

There was a village in a kingdom. There was living a milkman. His name was Deenu. He had built his hut far away from
his village, in the woods. He loved the quietness of the woods rather than the noisy atmosphere of the village. He lived in
his hut with his two cows. He fed them well and took proper care of them. Everyday he took the two cows to a nearby
lake to bath them. The two cows gave more milk. With the milk that the two cows gave, he earned enough money to live
happily.

Deenu was an honest man. Though he was content, at times he would be restless. There is so much wrong and evil in
this world. Is there nobody to guide the people? this thought made his sad every now and then.

One evening, the ignorant man, Deenu was returning home after selling milk in the village. He saw a saint sitting under a
tree and meditating. He slowly walked up to him and waited for the saint to open his eyes. He was happy to be with the
saint for some time. He decided to wait there itself till the saint opened his eyes.

After a while, the saint slowly opened his eyes. He was surprised to see a man patiently sitting beside him.

What do you want? asked the saint humbly.

I want to know what the path to Truth and Piety is? Where shall I find Honesty? asked Deenu.

The saint smiled and said, Go to the pond nearby and ask the fish the same question. She will give you the answer.

Then as asked to do, the ignorant man, Deenu went to the nearby pond and asked the same question to the fish. The fish
said, O kind man! First, bring me some water to drink. Deny was surprised. He said, You live in water. But you still want
water to drink? How strange!

At this moment, the fish replied, You are right. And that gives you the answer to your question as well. Truth, Piety and
honesty are inside the heart of a man. But being ignorant, he searches for them in the outer world. Instead of wandering
here and there, look within yourself and you will find them.

This gave an immense satisfaction to Deenu. He thanked the fish and walked home a wiser man. He changed the way in
which he saw this world as well as himself. From that day, Deenu never felt restless.

He took his best to carry this massage to the rest of his fellow human beings. All his friends accepted him as their master
and consulted him to overcome their mental problems. He led them properly.

Sample Short Love Story


It was very hard for Sam to keep from screaming at the unfairness of it all.

She had been working at the newspaper for years. She wasn't always the best writer, and she
certainly could have been a bit more social with the rest of the office staff, but she was good at
her job, and she had become invaluable to the editor. Derek had always valued her opinion for
what it was, and he trusted her more than anyone else at the paper.
But that was before Christine.

Christine slammed into the newsroom like a Category 5 hurricane. She tore down everything
Sam had worked so hard to build and left a trail of destruction in her wake. Within her first
month, she'd managed to get four good reporters fired, and at least a few others were on the
chopping block.

And Derek seemed to love her immediately.

It didn't matter to him that Sam had given the paper everything or that he used to trust her
implicitly. When Christine winked, complimented him, and broke things off with her fianc to get
to know him better, all of that went out the window. It was like Caesar and Cleopatra all over
again.

She demanded Sam's resignation two weeks later.

It was sheer luck that Christine wasn't in a position to influence hiring. No matter how much she
complained about Sam's work, she couldn't get her way.

And then came the last straw: Derek promoted Christine to the job Sam had been promised,
and that was it. A carefully crafted letter of resignation made its way to her direct supervisor's
desk.

Truth be told, Sam still wasnt sure whether it was the right decision. But shed given her two
weeks notice, and her desk would have to be cleared out by then. She had to focus on
that.
When she walked back into the office that Wednesday night, there he was. She had hoped that
today would be the day hed decide he didnt have to work until all hours and let her clear out
her desk in peace. But Derek, who always seemed to have a sixth sense about her, picked his
head up the second she made it across the room.

There wasn't much left: a calendar, a mug, a few notebooks, and a well-worn chemistry
textbook lined the box she brought for her things. He at least had the decency to let her finish
packing before calling her over.

This wasn't going to end well, and she knew it.

Are you okay? he asked once she was settled into the uncomfortable chair across from him.
She nodded mutely, and he cleared his throat.

Good. I, uh...you'll have to forgive the lack of professionalism here, but...

She tilted her head. But what? she asked graciously, wondering briefly if he knew how thin a
line he was treading. His eyes fixed on her, and it was like she was seeing the Derek of three
months ago. She couldnt breathe.
Please don't go, he blurted. She blinked, working hard to keep face blank. He leaned over the
desk theatrically, and it was hard for Sam to keep from smiling. Whenever he pulled that move,
she couldnt help but think Derek looked a bit like Cary Grant.
I don't know why you're leaving, but we need you here. You're the best writer at the paper. And
I need your advice. Please stay.

And there he was, giving her that look againthe one that always got him an extra slice of cake
at company gatherings, could probably get him out of prison, and was very effective at melting a
reporters heart. Sam felt her reasons for leaving start drifting away. He needed her. And she
had always been there for him. How could she leave?

She felt the corners of her mouth turning up and forced them back down again. No way could
she cave now; she was right in the middle of packing up her stuff! What about Christine?

Derek shook his head, sighing audibly. Christine iswell, shes something, all right. He locked
his eyes on hers, and Sam felt herself unable to look away. But you have something that she
just doesnt.

Sam furrowed her brow. And what might that be?

He ran a hand through his hair (his beautiful, perfect, full head of hair, Sam thought in spite of
herself), seemingly struggling for words. She waited, biting her lip in anticipation.

Finally he spoke. Youre kind. Youre funny. Youre incredibly talented but so modest that
hardly anyone knows how amazing you are, even though they should. You keep to yourself, but
youre easy to talk to, and I know youll be honest with me no matter what I ask. Basically,
youre one of very few people I look forward to seeing every day, and I would genuinely hate to
see you go. By the end of his soliloquy, his face had gone red, and Sam noticed that he was
twisting his tie around in his handsalmost as if she were making him nervous.

She smiled at the thought. And then she had an idea that was so crazy and out of character for
her she couldnt believe it could have come out of her own rational, analytical brain. But this is
my last chance, really, she realized. If I dont do this now, Ill never be able to.

So she blurted it out before she had too much time to convince herself it was a horrible idea.

If youd hate it so much, prove it to me. Take me to dinner tonight. You can give me more
compliments, she laughed, and reasons you want me to stay.

He opened his mouth, his lips forming the word no, then caught her eye again and shut his
mouth. Sams breath was stuck in her throat. She stared at him, refusing to blink, until at last
she heard the words she hadnt known she was waiting for.

You know what? Its a date.


Willow Springs, 1998

WINDFALL

When she objected that the bedroom


was too hot that summer day
for what I had proposed and suggested
we create a spectacle of ourselves
for the audience of trees and shrubs
in our backyard, I had forgotten
about the apples.

And when we spread wide open


the sheet and sleeping bag on the grass,
out of sight (mostly) of the road,
and released our entire bodies,
piece by piece of clothing,
into the arms of the air
(which, unaccustomed to such
an opportunity, puffed excitedly),
I was not thinking at all
of the apples.

And even when we laid ourselves down


and sanctified that country acre as it had
long deserved to be sanctified,
sending birds racing between trees
while the whole world gathered itself
in her eyes, into which I looked and looked,
I did not see the apples.

But later that afternoon,


as I carried our clothes toward the house,
and she, walking ahead of me, stopped
to pick up a windfall apple and tasted it,
declaring it delicious and urging me
to take a bite, I most certainly noticed
not only the apple but the garden
surrounding it, like a scene
from a familiar story, one including
a man happy in his skin and a woman as
tall and shapely as she was naked--

naked, that is, except for the Raybans,


which she'd slipped on when she went
to get us each a beer after our holy
expense of energy and which,
with their Vogue-like stylish incongruity,
saved me from an insufferably poetic moment
and let me enjoy the very apple
that the apple was.

The term collaborative writing refers to projects where written works are
created by multiple people
together (collaboratively)
rather than individually. Some
projects are overseen by an
editor or editorial team, but
many grow without any
oversight. Collaborative
writing is also an approach for
teaching novice authors to
write