STO.

NIÑO COLLEGE OF ORMOC

Doña Feliza Mejia Village
Ormoc City 6541, Leyte, Philippines
snc_ormoccity@yahoo.com.ph/ 561-4338

LEARNING MODULE
OF
CREATIVE
NONFICTION

Quarter 1

Module 1 & 2

Creative Nonfiction

Prepared by:

NILBERT B. MONTEJO
 MODULE 1
At the end of this lesson, the learners are expected to:
1. express insights on the different definitions of poetry;
2. describe some of the elements of poetry and their importance to creative
nonfiction; and
3. analyze sample texts for sensory images, concrete and evocative details,
and significant human experience.

YOUR GAIL IN THIS MODULE:

You will be writing a creative nonfiction piece about your everyday hero (some in your life who you consider a hero). You will
be interviewing your hero and then writing a character sketch essay about them. You will be incorporating some elements of good
writing into your essay to make it more elements and exciting to read.

Read the Poem

THE HEROES WE NEVER NAME
Back of the men we honor enrolled on the scroll of fame, are the millions who go unmentioned the heroes we never
name! Those who have won us the victories, and conquered along the way; Those who have made us a nation, a tribute to them I
would pay. Back of our nation’s first leader, of Lincoln and Wilson, too, back of the mind directing our course was the army that
carried it through.

Back of the generals and captains was the tramping of rank and file, and back of them were the ones at home who
labored with tear and with smile and what of the “everyday” heroes whose courage and efforts ne’er cease! Toilers who struggle
and labor and strive and hope for a future of peace? Hats off to the worthy leaders; Their honor I’d never acclaim but here’s a
cheer for the many brave, the heroes we never name. -- By M. Lucille Ford

What do you think makes a hero?

Hero: a person noted for their courageous acts or nobility of character, a person who, in the opinion of others, has
special achievements, abilities, or personal qualities and is regarded as a role model.
Idol: any person or thing regarded with blind admiration, or devotion, but without substance.
Heroes are…
Heroes are not perfect
Heroes stand for something
Heroes make difference
Heroes can be unnoticed
Heroes help
Heroes may have abilities others want
Heroes beat the odds

Identify a hero you know and describe why this person is an “everyday” hero. What lesson his/her life teach
us?
 Take a good look at this picture of a seashore. It was taken in a small island near the province of
Guimaras in Western Visayas. What are your thoughts about the picture? What feelings does it
evoke? Write your thoughts below the picture.

Comparing Notes
According to Laurence Perrine (1977, 4), poetry maybe defined as a kind of language that says more
and says it more intensely than does ordinary language. In other words, poetry uses a “heightened
language.” For poetry to achieve this, that poet uses “imagery” by employing figurative language. Imagery
is one of the most important elements of poetry. Imagery, according to Palanca Hall of Farmer and
Mretrobank Outstanding Teacher Dr. Leoncio P. Deriada, is “painting with words.” A writer, a pot in
particular, uses words to paint images while a painter uses forms and colors. The easiest way to paint with
words is to use figures of speech. For example, instead of saying “the tree is being blown by the wind” a
good writer will say “the tree is dancing with the wind.” Personification is used.
Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo (2003, 9) defines creative nonfiction as “nonfiction prose which utilizes the
techniques and strategies of fiction.” One strategy of fiction (and therefore nonfiction) that it shares with
poetry is the inclusion of “concrete and evocative details” which can also be achieved by employing
imagery and other literary devices. The use of the imagination, as Hidalgo (2015, 61) declares in another
article, “might embellish or distort in the interest of more effective storytelling, i.e., in the interest of art.

MOONSET AT CENTRAL PARK STATION OF

ST. PAUL SUBTERRANEAN RIVER NATIONAL PARK
John Iremil E. Teodoro

This morning, after the faint scent of sea grasses awakened me, I followed the setting moon in the front of my
bamboo cottage. I nearly stepped on a parrotfish that was caught by the low tide. It was as big as my slipper.
I picked its slimly its body and returned it to the sea. In its excitement it forgot to thank me. If didn’t even bother to
look it swam quickly away from me. It dived towards the direction of the horizon where the moon was hiding.
Perhaps in my next visit that parrotfish will surprise me with a greeting. It shall brag to me about its scales painted
by the setting moon.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION:
1. Who is the persona in the poem? Describe him/her.
2. One example of sensory imagery in the poem is the parrotfish. What do you think is the significance of
the image to the overall message?
3. Give other examples of sensory imagery used in the text?
4. What is the poem saying about the significant human experience?
5. What feelings do you get after reading the poem?

The following passage is about the narrator’s youthful interest in poetry. Give the reasons why the
narrator decided to revive a passion that he once abandoned. Also, identify examples of the “evocative
and concrete details” that creative nonfiction shares with poetry.

REVIVING PASSIONS: REFLECTIONS ON MY CREATIVE WRITING GRANT

Noel Christian A. Moratilla
As the recipient of a creative writing grant from the school’s Institutional Research and
Development Office, I try to rekindle a passion I abandoned for so long and considered not
returning to the writing of poetry. Despite a not-so-impressed academic performance, I became
enamored with poetry in my youth. So enamored that I would memorize poems or recite them
over and over like mantras. So enamored that I would tear some pages from anthologies I
borrowed from the school library, so that during solitary moments I could devour a stanza or two
from poets I looked up to-Ginsberg, de Ungria, Neruda, Trakl. Sine the Internet would not be
popular until a couple of years after, I took pains to satisfy the obsession. I remember occasionally
saving up my measly allowance in collage to buy a copy of the Manila Bulletin’s Philippine
Panorama or the Sunday inquirer magazine to check the poems in the literary section.
In poetry, I found solace from the crisis of youth; but is also fuelled the angst of my juvenile
years. Eventually, I tried my hand at composing my own verses, submitted them for publication,
but not a few were rejected outright. The more fortunate ones appeared online or in print, and
one earned first place in a poetry writing/reading contest sponsored by the State University’s
Creative Writing Center. But having produced and published some poems (may of which I now
disown) as a college student in Intramuros and as a struggling young professional, I eventually
fell out of love for the “sullen craft” and devoted more time to conducting research in keeping
with the rigors of graduate school. The politics I learned to embrace weaned me further from
creative writing, and this gave me the impression that poetry—this “mere” play with words—
was nothing but an ego-oriented display of verbal virtuosity. Like a disgruntled lover, I dismissed
poetry as gibberish, as a remote and difficult code requiring monastic doggedness to be
deciphered.
But now, this seasoned novice (pardon the oxymoron) has decided to give it one more try. I am
but a dabbler and I do not aspire “literary” fame or glory. I do not intend to bend the gods on
high or move the infernal powers, to borrow a phrase from Virgil. I would like to pint out that with
the grant, my concern is two-fold: The first is to help widen my own horizon as an educator,
especially one who happens to teach writing and literature. As I require my students to write, I
feel that I should also do the same—to walk the talk, as some would put it. Secondly, the slim
collection of poems I shall produce would also be a modest contribution to helping invigorate the
school’s liberal arts culture. It is my hope in this regard that other creative voices, with enough
encouragement, will also seek to be heard.
A. The following are some popular quotations on poetry and the poet. Write down your interpretation of each
quotation. Then, answer the question: How do you think can these interpretations or insights help in writing creative
nonfiction?
1. “The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disorder of all the senses”. –Arthur Rimbaud
2. “A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” –Robert Frost
3. “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” –T.S. Eliot
4. “Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.” –Friedrich Nietzsche
5. “We were clever enough to turn a laundry list into poetry.” –Umberto Eco

B. In the midst of industrialization, it is heartening to note that there I s growing concern for natural such as Palawan’s famed
Underground River. What natural tourist spots have you visited? Did you find the experience memorable? Share your experience.

MODULE 2
At the end of this lesson, the learners are expected to:
1. describe the elements of fiction;
2. analyze sample texts according to the elements of fiction; and
3. write preparatory notes for an essay employing the elements of fiction.

Think of ne unforgettable experiences from grade school. On your notebook, write an outline, in bullet from, the details
of that experience.
Comparing Notes
The elements of fiction are the following: plot, setting, character, conflict, symbol, point of view, first and third person,
theme.

Just as a Crime Scene Investigator cannot approach a crime scene looking for a specific clue (e. g., shell casings),
you as a reader cannot approach a story deciding to look for a specific element, such as Symbol.  To assume could
blind you to important elements.  Both the CSI team and you must examine the entire “area” carefully to determine
what is present and how it is important.
 
With that understanding, let’s examine the elements.
 
PLOT
Literature teachers sometimes give the impression that plot is not important, that anyone interested in
plot is an immature reader. Of course plot is important.  It was what got us interested in reading in the first
place.  It was the carrot on the string that pulled us through a story as we wanted to see what would happen next.
 
 That said, let me emphasize that plot is rarely the most important element of a good story.  As much as
I’ve always loved surprise endings, if the only thing a film or a story has is a great twist ending, it doesn’t have
anything on a second look.
And it’s worth noting that recent fiction and film have deemphasized plot, frequently stressing character
or conflict for example.  In film, for example, think David Lynch or Pulp Fiction.
SETTING
Stories actually have two types of setting:  Physical and Chronological. 
 
The physical setting  is of course where the story takes place.  The “where” can be very general—a small farming
community, for example—or very specific—a two story white frame house at 739 Hill Street in Scott City, Missouri.
 
Likewise, the chronological setting, the “when,” can be equally general or specific.
 
The author’s choices are important.  Shirley Jackson gives virtually no clues as to where or when her story “The
Lottery” is set.  Examination suggests that she wants the story to be universal, not limited by time or place.  The
first two stories you will read each establish a fairly specific physical setting; consider what each setting brings to
each story.
 
CHARACTER
What type of individuals are the main characters?  Brave, cowardly, bored, obnoxious?  If you tell me
that the protagonist (main character) is brave, you should be able to tell where in the story you got that perception.
In literature, as in real life, we can evaluate character three ways:  what the individual says, what the
individual does, and what others say about him or her.
 
CONFLICT
Two types of conflict are possible:  External and Internal.
 
External conflict could be man against nature (people in a small lifeboat on a rough ocean) or man against man.
 
While internal conflict might not seem as exciting as external, remember that real life has far more
internal than external conflict. 
Film and fiction emphasize external conflict not simply because “it’s more interesting” but also because
it’s easier to write.  In a film script, you merely have to write “A five minute car chase follows” and you’ve filled five
minutes.  How long would it take to write five minutes worth of dialogue?
 
SYMBOL
Don’t get bent out of shape about symbols.  Simply put, a symbol is something which means something
else.  Frequently it’s a tangible physical thing which symbolizes something intangible.  The Seven/Eleven stores
understood that a few years ago when they were selling roses with a sign saying, “A Rose Means ‘I Love You.’”
The basic point of a story or a poem rarely depends solely on understanding a symbol.  However
important or interesting they might be, symbols are usually “frosting,” things which add interest or depth.
It’s normal for you to be skeptical about symbols.  If I tell you that the tree in a certain story symbolizes
the Garden of Eden, you may ask “Is that really there or did you make it up?” or “How do you know what the
author meant?”

POINT OF VIEW
Point of View is the “narrative point of view,” how the story is told—more specifically, who tells it.
There are two distinctly different types of point of view and each of those two types has two variations.
 
In the First Person point of view, the story is told by a character within the story, a character using the first person
pronoun, I.
 
If the narrator is the main character, the point of view is first person protagonist.  Mark Twain lets Huck Finn
narrate his own story in this point of view.
 
If the narrator is a secondary character, the point of view is first person observer.  Arthur Conan Doyle lets Sherlock
Holmes’ friend Dr. Watson tell the Sherlock Holmes story.  Doyle frequently gets credit for telling detective stories
this way, but Edgar Allan Poe perfected the technique half a century earlier.
 
In the Third Person point of view, the story is not told by a character but by an “invisible author,” using the third
person pronoun (he, she, or it) to tell the story.  Instead of Huck Finn speaking directly to us, “My name’s
Huckleberry Finn” and telling us “I killed a pig and spread the blood around so people would think I’d been killed”,
the third person narrator would say:  He killed a pig and spread the blood…..
 
If the third person narrator gives us the thoughts of characters (He wondered where he’d lost his baseball glove),
then he is a third person omniscient (all knowing) narrator. 
 
If the third person narrator only gives us information which could be recorded by a camera and microphone (no
thoughts), then he is a third person dramatic narrator.
 
In summary, then, here are the types of point of view:
 
First Person Narrator
            Protagonist
            Observer
 
Third Person Narrator
            Omniscient
            Dramatic    
       
Different points of view can emphasize different things.  A first person protagonist narrator would give us access to
the thoughts of the main character.  If the author doesn’t want us to have that access, he could use the first person
observer, for example, or the third person dramatic.
 
THEME
Theme isn’t so much an element of fiction as much as the result of the entire story.  The theme is the main idea the
writer of the poem or story wants the reader to understand and remember. 
 
You may have used the word “Moral” in discussing theme; but it’s not a good synonym because “moral” implies a
positive meaning or idea.  And not all themes are positive. 
 
One word—love, for example—may be a topic; but it cannot be a theme.
 
A theme is a statement about a topic.
 
For example:  “The theme of the story is that love is the most important thing in the world.”  That’s a cliché, of
course, but it is a theme.
 
Not all stories or poems (or films) have an overriding “universal” theme.   
 

A. Reading
Read the selection that follows. While the countryside is often depicted as less stressful and more tha the city, this
may not be the case all the time. Find out how these complications are shown in the story.

MORING IN NAGREBCAN
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.
B. Previewing
Scan the story to answer the following questions:
1. Who are the characters in the story? How are they related?
2. What domesticated

C. Questions for Comprehension

 Analyze the story by completing the following table.

ELEMENTS ASPECTS ANSWERS/EXPLANATIONS

PLOT
SETTING
CHARACTER
CONFLICT
SYMBOL
POINT OF VIEW
FIRST PERSON
THIRD PERSON
THEME

 Using the Elements of Fiction, write the notes of an essay you want to write. Your topic should
be based on your experience. Being fateful to reality will not stop you from inventing details to
make your storytelling more exciting. You may add or subtract details as long as the essence of
your story is retained.

REFERENCES:

Phoenix Publishing House

Creative Nonfiction K to 12 Complaint
INTERNET SOURCES

http://cstl-cla.semo.edu/hhecht/The%20Elements%20of%20Fiction.htm
https://philippinelit.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/morning-in-nagrebcan-by-manuel-e-arguilla/
https://www.google.com/search?q=LET
%27S+GET+STARTED&sxsrf=ALeKk03BqdpeFD3ULW1rDfuUhdTrpz03TA:1597889489649&sourc
e=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2