A short story is a piece of prose fiction which can be read at a single sitting and focuses on a single unified effect.
Elements of short story
1. A character is a person, or sometimes even an animal, who takes part in the action of a short story or other literary work.
2. The setting of a short story is the time and place in which it happens. Authors often use descriptions of landscape, scenery, buildings, seasons or weather to provide a strong sense of setting.
3. A plot is a series of events and character actions that relate to the central conflict.
4. The conflict is a struggle between two people or things in a short story. The main character is usually on one side of the central conflict.
5. The theme is the central idea or belief in a short story.
ANGELA MARIZ V. REYES
CHRISTILYN L. MERCADER
Have you ever helped a friend? a schoolmate? a stranger? a beggar? Or do you ever fulfill a good task, give an advice – a word of wisdom or be a Good Samaritan to others? Nowadays, you will hardly find a person willing to do good things for others.
People start to become insensitive when they look only after their own welfare. That’s what I was afraid of ever since I became too engrossed with my job. A little twist of fate in an ordinary situation, however, rescued me from falling into the pit of selfishness. This is my story...
I was a writer, a highly paid story writer. I worked at a very reputable television station. I was very strict in dealing with people, all kinds of people. My world was my work. I take all the chances or opportunities just to be in the inner circles of society.
Every day of my life I used to linger in a waiting shed area in EDSA but that fateful morning I saw a beggar, sitting on a cold pavement with aluminum can on his left side, probably waiting for donations. He was singing or at least that’s how it sounded like. He was unmindful of the jeers and sneers from passersby and ambulant vendors.
He looked like he was in his late 50s but I could not tell because his long tresses hid his shrunken face. He was “new” to the place.
Making my way to a restaurant I casually passed him by. He was no longer singing. I surreptitiously glanced at him. I saw what appeared to be tears streaking down his wrinkled face and his hands that were flailing aimlessly awhile ago to the tune of his “song” held his stomach.
I stood straight and took five heavy steps away from him. I momentarily paused and I heard this mumbling sound of my heart urging me to have pity on the man, help him.
I slowly turned around and walked towards him.
“Are you hungry?”
He smiled and bent his way to my ears and said, “Thank You.”
Without any hesitation, I bought him a burger and a hot chocolate from the nearest burger stand. I could see the ecstatic look in his faded eyes when I gave him the food.
There was this great feeling of relief that overcame me. What I just did eased whatever burden I carried with me that day.
I went home with a smile on my face but the encounter that early morning lingered on my mind. I’d go home in a nice and well-furnished apartment with a loving husband but what about him? Did he have a home? or a family? I wore pleasant clothes and footwear but his were shirts that could pass off as rags.
My thoughts were adrift that night, reflecting, contemplating on how I could alleviate his pitiful condition.
Strange! I seemed to develop a sense of connection to the man. The last time I felt this way was on the eve of my wedding day, when father gave me his blessing. He passed away when my first born was barely two - years old. I missed father so much. Then, slowly, peacefully sleep took over me.
I had it planned that day. I was early as always. I noticed him doing the same routine. Somehow I felt comfortable walking towards him.
“Hi! How are you?”
He laughed nervously but was elated when he saw the bag full of food in my hand. As I walked to him, a wayward motorcycle at high speed screeched head on towards me.
I momentarily lost consciousness.
When I awakened, I saw people hovering, whispering, and staring at us as we lay prostrate on the ground.
The clock froze. I felt numb but was unscathed. I painstakingly moved closer to him. The impact of the collision of man and metal streaked to my senses.
The paramedics were attending to him. He was bloodied all over. Our eyes met. I thought I saw a glint of contentment in him.
“Why did you save me? Why?” I whispered.
“Thank You! Thank You!” he said silently and weakly.
I was baffled why there were no tears coming out of my eyes. I was so desperate to cry but his happy countenance assured me a lot. He smiled. I gently held his hand and told him I would take care of everything.
The ambulance had long gone. I was left with the throng of buzzing people. I walked to the place where he used to sing and on my mind I tried to piece together the lyric of the song he used to sing. It was a hard thing to do but learning about his simple life of joy and the story of his greatness on that day was a sparkling gem that would never loss its luster in the desert of callousness.
That day, I was to be his Good Samaritan or his savior but I was wrong!
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Considered the Father of Short Story
Edgar Allan Poe ( January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story, and is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
