English for Life Reader Grade 7 Home Language. Elaine Ridge

      Important elements of a short story

      A short story is a short work of fiction. Fiction is prose writing about imagined events and characters. Some short stories can be quite long. If a short story is a long one, say fifty to one hundred pages, we call it a novella.

      When readers read a short story, they must be able to

      What makes a good short story? Combining the five key elements that go into every great short story: character, setting, conflict, plot and theme.

      A character is a person, or sometimes even an animal, who takes part in the action of a short story or other literary work. A short story usually has only one main character. Because of it being so short, there is not much room for character development. At a critical moment, a character revelation or development can take place, thereby revealing the inner life of the character.

      Characters can be introduced to the reader in more than one way, namely

      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.

      A plot is a series of events and character actions that relate to the central conflict.

      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. On the other side, the main character may struggle against another important character, against the forces of nature, against society, or even against something inside himself or herself (feelings, emotions, illness).

      The theme is the central idea or belief in a short story. The short story usually has only one motive or main idea. Ask yourself: What is this story really about?

      In present-day short stories, the main character often also narrates the story in the first person.

      The feather

      Jenny Robson

      Ugly! So ugly!

      Lindi stood in the garden of the red-brick house. She stared around in horror. The grass was dull yellow and lifeless. Patches of dull red earth showed between the thin dry blades. The few trees were all thorn-trees, their vicious white thorns piercing between dead leaves. Beside the fence grew a single bougainvillea bush with pink flowers that had been bleached by the sun.

      ‘How will I ever bear this?’ thought Lindi. ‘How will I ever survive here?’

      She was a child of the South Coast, of KwaZulu Natal. All her life she had been surrounded by beauty: gentle velvet-green hills and flowers that grew wild and burst with colours. There was the bright red of the hibiscus, the yellow-edged ivory of the frangipani, and the deep purple shades of yesterday-today-forever blossoms. And beyond lay the diamond-sparkling blue waves of the sea.

      ‘I want to go home,’ thought Lindi. ‘How can Mom and Dad do this to me?’

      ‘Two years!’ Dad had said to them, smiling as though this was something to celebrate. ‘Yes, I’ve signed a two-year work contract.’

      Dad was going to work at the mine here in this terrible place. A removal van packed full of their belongings was on its way.

      Beyond the red-brick houses, Lindi could see an ugly mine dump. The mountain of dull black rock and gravel towered over everything.

      Two years! That was almost as long as forever.

      The boy came out of the house now. He was around thirteen and he had lived here with his parents for the past four years. Two two-year contracts.Delwyn Jacobs, his name was. He smiled at Lindi.

      ‘Hey, don’t look so miserable,’ he said. ‘It’s not so bad.’

      It was easy for him to smile. He and his family were about to leave. Their days in this awful place were over. This afternoon they would start their journey back home to Cape Town. Already Mr Jacobs’ car stood in the driveway, packed high with all their last-minute stuff.

      The grown-ups were all still inside the house. Mr Jacobs was busy explaining to Dad about overtime. And Mrs Jacobs was showing Mom how the geyser worked, how the oven switched off. Mrs Jacobs was also doing a last-minute check that the house was clean. It should be! The whole place smelled of floor polish and bleach.

      ‘It’s more than bad,’ Lindi told the boy. ‘It’s terrible! I hate it. I just want to go back home to KwaZulu. Life was perfect there!’ She turned away so that Delwyn wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

      But actually, life on the South Coast hadn’t been perfect. Not this past year, anyway. Not after Dad was retrenched from the cement factory. That had been hard to bear: watching Dad worrying, getting more and more stressed and bad-tempered.

      Every Thursday he bought the local paper as soon as the café opened. He spent all morning looking through the employment section and all afternoon phoning and putting his CV into envelopes. Then he spent all of the next week waiting for calls that usually didn’t come.

      At first Mom tried to keep smiling. She told Lindi everything would be all right.

      ‘Just a few months, love, then I’m sure Dad will find a new job. Then we’ll celebrate and buy you those jeans you’re wanting.’

      But Lindi knew it was not a real smile. She had never got the new jeans and she had to stay behind when there was a school trip up into the mountains. Dad said he just couldn’t afford it.

      ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ Lindi said. ‘I didn’t want to go on that stupid trip anyway. It’s boring up in the mountains. Thandi went last year and she told me.’ Lindi was lying. But even that didn’t stop her Dad from looking tense and sad.

      And by now Mom had stopped trying to smile and pretend everything would be fine.

      Worst of all, Mom and Dad had started arguing. This was something new and strange to Lindi. At first it was only late at night and only in their bedroom with the door closed.

      In the night, Lindi woke up to the sound of their muffled anger. She sat up in bed, hugging herself while cold, silent tears ran down her cheeks.

      ‘Please stop. Please stop,’ she whispered over and over. She wanted her parents to go back to the way they used to be: always hugging each other, teasing each other, laughing together over the smallest thing.

      Later they began to argue right in front of her, as if they barely noticed she was there.

      ‘Don’t