FICTION

Fiction broadly refers to any narrative that is derived from the imagination—in other
words, not based strictly on history or fact.[1][2][3] It can also refer, more narrowly, to
narratives written only in prose (the novel and short story), and is often used as a
synonym for the novel.

Short Story
A short story is a piece of prose fiction that typically can be read in one sitting and focuses on a
self-contained incident or series of linked incidents, with the intent of evoking a "single effect" or
mood, however there are many exceptions to this.

A Respectable Woman
by Kate Chopin

Florence Bascom, first woman Ph.D. at Johns Hopkins, first

elected to Geological Society, 1894

Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband

expected his friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on
the plantation.
They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of
the time had also been passed in New Orleans in various
forms of mild dissipation. She was looking forward to a period
of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbed tete-a-tete with her
husband, when he informed her that Gouvernail was coming
up to stay a week or two.
This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He
had been her husband's college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a society man or
"a man about town," which were, perhaps, some of the reasons she had never met him. But
she had unconsciously formed an image of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical;
with eye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim
enough, but he wasn't very tall nor very cynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his
hands in his pockets. And she rather liked him when he first presented himself.
But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself when she partly attempted
to do so. She could discover in him none of those brilliant and promising traits which Gaston,
her husband, had often assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather mute
and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home and in face of Gaston's
frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as courteous toward her as the most exacting
woman could require; but he made no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem.
Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide portico in the shade of one
of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his cigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston's
experience as a sugar planter.
"This is what I call living," he would utter with deep satisfaction, as the air that swept across the
sugar field caressed him with its warm and scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on
familiar terms with the big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably against his
legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out and kill grosbecs when
Gaston proposed doing so.
Gouvernail's personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, he was a lovable,
inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could understand him no better than at first, she
gave over being puzzled and remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her
guest, for the most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no manner of
exception to her action, she imposed her society upon him, accompanying him in his idle strolls
to the mill and walks along the batture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in
which he had unconsciously enveloped himself.
"When is he going--your friend?" she one day asked her husband. "For my part, he tires me
frightfully."
"Not for a week yet, dear. I can't understand; he gives you no trouble."
"No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, and I had to plan somewhat
for his comfort and enjoyment."
Gaston took his wife's pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly and laughingly into
her troubled eyes.
They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda's dressing-room.
"You are full of surprises, ma belle," he said to her. "Even I can never count upon how you are
going to act under given conditions." He kissed her and turned to fasten his cravat before the
mirror.
"Here you are," he went on, "taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making a commotion over
him, the last thing he would desire or expect."
"Commotion!" she hotly resented. "Nonsense! How can you say such a thing? Commotion,
indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever."
"So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That's why I asked him here to take
a rest."
"You used to say he was a man of ideas," she retorted, unconciliated. "I expected him to be
interesting, at least. I'm going to the city in the morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me
know when Mr. Gouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie's."
That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live oak tree at the edge
of the gravel walk.
She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. She could gather
nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct necessity to quit her home in the morning.
Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in the darkness only the
approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew it was Gouvernail, for her husband did not
smoke. She hoped to remain unnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw
away his cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion that she
might object to his presence.
"Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda," he said, handing her a filmy, white
scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her head and shoulders. She accepted the scarf
from him with a murmur of thanks, and let it lie in her lap.
He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the night air at the
season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness, he murmured, half to himself:
"`Night of south winds--night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night--'"
She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was not addressed to her.
Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a self-conscious one. His periods of
reserve were not constitutional, but the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his
silence melted for the time.
He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not unpleasant to hear. He
talked of the old college days when he and Gaston had been a good deal to each other; of the
days of keen and blind ambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least, a
philosophic acquiescence to the existing order--only a desire to be permitted to exist, with now
and then a little whiff of genuine life, such as he was breathing now.
Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being was for the moment
predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only drinking in the tones of his voice. She
wanted to reach out her hand in the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her
fingers upon the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper against his
cheek--she did not care what--as she might have done if she had not been a respectable
woman.
The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in fact, did she draw away
from him. As soon as she could do so without an appearance of too great rudeness, she rose
and left him there alone.
Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and ended his apostrophe
to the night.
Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband--who was also her friend--of this
folly that had seized her. But she did not yield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable
woman she was a very sensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a
human being must fight alone.
When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She had taken an early
morning train to the city. She did not return till Gouvernail was gone from under her roof.
There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. That is, Gaston
greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his wife's strenuous opposition.
However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to have Gouvernail visit
them again. Her husband was surprised and delighted with the suggestion coming from her.
"I am glad, chere amie, to know that you have finally overcome your dislike for him; truly he did
not deserve it."
"Oh," she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon his lips, "I have overcome
everything! you will see. This time I shall be very nice to him."
A fairy tale, wonder tale, magic tale, or Märchen is a folklore genre that takes the form of a short
story. Such stories typically feature entities such
as dwarfs, dragons, elves, fairies, giants, gnomes, goblins, griffins, mermaids, talking
animals, trolls, unicorns, or witches, and usually magic or enchantments. Fairy tales may be
distinguished[by whom?] from other folk narratives such as legends (which generally involve belief in the
veracity of the events described)[1] and explicit moral tales, including beast fables. The term is mainly
used for stories with origins in European tradition and, at least in recent centuries, mostly relates
to children's literature.

The Story of Beauty and the Beast

Once upon a time as a merchant set off for market, he asked each of his three daughters what she
would like as a present on his return. The first daughter wanted a brocade dress, the second a
pearl necklace, but the third, whose name was Beauty, the youngest, prettiest and sweetest of
them all, said to her father:
"All I'd like is a rose you've picked specially for me!"
When the merchant had finished his business, he set off for home. However, a sudden storm blew
up, and his horse could hardly make headway in the howling gale. Cold and weary, the merchant
had lost all hope of reaching an inn when he suddenly noticed a bright light shining in the middle of
a wood. As he drew near, he saw that it was a castle, bathed in light.
"I hope I'll find shelter there for the night," he said to himself. When he reached the door, he saw it
was open, but though he shouted, nobody came to greet him. Plucking up courage, he went inside,
still calling out to attract attention. On a table in the main hall, a splendid dinner lay already served.
The merchant lingered, still shouting for the owner of the castle. But no one
came, and so the starving merchant sat down to a hearty meal.
Overcome by curiosity, he ventured upstairs, where the corridor led into magnificent rooms and
halls. A fire crackled in the first room and a soft bed looked very inviting. It was now late, and the
merchant could not resist. He lay down on the bed and fell fast asleep. When he woke next
morning, an unknown hand had placed a mug of steaming coffee and some fruit by his bedside.
The merchant had breakfast and after tidying himself up, went downstairs to thank his generous
host. But, as on the evening before, there was nobody in sight. Shaking his head in wonder at the
strangeness of it all, he went towards the garden where he had left his horse, tethered to a tree.
Suddenly, a large rose bush caught his eye.
Remembering his promise to Beauty, he bent down to pick a rose. Instantly, out of the rose garden,
sprang a horrible beast, wearing splendid clothes. Two bloodshot eyes, gleaming angrily, glared at
him and a deep, terrifying voice growled: "Ungrateful man! I gave you shelter, you ate at my table
and slept in my own bed, but now all the thanks I get is the theft of my favorite flowers! I shall put
you to death for this slight!" Trembling with fear, the merchant fell on his knees before the Beast.
"Forgive me! Forgive me! Don't kill me! I'll do anything you say! The rose wasn't for me, it was for
my daughter Beauty. I promised to bring her back a rose from my journey!" The Beast dropped the
paw it had clamped on the unhappy merchant.
"I shall spare your life, but on one condition, that you bring me your daughter!" The terror-stricken
merchant, faced with certain death if he did not obey, promised that he would do so. When he
reached home in tears, his three daughters ran to greet him. After he had told them of his dreadful
adventure, Beauty put his mind at rest immediately.
"Dear father, I'd do anything for you! Don't worry, you'll be able to keep your promise and save your
life! Take me to the castle. I'll stay there in your place!" The merchant hugged his daughter.
"I never did doubt your love for me. For the moment I can only thank you for saving my life." So
Beauty was led to the castle. The Beast, however, had quite an unexpected greeting for the girl.
Instead of menacing doom as it had done with her father, it was surprisingly pleasant.
In the beginning, Beauty was frightened of the Beast, and shuddered at the sight of it. Then she
found that, in spite of the monster's awful head, her horror of it was gradually fading as time went
by. She had one of the finest rooms in the Castle, and sat for hours, embroidering in front of the
fire. And the Beast would sit, for hours on end, only a short distance away, silently gazing at her.
Then it started to say a few kind words, till in the end, Beauty was amazed to discover that she was
actually enjoying its conversation. The days passed, and Beauty and the Beast became good
friends. Then one day, the Beast asked the girl to be his wife.
Taken by surprise, Beauty did not know what to say. Marry such an ugly monster? She would
rather die! But she did not want to hurt the feelings of one who, after all, had been kind to her. And
she remembered too that she owed it her own life as well as her father's.
"I really can't say yes," she began shakily. "I'd so much like to..." The Beast interrupted her with an
abrupt gesture.
"I quite understand! And I'm not offended by your refusal!" Life went on as usual, and nothing
further was said. One day, the Beast presented Beauty with a magnificent magic mirror. When
Beauty peeped into it, she could see her family, far away.
"You won't feel so lonely now," were the words that accompanied the gift. Beauty stared for hours
at her distant family. Then she began to feel worried. One day, the Beast found her weeping beside
the magic mirror.
"What's wrong?" he asked, kindly as always.
"My father is gravely ill and close to dying! Oh, how I wish I could see him again, before it's too
late!" But the Beast only shook its head.
"No! You will never leave this castle!" And off it stalked in a rage. However, a little later, it returned
and spoke solemnly to the girl.
"If you swear that you will return here in seven days time, I'll let you go and visit your father!"
Beauty threw herself at the Beast's feet in delight.
"I swear! I swear I will! How kind you are! You've made a loving daughter so happy!" In reality, the
merchant had fallen ill from a broken heart at knowing his daughter was being kept prisoner. When
he embraced her again, he was soon on the road to recovery. Beauty stayed beside him for hours
on end, describing her life at the Castle, and explaining that the Beast was really
good and kind. The days flashed past, and at last the merchant was able to leave his bed. He was
completely well again. Beauty was happy at last. However, she had failed to notice that seven days
had gone by.
Then one night she woke from a terrible nightmare. She had dreamt that the Beast was dying and
calling for her, twisting in agony.
"Come back! Come back to me!" it was pleading. The solemn promise she had made drove her to
leave home immediately.
"Hurry! Hurry, good horse!" she said, whipping her steed onwards towards the castle, afraid that
she might arrive too late. She rushed up the stairs, calling, but there was no reply. Her heart in her
mouth, Beauty ran into the garden and there crouched the Beast, its eyes shut, as though dead.
Beauty threw herself at it and hugged it tightly.
"Don't die! Don't die! I'll marry you . . ." At these words, a miracle took place. The Beast's ugly
snout turned magically into the face of a handsome young man.
"How I've been longing for this moment!" he said. "I was suffering in silence, and couldn't tell my
frightful secret. An evil witch turned me into a monster and only the love of a maiden willing to
accept me as I was, could transform me back into my real self. My dearest! I'll be so happy if you'll
marry me."
The wedding took place shortly after and, from that day on, the young Prince would have nothing
but roses in his gardens. And that's why, to this day, the castle is known as the Castle of the Rose.
Fantasy is a genre of speculative fiction set in a fictional universe, often inspired by real
world myth and folklore. Its roots are in oral traditions, which then
became literature and drama. From the twentieth century it has expanded further into
various media, including film, television, graphic novels and video games.

Only A Mother's Love

When the Vreesek conquered Earth, they brought their gods.
They don’t plunder our resources. They keep to themselves. After smashing every defense and cratering
capitals, they planted their temple-embassies in a hundred cities. We “rule” ourselves under their aegis—
the temple high priest and ambassador, the iVress, is our Elder.
They’re here as missionaries, but they neither evangelize nor explain. There are harsh penalties for our
misunderstanding.
But they need us, the police, to keep order. I’m Jessica Cho, Seattle Police Department detective. Crime.
Murder. Now Vreesek-whisperer….
I got the bud-buzz—the Vreesek distribute these earbuds. You blink, hard, and you’re connected in your
head somehow. Blink again and you’re off. Though it’s only between us and the Vreesek—sure would be
useful for me and Brien.
There’s a dead Vreesek outside the embassy.

I made my way to Mercer and Fifth. The four-story building was also the personal residences of the on-
planet Vreesek, while overhead a dozen spaceships monitored the planet.
SPD had yellow tape around the body. A male child. Dead, definitely. From a fall, likely. He was a small
thing, his yellowish scales already fading to gray, a thick, teal fluid pooling on the wet sidewalk. His scaly
hands clutched something metal, silvery. I bent down. A toy, maybe—an alien baby inside a halfshell.
A Vreesek guard motioned, then buzzed. The iVress would see you. Our Elder for the Pacific Northwest
was a mystery, his infrequent words obeyed in sullen terror.
I’d never been called in before.

The iVress was more impressive, scary even, than in the vids. Yellow and ochre scales bristling, over six
feet tall, wearing a glittering chain from which dangled the icon of an innocent face. And nothing else. No
modesty among the Vreesek.
His guards were silent, deferential.
Even through the electronic connection of the earbud, the iVress roared: a mother lost her child. she
accuses me of the disposition. find the truth. return the shokrah. restore the peace. remember your whidbey
island.
Whidbey Island was vaporized four years ago after a May Day protest, really just a crowd refusing to
disperse from Westlake Mall. We felt that harsh, distant light, and the long boom that followed shattered
many windows.
The female Vreesek was brought in, her scales sleek, loose, shimmering in scarlet and orange. She shook
before iVress, then looked at me with eyes that said nothing of her soul. The iVress and his guards left me,
and I was alone with her.
A buzz. My child. My most precious thing, stolen from me.
How? Who saw this?
She waited. Then He was on the balcony. The iVress wanted him gone.
I snapped back. The Elder pushed him?
The child was disobedient. He stole the shokrah. She did not buzz again.
I walked out to the balcony. There were two smudges on the wide railing and some dropped gray scales.
The Vreesek was gone when I came back inside, and a guard took me to the elevator.
Once outside, I peered up into the drizzle, searching.
Would a child be so foolish?
Could a mother be so calm?
Off work, I walked to my condo that faced Pike Place. Marcus worked remotely to watch our deaf son,
Brien, four, who bounced on the sofa, laughing. I signed Careful, my love. I smelled garlic and oregano.
“Hey. I’m home.”
Marcus came out, wiping his apron, and pecked me on the cheek. “He learned ten new signs today, so he
got treats. Chocolate!”
Brien signed Chocolate, mommy!
I scowled. “It’s so expensive…” International foods were slowly returning. Coffee. Chocolate. Even tea.
I was sick of chicory.
Marcus laughed. “Life is to be enjoyed.” He remained calm through the invasion and occupation, and still
found celebrations along the way. I found humanity’s dregs. We both were living in our elements.
After dinner I got Brien cleaned up, watched his prayers, and put him to bed with his snugglebear. In the
dim light, he looked like an angel.
I can’t imagine….

The next morning, I talked with the coroner. He’d cleaned up the Vreesek, and handed over the toy to
return. The face of an alien child looked up at me.
I went back to the embassy-temple, then out to the balcony again. The two smudges and the scales were
cleaned up. I peered over the railing.
He was face-up.
I summoned a guard. Who uses this room when the iVress is absent?
The guard stared straight ahead. He blinked. No one but the family of the iVress.
And the child? Was he also the son of the iVress?
All who share the shokrah are his children. The guard fingered his own silvery icon, a rounded hollow cube
with a small child within. This Child commands us to rule the galaxy.
I blinked, but not to communicate. Then, I blinked again. Bring me the mother.

She stood calmly. You have news?

I opened my hand. This is yours.
She made a sound, whistling, high-pitched, and then grabbed the icon. Thank all the gods! The shokrah is
returned to me, and I am returned to the Vreet, the Holy Child!
Tell me, Vreesek, of your son’s death.
She was silent, then He was disobedient to the Vreet and the iVress.
I responded He took your Vreet, and with that, your place with the Vreesek.
Her stare grew colder, harder. How did you know?
He was looking at you when you pushed him off for stealing. His mother.
She made a choking sound. The gods are to be obeyed, always. The Vreet is everything. The Vreesek is
all.
I took out my earbuds before my own thoughts could betray me.

The sun broke through low clouds at sunset, painting the wet streets with reds and golds. I watched from
the condo window, my hand upon Brien’s hair. He looked up, then returned to his silent game.
I whispered to Marcus, “Perhaps this is enough—that we live.”
“It is enough.”
 Non-Fiction
Non-fiction or nonfiction is content (sometimes, in the form of a story) whose creator, in good faith, assumes
responsibility for the truth or accuracy of the events, people, or information presented.[1] In contrast, a story whose creator
explicitly leaves open if and how the work refers to reality is usually classified as fiction.[1][2] Nonfiction, which may be
presented either objectively or subjectively, is traditionally one of the two main divisions of narratives (and,
specifically, prose writing),[3] the other traditional division being fiction, which contrasts with nonfiction by dealing in
information, events, and characters expected to be partly or largely imaginary.

ESSAY

An essay is, generally, a piece of writing that gives the author's own argument — but the definition is
vague, overlapping with those of a paper, an article, a pamphlet, and a short story. Essays have
traditionally been sub-classified as formal and informal. Formal essays are characterized by "serious
purpose, dignity, logical organization, length," whereas the informal essay is characterized by "the
personal element (self-revelation, individual tastes and experiences, confidential manner), humor,
graceful style, rambling structure, unconventionality or novelty of theme," etc.

ESSAY ON LOVE
What is the one emotion that has everyone mystified? What is the one emotion that has started as many wars as it
has ended? What emotion has had more plays, songs, and stories written about it than anything else? Love, that one
emotion that makes enemies into friends and friends into enemies. So many legends surround this emotion, from the
goddess Athena and Helen of Troy to Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
Love comes in so many different levels, that it doesn't appear to be the same emotion at all, but it is. There is so
much to love, that it will be hard to put into this simple essay. It can tear people apart and make us do irrational things
to bringing together entire nations. What can this emotion not do? It's hard to tell, but there is a lot it can.
This emotion, bring tears to our eyes when something happens to our family members, friends, and pets. When we
feel love ripped from us, as in death or being spurned by another, we do things we wouldn't normally do, such as go
on violent rampages, or mourn to the extent that our loved ones have to watch us constantly to make sure we don't
try anything like suicide. Some can move on, always remembering the lost loved one after a while, but others can not
let go. These are the ones that need our love and support the most.
There are so many levels to love, that I can only express a few of them here. These are the ones we see most in life.
Friendship starts this list off. Yes, it doesn't seem like it, but we do feel love towards our friends, this is what helps us
get along so well, and why we miss them when we don't see our friends for a long time. It's also why we hold certain
friends over others no matter what happens. Sometimes, the bond between friends deepens to the point where a
stronger bond of love is made, making them family.
Another level of love, are for our siblings and other family members. Even though we do things to our family
members, and sometimes we don't like some of our family, that bond is still there. It's this family bond level of love
that brought about the phrase, blood is thicker than water. We will do things for our brothers, sisters, mothers,
fathers, and children before we would even consider doing them for anyone else. Many wars have been started
because of this family level, brother avenging brother or father, father protecting his wife and children, or even vice
versa. This simple family bond can even extend to include our pets, amazingly enough, and that is a good thing.
A third level to love, is the bond that brings man and woman together. This level is among the strongest of them all. It
is this level of love that has brought together kingdoms into nations in the past, and ended many great wars. It's is
also for the love of a woman that has started a few of our well-known wars, like the Trojan Wars of ancient times. It's
brought together families that have argued for years and years, such as in the Shakespearean play, Romeo and
Juliet. Even though the two mentioned killed themselves in the end, it still brought their families together.
The last mentionable level of love is that bond between a mother and her children. There is no stronger, nor will there
ever be. This bond starts from the very first tiny fluttering of movement and never ends, even after death of the child.
A mother protects her children in the name of love, and directs them through life using it as the example to follow.
Well, at least it should be. It's because of her children a mother will work at a job she hates, just to make sure they
have everything they could ever want or need.
The phrase, love makes the world go round is very true. It's is our driving force, for what ever reason it may be.
Poems, plays, and legends can only briefly touch the true meaning of love. We can only feel what that meaning is,
and express it in ways only we can understand towards another. The true question we should be asking is not, what
is life, but what is love.
What is love? I don't know, but I'll do what I can to express it to my son, my husband, my family and friends, and to
every single pet I have or ever will own in the best possible way that I can.
Speech is human vocal communication using language. Each language uses phonetic combinations
of a limited set of perfectly articulated and individualized vowel and consonant sounds that form the
sound of its words (that is, all English words sound different from all French words, even if they are
the same word, e.g., "role" or "hotel"), and using those words in their semantic character as words in
the lexicon of a language according to the syntactic constraints that govern lexical words' function in
a sentence.

SPEECH ON TEACHER

Good evening everybody!

I welcome you all to this grand occasion. In our lifetime each of us has some or other
teachers whom we consider as our idol.
Alright, so today I would like to talk to you about the one who lays the foundation of the
existence of any school – ‘The Teacher’. Teacher is that one entity who strengthens the
educational power of the students. They are the ones who link the students to the school
and vice versa.
While I was young, I always used to associate my subject by the name of the teacher who
used to teach that and also more the favourite teacher, more the marks in that subject…
Yes, it’s a fact. Isn’t it, kids?
It is a proven fact that a teacher’s job is not just a job but it has an impact on the growth and
well-being of the entire nation. Teachers play the most essential role in delivering what is
desired. They are considered as the backbone of the society because they continuously
contribute in building up the student’s characters, shaping their future and also help them to
become ideal citizens of the country. A good teacher always inspires the hope, ignites the
imagination, and instils the love of learning within us.
It isn’t true that the teacher works only when they have a class to address, before coming to
the class they have a long handed homework to be done, yes… believe me, they do have!
They need to be prepared for the topic to be taught, they have to get the tests prepared, the
exercises ready and all that To-Do list prepared before they actually come on desk to
perform their role. It is the responsibility of the teachers to continue doing their hard work
and go through a variety of material that enriches their knowledge for the betterment of the
society.
Teachers give us the moral support and encourage us to live a quality life in the society.
They have the power to let the students understand the aspects of career growth, and future
prospects in their desired fields.
Teachers help a student to shape their character and make their future bright. They enable
us to stand strong in this world by building us from within, by making us sensible and
knowledgeable so that we become capable of dealing with numerous challenges coming
our way and helping us succeed.
As a conclusion, I would ask you all to always cherish the bond with your teachers. They are
the ones who have educated you and have put in the efforts to bring you up in this society.
We owe our respect and gratitude towards our teachers, they have empowered us with
education, they have nurtured us with their love and affection just like our parents. Our
respect makes them feel contended; they build the new blood to be a worthy soul in this
nation.

Teachers have always been special and will continue to do so in all times to come.
Thank You!
A biography, or simply bio, is a detailed description of a person's life. It
involves more than just the basic facts like education, work, relationships,
and death; it portrays a person's experience of these life events. Unlike a
profile or curriculum vitae (résumé), a biography presents a subject's life
story, highlighting various aspects of his or her life, including intimate
details of experience, and may include an analysis of the subject's
personality.
 Salay National High School
Salay, Misamis Oriental

PROJECT IN ENGLISH
(Fiction and Non-Fiction)

Submitted by:

ABDON ASHLEY S. FABRE

Submitted to:

MISS. JANE RIKKA C. LIM

March 29, 2019