Write, right?

It was a bright day like any other. The sun shone, birds chirped, and the streets bustled with cars and people—it was all very typical. I awoke a few minutes before my alarm, buzzing with thoughts about the story I planned to write that day. Our English Literature instructor had announced a writing contest, promising that the most impressive stories would be published in the university’s literature magazine.

I don’t recall if I showered that morning. The air was crisp, the temperature having dipped to eleven degrees centigrade—a less than ideal setting for a cold bath, especially since I thrive in warmth. There’s something unbeatable about the comforting embrace of a lukewarm morning, where the sun is radiant but not blinding, warm but not scorching, heralding a perfect blue-skied day.

Adhering to my personal rule of bathing at least once daily, I knew another chance would come in the evening if I had skipped the morning shower. Yet, if I did brave the cold water that fateful morning, perhaps it influenced the chilly tone of the story I later submitted to the contest. A story that was published on the university’s literature magazine.

I can’t exactly call myself a good writer, much less a creative one. Ever since I joined the course, my approach hasn’t changed—I simply dredge up anything of value, tweak it slightly, and churn out a story. I never bothered with what Mr. Lemen calls the "flowers of the story"—stylistic devices that supposedly enhance the narrative. To be honest, I didn’t even like the course; it was demanding, requiring endless hours spent deciphering dense texts. It seems as if no one recognizes the challenge in grappling with another person’s thoughts once they’re laid out on paper.

Moreover, who can truly grasp anything hidden behind parables and figurative language? Why write, "The pen slithered across the paper like a snake on sand" to show off one's smooth craftsmanship, when "He wrote fast" is simple and direct? I had consistently resisted Mr. Lemen’s advice on crafting a compelling story, as I didn't subscribe to his principles. I was in his class solely because it was an elective, and failing was not an option.

That's precisely why I started paying attention to one of Mr. Lemen’s key pointers: a good writer should always consider their audience. In this case, he was my audience, and whatever I wrote would directly impact my grades—grades that were teetering on the brink, thanks to three supplementary exams and five missing assignments after just three semesters at the university. Normally, I wouldn’t care whether someone liked my story or not, but Mr. Lemen wasn’t just anyone; he was like the angel Gabriel guarding the gates of Eden.

Cats and dogs are notorious for their rivalry, yet lately, there have been numerous instances where dogs—and cats—have shown unexpected kindness toward each other. I've watched countless videos, one particularly touching scene where a cat allowed a dog to drink from its water bowl. It seems that desperate times lead to unexpected alliances, which brings me to the only thing I truly cared about in Mr. Lemen's class: the authenticity of the story. Whether it’s about a dog nursing a kitten or sharing its meal, the truth was paramount. After all, no one trusts a lie.

One time, I overheard some friends planning to download exam questions from a teacher's computer. I crafted a story based on this, altering names and events for privacy. Yet, I discovered that darker plots, like one where acquaintances actually threw someone into a well due to jealousy over his popularity with girls, demanded further alterations. By transforming the characters into cockroaches and changing the setting, I softened the harsh reality of their actions. This way, readers could engage with the story without feeling the full weight of the actual horror. But regardless of these modifications, the essence—the truth—of the story remained intact.

It was a bright morning, scented with damp soil as my footsteps squelched, pressing excess water from the sodden earth. My rubber shoes—black-soled and brown-topped—were hardly ideal for such conditions. Much like bathing, washing these shoes was a chore I despised. Nonetheless, I was one of the first to arrive in class.

We were scarcely ten that morning. As I entered, I scanned the unfamiliar faces, all bundled up against the chill. Jackets and trench coats were the uniform of the day, while closed windows and the fluorescent tubes overhead added an artificial warmth to the room. I wore my usual blue and grey jacket, the hoodie's black fabric a stark contrast. Typically, I left my head uncovered, but today, after a night of torrential rain and resulting flash floods, I sought solace under its cover. My hoodie became my refuge, shielding me from both the residual cold and any attempts at conversation.

As I settled onto the cold, blue bench, my mind drifted back to the events of the previous night. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the raised voices in the apartment next door were impossible to ignore. Through the thin walls, I could hear every word of the heated argument between a man and a woman. The man's voice was sharp, cutting through the air with accusations, while the woman's responses, tinged with fear and defense, painted a picture of desperation.

Lying in bed, the real words I had unintentionally overheard began to morph into a vivid dream. I imagined a nondescript room anchored by a bed on which the woman sat, her composure a stark contrast to her earlier panic. Perhaps the sheets were blue—my memory here blurred. Serene music filled the space, oddly harmonizing with the scent of lavender that saturated the air, calming both the woman and me as we locked gazes, me standing just before her. The aroma enveloped us, smoothing the edges of my fraying nerves, and coaxing them into a gentle surrender.

And then, as I imagined her watching me, a man burst into the room, just as aggressive as the voice I had heard through the walls. The woman panted in fear, her voice defensive and submissive, as if protecting herself from a barrage of accusations. Despite my imagined presence, I was like a ghost; invisible and impotent. The man didn’t notice me either.

“Henry,” a voice pierced the tense silence of my recollection, accompanied by gentle fingers tapping on my shoulder. It was Jessica, my neighbor. She had slipped into the seat next to me. “You came in early today!”

I mustered a half-hearted smile and replied, “I’ve just arrived,” my words tinged with embarrassment. She had unknowingly shattered my reverie. Who was the woman on the bed? And why was she so frightened?

Jessica's eyes sparkled with mischief, reminiscent of a playful kitten basking in the sun. Her yellow blouse seemed to echo her bubbly demeanor. “Do you know what you’ll write for the test today?” she asked, setting a book down on the aged, iron writing pad in front of us. “I’ve been racking my brain for a captivating plot but haven’t landed on anything yet!”

I shook my head and replied, “I also don’t have any idea. Maybe I’ll write about cats and dogs!”

She giggled, “Is it because of the rain yesterday?”

“Yes,” I responded quickly, then immediately regretted my hasty reply. Was there a cat meowing in the background before the man entered the house in my dream? The memory was elusive.

“I can’t believe you’ve chosen a fable,” she remarked, her gaze curious and intense.

“No one dares to write a fable in a writing contest,” I declared, “and I want to be that guy!”

Jessica fell silent. She was a medical student, whom I liked but was entangled in relationship drama. I hated the boyfriend but loved Jessica’s passion for writing. She once said that perhaps she would have been better off pursuing arts and crafts or becoming a linguist. I couldn't quite relate. As the silence stretched between us, Mr. Lemen burst into the room, his navy-blue suit spattered with the remnants of a drizzle. Despite the sunlight streaming through the window, I found myself staring outside, searching for a grey cloud that might explain Mr. Lemen’s disheveled appearance. Meanwhile, Jessica’s attention was already captured by the lecturer, but my thoughts continued to drift, lost in the enigma of my dream and the morning’s weather anomalies.

“Good morning,” bellowed Mr. Lemen across the hall. “I want us to start right away!” He glanced at his silver wristwatch and commanded, “We have no time. Take out your foolscaps and begin!” Approaching the board, he swiftly wrote two phrases: ‘Character Development’ and ‘World Building’.

“Make sure you take note of these two,” he continued, “I won’t mark any paper that doesn’t focus on these aspects!”

Jessica retrieved her papers from her sling bag, settling into her seat with a look of determination that belied the confusion that brewed within. Her polished nails and meticulous facials revealed a contrast between her composed exterior and the internal tumult she felt.

“I don’t know what those are,” I admitted, catching the troubled look in Jessica’s eyes.

“He barely taught those,” Jessica complained, her voice taking on a deeper, mock-masculine tone to mimic Mr. Lemen. “He glossed over the topic and said we should ‘look deep into our souls to understand the characters we present!’”

I was equally lost. That day, frustrated by Mr. Lemen's habitual tardiness, which saw him arriving an hour late, I had skipped class for the student center to play video games—a spur-of-the-moment truancy.

“Well, if it’s about looking deep into our souls,” I mused aloud, my voice laced with irony, “it shouldn’t be that hard!” Internally, however, a darker thought lingered. What if the vivid dream I had—where a man brutally attacked a woman sitting on a bed, leaving the sheets wet, torn, and stained red—stemmed from a deeper truth buried within me? What if there was no other man in that dream and I was, in fact, witnessing myself commit these horrifying acts? Would it make a good story?

A part of me was disturbingly at peace in the chaos of that dream, finding a twisted satisfaction in their conflict as if understanding the root of their strife. I felt an unnerving connection to both the aggressor and the victim.

Jessica whispered, “I know I’m going to fail this,” her voice tinged with resignation. I didn’t respond, just stared. Beneath her carefully applied eyeshadow, I could discern the faint trace of a black eye—similar to how the screams and cries for help had been muffled in the chaotic throes of the fight between the man and woman in my dream.

My gaze was blank, hollow. It seemed a reflection of my deeper problems. In the silence that followed, I wrestled with what I thought was necessary to win the contest. I couldn't fabricate a comfortable lie, not to the teacher, not to anyone else. Mr. Lemen, a seasoned man marked by his beard, would understand the stark rawness of reality. So, driven by a compulsion for truth, I began to write about the violent dance of the man and woman from my dream, and Jessica didn’t love it.