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Life is Fiction

By: Rocky McGredy

Cigarette #1

“What’s the goal here?” Dylan directed at nothing, taking a drag of his

cigarette and resigning himself to drawing in his notebook.

“You’re just going to write what Dylan’s doing?” Trevor managed to

announce through his raucous laughter.

“Tiny onions.” Jon quoted, completely unrelated to the conversation.

“Yeah, I don’t even know why I said that.” He said, realizing that I was writing

about him.

It was spring. Pollen filled the air, causing me to sneeze rather

sporadically and frequently. The six of us sat huddled around a table,

attempting to strike a creative spark. Starting from my left, the group

consisted of: Jon, Brandon, Jon, Trevor, and Dylan. It was a slow day, but the

conversation was good and the company was even better.

The ink was flowing quickly from my pen, though I had no idea what

point I was trying to make. Maybe this is a narrative, maybe a commentary,

or maybe this story just serves as a snapshot. An open door, where the

events are displayed beyond the threshold.

“Nah, he’s gonna have a crotch satchel.” I’m not really sure why I took

note of Dylan’s saying that.

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“Okay, lion. I’ll come back and sit on you later.” Brandon directed this

statement at an unintentionally ugly stone lion, located in the grass next to

our place of congregation.

You aren’t writing about anything of worth, I thought to myself. My

subconscious quickly slapped me. These are things of worth. These people

mean the world to me. That’s important enough to be written about.

“Well done, Rocky,” echoed my late fathers voice. Aww, I made this

story sad.

Cigarette #2

Same table, same people. Inside my head more now. How am I

feeling? I’m feeling nostalgic today. Cigarettes always bring me

back. Fun fact: I used to smoke, now I try not to. Operative word

being try.

I remember this one time that I got jumped. I was in Pittsburg.

White people shouldn’t go to Pittsburg. It was my best friend

Andrew’s 18th birthday; we bought the cigarettes, lotto scratchers,

and other obligatory adult things. Andrew wanted to party. Let’s go

to Pittsburg and party; a suggestion brought to the table by my

friend Justin. We parked literally three houses down from the party.

Safety knows no distance. As soon as we got out of the car, a van

full of people stopped in front of us.

“Where you from?” inquired a member of the van party. “What

you got in your pockets?” he asked before we could answer.

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“Look, you can have whatever you want, just don’t-” a fist

slammed itself into my right cheek. Before I knew it, I was on the

ground screaming for them to stop. Lost in a flurry of violence, I

couldn’t help but contemplate why they would want to hit me.

That’s a stupid question. I was in the wrong part of town, and I

appeared to be an upper middle class white male. If only they knew

that I’m the same as them. I’m a human, I’m struggling, and god

knows I’m doing my best.

The violent group disbanded. I was left on the concrete, every

literal and figurative part of me in pain. I gathered my pride and

headed toward a party I didn’t want to be at.

Cigarette #3

A boy sits in a classroom. Fun fact: the boy is me. A much

younger me. He is 12 years old, and still as jaded as I am now.

Losing a loved one at a young age will do that to you.

He was my father. My most revered hero. My personal idol.

Death is a cruel mistress. Let me ask you a question: do you visit

your doctor regularly? Well, you should. Who knows when you could

have a heart attack and die on a family vacation to Tahoe.

Anyway, back to the boy, me. He is 5’6” with dyed black hair.

He is plump and awkward. He is drawing all over himself. There is

no explanation as to why. “Don’t draw on yourself!” Mom says. I

realize now that it was a sign of my self destruction.

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“Do you know the answer to the question? The teacher directs

at the boy, me. If I remembered the question, I would tell you. But I

don’t, and it’s not important.

The boy stood up, and tears began to stream from his eyes. He

didn’t know why, but now I do. All of this imagery: dead fathers,

heart attacks, belligerent preteens; they all mean something to me.

The boy didn’t realize that, but now I do. My life is fiction, it was

meant to be written. The cruel hand of fate, or random

happenstance, if you will (and I do), takes a toll on us all. I take

solace in my writing. The narrative may be fact, but it’s all good

fiction for me, and now you.

Cigarette #4

Present day, there is a girl. Let’s call her Cindy. Cindy is a stupid

enough name. Cindy and I went to coffee. We talked about life, and I was

immediately charmed by her personality. I’m certain that we both left feeling

pretty good about the encounter. Now comes the conundrum. She won’t text

me back, she wont return my calls. Why? We had a good time. We got along.

Why? There is no tangible explanation.

Example #2 of my life as fiction. I’m a character. These seemingly

inexplicable events amalgamate themselves into a plot line. In order to grow,

I have to question and grow from these questions.

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Weeks later, I receive a text message from Cindy. “I’m sorry, but I’m

just not looking for anything.” My stomach wrenches itself. I’m once again

asking why. Why is not a valid question. Why is open to interpretation.

If life is fiction then the main character has to make a movement. The

movement is life. If I was a static character, I’d continue to dwell on this

nonsense. But I’m not a static character, I’m dynamic. I’ll answer my “Why?”

right now. Why? Cindy’s just a girl. These happenings are just some rising

action moving towards a climax, and eventually a resolution. I’m not going to

blame Cindy for moving my plot forward. She only strengthens my character

and causes the reader to sympathize with me.

Disappointments are inevitable. They’re just plot points that keep you

reading.

Cigarette #5

Not smoked by me. I’m done smoking for the day. Hopefully forever. I like to

tell myself that. As we stood up from the table, Trevor handed his cigarette to

Brandon. She took a drag. “That’s the first time I’ve ever done that.” She said.

This is a symbol. If life is fiction, then there are definitely symbols.

Brandon just took a drag without even thinking about it. She didn’t stop to

think about the implications. She didn’t care.

Back to this being a symbol. The nonchalant risk taking attitude that

Brandon holds relates thematically back to my life. I don’t think, I just do. When I

need to think about my decisions, I reflect. As I’m doing now.

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I’ve lost myself to vices before. What brought me back to reality was

writing. There’s another symbol. Writing as a release.

The novel of my life has recurring themes: a carefree attitude, reflecting on

the past, and daily struggle. It also has recurring characters: my friends, enemies,

and loved ones.

I don’t mind gaining experiences, so I do what I want. Then, I think about

my decisions later. I’m done trying to keep myself safe. Life is short, and I’m

going to live the hell out of it.

This is fiction, and you can’t disprove it. There is a plot line, symbols, and

characters. My character grows, and even sometimes reverts to his old ways. This

is more fictional than any fiction I could write.