Now, what is Ron Stone, and why am I writing this?
I had a fun idea inspired by my days doing Improv. I asked my audience (or in this case my Twitter followers) to give me three things; a name, a place, and a situation. I got one response, and I decided to roll with it. The suggestion came from @Cwriter80 who said, and I quote:
Ron Stone, New York, New York, situation: 21st century technology
fails to protect mankind from self desctruction. "
What follows the jump will be my first entry. While I didn't fully follow the exact premise set forth, his suggestion is what inspired the following. Enjoy.
I watched the fire fall from the sky, and knew that there was nothing I could do. The city would burn, and all I could do was stand at the railing of the ferry, and watch the conflagration reflected in the murky waters of the Hudson. Screams of desperate people filled the air. I tuned them out. I couldn't allow myself to get tied up in their pain, I had my own problems to deal with, not the least of which being that this whole mess was all my fault.
I suppose I should explain myself. My name is Veronica Stone, but my friends call me Ron. I moved to the big city from a rural part of Ohio a few months back, after I had been told that the only way to make a name for myself in the world was to live in the big city. I was a photographer by trade. Nothing fancy, just the occasional yearbook photos, a wedding here and there. I even had a few of my photos show up in Newsweek. I fully blame that brief fling with the national spotlight for my eventual exodus to New York. Other than the semi-regular tornado damage, nothing ever happened in Ohio, and if I was going to become the next Annie Leibovitz, I needed to be where the action was.
So, with just a little money, and my Nikon, I left my home to seek my fortune in The Big Apple.
Life wasn't easy once I got there. I ended up working a string of shitty jobs by day, and sleeping in shittier holes in the wall at night. My only companions the first couple of weeks were the roaches and rats that seemed to occupy every dive I could afford a bed in. Occasionally I would talk to the vermin as I fed them. When you're all alone, you do whatever you can to stave off insanity.
By the end of the fifth month, I was ready to call it quits and head back to Ohio. My will was broken, and the I had lost the starry-eyed disillusionment that had lead me here in the first place. Too many nights spent cold and hungry, and too few glimmers of hope. I was prepared to swallow my pride, and come crawling back home. I packed my bags, and hailed what I thought would be my last cab.
With my head hanging, I slid into the cab, and said simply, “42nd and 8th.”
He tried to talk to me, all of them did. I was no model, but I thought myself at least mildly attractive. I ignored him. When he finally got the hint that I was uninterested we traveled on wordlessly. I barely saw the world go by. I was so absorbed by the world in my head, that everything else seemed meaningless. Only the sickening sound of squealing tires and shattering glass broke me out of my reverie. When the man in the three-piece suit came crashing through the windshield to land beside me, I was still trying to process what was happening.
As he lay there bleeding, he looked up at me, blood pouring from his nostrils and various other cuts on his face. One of his oddly blue eyes had already swollen shut. He pressed his phone into my hand, “8675... tell the mayor... they're here.”
With that, he coughed up more blood onto my blouse, and died with his head on my lap.
So... What do you think so far? I'm aiming for about...5 or 6 sections like this. Lets see if I can manage.