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:
"@SlamfistMedia
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.
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