Sorry it took so long for a new chapter, and a short one at that.

I have no excuse, except that I intend to have a couple more stories up and running soon.


I nearly didn't make it to the elevator, the ground was starting to give way while the buildings crumbled to dust. I just made it through the elevator doors as the last pieces of a once great city disintegrated. I couldn't make sense of what I'd just seen and heard, Half Blood City, Mom? It wasn't computing.

I stumbled from the Empire State building, my mind was foggy like I was drunk. Everything was hazy and surreal like a dream, it felt real and yet I could tell something was off. I watched myself call for a cab and ask to be taken to Long Island sound.

The daze started to clear as the sun set. I looked ahead out the windshield at the new city quickly approaching, it followed a similar style to the city above New York. But it looked younger, and darker. It had an almost Art Deco meets Greek look to it. With flickering green billboards, and rusting columns.
Walkways crisscrossed each skyscraper and all kinds of shapes walked in and out of the variety of buildings. Some with horns, some with wings. It seemed as though thin shreds of a fog or mist hung between and around the many streets and buildings masking their shapes and occupants.

The cab pulled in front of a hill with one lonely pine tree sitting at its peak. I stepped out and climbed the hill, finally regaining some control over my limbs. The dried skeleton of a giant serpent lay coiled around the base of the tree, a ragged sheepskin hanging from the lower branches.

Leading away from the crest of the hill was a large roadway. It had metal edging and greenish cobbles with water running through the many cracks towards the large sewer grates on the side of the road. I looked upward in awe at the skyscrapers made of cement and bronze, the statues green with age and wear. I walked slowly up the cobbled street eyes darting left and right at the bridges and walkways and strange denizens that walked hurriedly through the city.

The road wound forward toward the ocean, and at the end on a pier stood a large monument. Seven figures and only one of them polished and glowing bronze. I stood in front of the image of a 17 year old boy with a glowing sword in his hand and a Camp Half-blood t-shirt. The plaque at the base of the statue read: Perseus Jackson and the Heroes of Olympus:
The rest had been rubbed or scratched into nonexistence. Just as the six other figures of the statue had been ignored and uncleaned.

I sat down on a nearby bench and stared up at the face of Perseus Jackson, Hero of Olympus.