The twisted metal bruised upon the rotten ground. The sheets collapsed inwards, screeching sharply with pain. The sanguine expression grew darker. The lights extinguished faster. And in the barren wastelands stood a sign, scorched and torn beyond frays. Its neon lights flickered like embodiment of dying souls. A faint message tried to manifest; it tried to reach the great unknown. But a storm of dust lingered in the atmosphere, obstructing the signals. And there it stood, wastefully eternal. Beyond the vast canyons, a million neon lights flickered. A forgotten sea of signs, each different from the rest, each laying in the dust, each wastefully eternal.

At the far right corner of every sign, though almost indistinguishable, read: dream

The lights went on.

Percy scrambled past his doorway, haphazardly tossing on a white button up shirt. He glanced at the neon light gleaming from his watch. It was a displeasing sight. Percy frowned and rejuvenated his exertions to find a decent black suit in his closet. A worn-down but manageable suit manifested in the far edges of his wardrobe. He snatched it off the hanger; slugged it over his shoulders. He entered the bathroom, glanced at the reflection.

eh, it's the bloody best I can do.

He almost slammed right into his dusty counter in his efforts to toss his backpack over his shoulders.

Percy shot out of the apartment; he rushed down the stairs into the empty lobby. His hands opened the flimsy door, as it creaked and groaned from the wind. The first light of the sun crept on the horizon- the city was awake. His nerves tingled; his heart beat with vigour. The frigid wind brushed his face, the icy fingers igniting a shiver. Percy rubbed his hands together for warmth, regaining his nerves. They crept to his pocket, and he lit a cigarette from his pocket. In stark contrast to the billows of bitter smoke, Percy felt his mind clear from smog. The wan clouds danced overhead. They mingled with each other; mingled with the colour of the sun ; mingled with the dark billows of smoke.

His green eyes followed their irregular swells and steps, lost in the striking orange blazes that roared with viability. His mind crept to the safe quarters that tempted him from day to day. The overflowing papers of notes surrounded by bookshelves. A pen lingered beside a blank sheet of paper. His legs brought him over to a worn-down leather chair. He felt himself fall.

The window bristled with mirth; the cordial atmosphere welcomed him. His fingers grasped the pen and the dark ink dripped onto the page. It flowed like a symphony of elegant prose, sparking with animation, it- it-

it burned with smoke.

Percy blinked out his reverie as putrid smoke exhaust from a nearby car filled his nostrils. He looked down. His memory seeped into his mind; panic settled in. Percy rushed to the subway and hurried down the stairs.

There was a crowd of people waiting at the ticket stations. Percy threw his eyes around the room. At last, he scurried over to the lane with the fewest people. His fingers moved into his pockets. He felt a cool plastic cover . His fingers crept the box open and picked out a soft cushioning cigarette.

A red crimson sign fluttered before his pupils, soon blocked out by the masses. Percy frowned in dismay and dropped his cigarette back into his pockets. Temptation grew around him, each voice convincing as the last. It's soft smile and cordial warmth like a fire in winter. But Percy restrained himself from that comfort, his back turned to restless hands. His heart hardened but pain seeped into it all the same.

The tortuous wait commenced. His mind wandered free of his chains, stepping into dark rotten alleys. His hands brushed against each other in a restless fit. His doubt expanded like a ghastly ballon. A ghost thought to be inconceivable manifested. It's dark fiery countenance viscously sanguine.

The clock ticked on, his eyes darted around, his feet rocked forth.

But eventually his mind generated earthy wooden desk. A messy pile of paper and a worn-down pen.

Time flew past; a bird sailing with the winds.

A man stepped to the right, the dull machine replacing him.

"Hurry up kid!" A gruff voice said somewhere behind him. Percy's personal world rocked, and he fell face first into reality. Although he felt an urge to glance behind him, he dismissed it as unwise.

He fumbled with his wallet, with some coins narrowly clattering on the ground. He typed a few buttons, thus a dry whirl of the machine produced a ticket. Percy snatched it and swept towards the descending escalator. His heavy backpack swung wildly behind him, the worn-down material slipping from his arms. Percy arched his back and rolled his shoulders forward. The dark bag landed comfortably on his shoulders.

Weary men and women stood on the platform, each waiting for the subway; each lost in their own bubble. The damp humidity gathered in the tight atmosphere, droplets of sweat glistening on wrinkled foreheads and palms. But, the majority of the group only looked slightly uncomfortable . The lack of AC more appalling to those who looked like tourists.

At least they looked like tourists, with their hopeful and animated visage. But it was somewhat tainted by the suffocating heat. They had flashy phones and vivid clothing. It stood out like diamonds in dirt from the mundane wardrobe of New Yorkers. It was a group of four people at least in their 20s. Each had a cliche shirt reading "I Love NYC". One of the girls, with a mass of blonde hair, wore a velvet Chanel purse. She was staring at a map with what looked like her boyfriend. Perhaps Percy had been staring at them for too long, because the girl looked up. His jaw unloosened and fell open. She had startling grey eyes and had a sly smirk plastered onto her face.

Percy twisted his head away, a heat raging on his neck.

How long have I been staring at those tourists? Jesus . Get your shirt together. Fuck. Shirt together? What the hell is that? He silently scolded himself But Percy stole another peak at them. Before he could manage, a constant clanking of rails flowed from the dark tunnel. It grew louder and harsher as the train approached. A breath of heated air blew on his face as it raged past. The doors opened. He stepped inside and found a spot at the right corner for the car, bracing himself for the long ride ahead.

As for the tourists, Percy thought he saw bright green eyes holding a navy blue Yankees hat. He looked out the window as the subway was departing. But , they disappeared.

A tall conceited building rose from its neighbours. The sleek transparent glass a pompous display juxtaposed to those down-trodden buildings beside it. Daily commuters entered and left through the doors. Percy walked onwards, with clammy palms, a sheen of sweat around his neck. His backpack left heavier as the entrance became nearer. But an exhilarating sense of hope reinforced his step; his disposition a combination of dread and hope.

Percy breathed in the lofty, cool air. He followed the flow of people to the wide hallway of elevators. The earthy marble floor was a stark contrast to the display of silver hung beside the elevators. Percy scoured the board. The name glinted like diamonds compared to the rest - perhaps it was his own situation. The clank of footsteps landed on the elevator and he crowded inside.

The high dings called out men and women. But the majority waited inside, until it reached the 17th floor. Percy got out just like the rest , stepping into the vast elegant lobby of Tiger Editors. It was a rather subtle elegance, with subdued transparent glass door and embroidered golden title. Countless black panels went around the chamber. Dozens of smooth wooden tables and leather sofas lined up against the circular walls. Percy thought it gave a sense of purpose to his wild life. The spotless furniture; the perfected floors. In the lobby in which writers began their stories, Percy felt it was the beginning of his too. After-all, what was life but beginnings of stories finished by their endings? But maybe that was only him. Maybe his narrative sense took rogue control of his mind, darting like a spectral and whispering into his ear. Percy couldn't stand the unknown. The feeling that all his afflictions in life were meaningless. The idea of fate bounding him to a tether. The idea of becoming lost in the dark alleyways of life, without a goal without any means to achieve any goal.

Percy looked around the room,

Fashionable men sat in chairs; slatternly writer sat in chairs; elegant woman sat in chairs; dozens of races of women and men sat in chairs. It was the extravagant display of writers and editors. Each different whether in wealth, race, or image but residing on the same playing field. With a smile, Percy sat down on the chair.

His mind wandered free- but when was it ever stopped? - it investigated dreams, hope, each above the rest. Percy felt himself climb the unfathomable length of Mount Everest, the clouds bowing down below him, the clear blue sky smiling at him. He soared even higher, beyond the restraints of gravity, physics, society. His exhilaration exploded like dying stars. His fiery light escaping black holes; his reward in the clutches of his hands.

But above mortal capabilities, at the height of his success and fame. He stood alone, no cheers of celebration, no comfort of a family. But a voice called out to him, soft and melodic of an evangelist. He turned towards the voice and saw soft red lips, a raging passion in those eyes, a unrestrained joy in that face, a flowing river of blo-

"Mr. Jackson!"

Alas the fabric of reality bounded him back. But perhaps that was the beauty of dreaming. It was endless; it was achievable.

Percy rose from his seat, and made his way over to the counter. His stomach heaved and turned, a searing tension and excitement. How could they not see the slick forehead, the itching hands? But his eyes remained bright.

When life taunts you, don't cower Percy. Prove it wrong. All we can do is fight.

He'd thought he crushed that voice long ago, by the avalanche of denial, reject, coldness. But it pushed him forward, his step never faltered, his back straightened. And there is was, the true beginning of his story, right in Percy's grasp.

"So, Mr. Jackson, what is your business?"

The voice came from in front of a rather large grey desk, belonging to a robust man who looked like he was in the fifties. His salt and pepper hair rested well with his glasses; contributing to his gentry aura.

His hands were together in the middle of the desk, stern and unmoving like rock. A dingy name-tag was shoved off to the right, "Robb Starr"

"Uh, Mr. Starr, I wan-" Percy started

"An editor perhaps" Mr. Starr interrupted, "Why else would you come here? Especially a young man such as yourself."

Percy's composure shifted in slight discomfort. His face tinged with a glint of red, but he conjured a reply, "Uh, Yes sir, that is correct."

"Well what do you have here Mr. Jackson?" Mr. Starr asked stoically and rhetorically ,as he glanced at several pages on his desk.

His eyes gleaned past each page. An occasional hum or noise was emitted from his mouth as he read. But Mr. Starr's face remained calm and emotionless for the most part. What did not remain calm was Percy.

His face was ruddy; his palms shivered in the frosty air. But he remained in his seat. Awaiting the death knell.

"Mr. Jackson, " Mr. Starr started, "This has potential. But it doesn't look like it's enough. "

Percy's flight into the sun collapsed under his feet. His wings melted into wan puddles, and he pummelled into the dark sea. The budding sprout of fear and tension grew into a monstrous tree. Its branches spread over soft bushes; they soon eroded and died with the lack of sunlight and rain.

Mr. Starr continued," Perhaps you should work harder, or gain some credentials. I'm sure you understand it's not logical for us to do business with a young student- even a university student at that."

"I-I... I understand." Percy croaked out, lungs cowering under he weight of mountains. "Thanks for your-r time."

Somehow the desk moved, somehow face curved and bended. Somehow it rained.

Percy left the office. The walls swayed; the floors swelled they crashed into his footsteps, white mist raving from the contact.

People looked at him as he past, their eyes debasing him, stripping him down to his repugnant flesh. Or so he thought.

He felt as if the seraph cursed him, bestowed him with perfidious people in constant assiduity. And so he fell. His truculent disposition folded like a pyramid of cards. A minor medley played, harsh and unforgiving. So he cried.

Just like the clouds rained onto the pavement. The rain swirled down into the drains, forgotten. And so was he.

And so was she.

Or rather her papers. Perhaps her fire.

Annabeth looked out into the gloomy skies. Estranged nostalgia creeping up on her.

How many times has this happened? She wondered.

But she exhaled and inhaled the smoky fresh air. And the twinge of disappointment fell into resignation. The clouds soon faded, but the skies were like dusty curtains.

Her laptop glimmer with a bright neon light. It was the only light. It was just white light.

Her fingers were idle upon the black keys, like some figment of the lost passion fought its way into her soul. Annabeth rubbed her hands against her face, feeling weariness shutting her eyelids. She struggled to kept them open. But the layers of paper and notes that lay upon her desk said otherwise. They laughed at her dull attempts to finish them, they grew momentously. Go to sleep they said. It's useless to keep trying. Give up. It was a burden; it was her daily life; it was her passions stretched thinly into a thousand mellow strings. It snapped. The neon sign flicked off. And in the valleys, they lay dormant alongside the millions of lifeless colours.

She slumped onto her desk and fell into the empty darkness.