Throughout the modern history of modern man...Artemis had spent her life--giving personal best(s) for menial, bent over for the wrong jobs. The reward of learned discipline and routine bode well on a completion session of self-love, the pleasures now common place to an economy built upon the back of titillating entertainment.

Artemis blushed in a confident glow; female admiration for private dances and shows of imagination often bore through flushed cheeks, her sins were unable to be masked due to a common vitamin D deficiency. Curls and a passion for fashion--built up a woman pushing boundaries in flowing fabrics--grinning, sprinting into battlefields unending; growling in agreement to the "Forgotten Odes". Her life was colorful, arguably. Dull, in comparison to the femme fatele wandering through a hallway--weapons drawn, chic outfits drawn--a militaristic wardrobe and a dabble of Artemis’s flair made for its own show within itself. She stood guard, to a shifting character with pointy boobs forgotten behind walls of entertainment.

The land of the dead--the soggiest of places, was a bubbled economy--their housing marked ready to slump off the steepening terrain. Much like the City State; everything had been built upon stilts up until this point. The ugliest parts of the city remained to be the lost souls--passerby tourist seemed on edge due, weary to the ridiculous rhetoric spewed by a Mechanical Boar. The man had a talent for burning down bridges--dragging along cohorts through his shit as he pleased. Artemis knew better than to acknowledge the childish missteps of a clumsy elder; looking past an entire chunk of land and worrying about herself instead--the sobering shatter in Tradition had been stealthily the drawing edge of a rigid arrowhead. The choppy wording hand-crafted with bouts of self-reflection, arming her with self-awareness, standards of respect, and need to shelf occupations in out-of-reach ways...to resist from taking everything too personal, close to the vest--too dear to her already damaged heart.

Artemis had told a story with ear less whispers, placing books upright--aimed at the public for free consumption. Reading books for free had gotten her nowhere, writing a single book felt stagnant and thankless on days where Artemis was left watching over a sleepy Chief in command--a hog without proper sleeping quarter--ill-informed to the fact that many Chiefs had rested their heads in beside the Crystal Ballroom. The haunted mansion remained untouched to the perverse rule of an elder--unworthy of a enormous mirror forgotten inland; holding the precious memories of thousands of brides. Artemis stood on guard to an entry, anchored to the letter V, welcoming strangers to half the Imperial--defending a cave from an advantaged viewpoint; peering past an indescribably average window providing endless entertainment.

Artemis bowed her head; working to resist the moments before implosion--bound by a disinterest to the world around. Pages were bent--twisted around the expectations other thrust upon her. A crumbling spine had gifted Artemis a hobby of physical activities--a creative and rewarding outlet to manage her disbelief to such unending misfortune. Like any lady, left suffering in silence--she continued working in a personal quest to remain timeless. To be holiday ready, manager-passing, or prepared to steam through the most inhospitable of shifts--set to hold a standard in work authorities, if it meant preserving dignity self-worth in lieu of sassy entertainment.

Vanity and consumerism made Artemis out to be an ideal citizen--dressed for the occasion, on any occasion...taxed to the nines, unbothered by those in charge and the unchangeable path undressing itself to nakedly unavoidable. Her new occupation wasn’t ideal--built off of zero training, and a need to disregard the safety of those holding down the night. It was supposed to be a job without threads of personalizm, tied down to the minute--bearing the lesser of liabilities, upon the a deck of unwilling or preoccupied leaders. Artemis knew better, than to give a thankless occupation any measures to the heart.

The shallow issues at hand were nothing compared to the diplomatic leader that stood over cedar tables--to be reared-and-ready for a future lead by the Mechanical Boar. The world had done this to themselves, Artemis had only set the stage and drawn the the light on a Saturday--marking history to be too satirical to be taken seriously, too ridiculous to make permanent when trusting other people’s idiot grandpas. The line of reasoning and willingness to compromise, had left threaded embarrassment to the surrounding environment--pulling veil from mixed-reactions, a weariness to confrontation and a yearning to protects one’s own self-image when having to disregard the outdated sentiments of someone dear to one’s heart.

"Alright Grandma". To be a single-lined equalizer--thrown about with brevity by the youngest and brattiest of generations. The inability to care had carried on, and lessened its grip on preceding scholars. Accessibility to Dipping a Supreme Court with madness; an exceedingly deranged dedication to rob women of all bodily autonomy. The citizens refused to stay beaten down by the endless reigns of terrorizing moods, ears upturned and snarls gifted to a certain type of elder. The epidemic of stupidity, gave way for a generation halfheartedly cared for, forced to self reliant and critical of all environments. The preceding generations found conflict to be avoidable, scrapped bare of its former glory; patriotism paid little in comparisons that ruled from their thrones, throwing men and women onto a pier and feeding a complex of militarized monopolies out of sport and entertainment.

The accepting of abnormalities and victimization was given to elders willingly; cast in thirty-second portraits, presenting dark humor to little victims--investing in experiences of others and letting out feeble cries--those, pressed out of Artemis after an entire emptying of her lungs--laughing, breaking character while attempting to warn the neighbors of a small fire. Crimes of fragmented truths--integrated with the vitalities of truth, had built an entire genre of citizens; honoring the lost with a barnstormed passion. The breaking point--the disinclined moments of deep sorrow had left Artemis forever a degree away from most citizens. Violent ends had been blurred, forgiven and forgotten--remaining a calcified trauma in the mind of passing stranger, unable to let go of the seedling of distrust--unwilling to find reasons to capitalize on the loss of life, for a mini-series of stories told upon a cheap slight-of hand. The world orbited around Artemis and her matching losses to a proud soldier to the sea, and knotted man named John--and his ability to hold bait to Nation Security, forever unjustly treated by those in public offices--those waiting to ask him a few questions, about the whereabouts of his son. The premises of Hallmarked story, told out loud--the unwelcoming flames of unavoidable entertainment.

Her generation of millennials were known for being prepared for all scenarios, armed to double-down with statistics, half-committed to the tasks inherited by unchecked journalists. The Supremest of Courts could be bought and paid off with a few youthful sacrifices, the playful scenarios of young men, un-medicated and sloshed to the detriment of their unknowing parents--holding down a poor scholar named Ph.D. A line of indecency had been drafted into a world, timid to the depth of consequences until realizing the rewarding of a potential rapists could splinter an entire Nation. Artemis often stood at attention, revisiting such stories of preeminence--keeping the brave story dear in her heart.

The boom of entitlement and mismanagement left flickering moments for change; the ideal of being seen before the fairest panel of judges...had helped Artemis craft a book, a bargaining plea, a war cry meant to help a lost individual rededicate one’s self the game of life. A lecture presented around the topic of an enslaved youth; bound to norms and societal expectations--forced to grovel upon the courts floors, to serve just punishment for surviving a childhood in the arms of a child abuser--a beastly person, forced to fight others for entertainment.

No amount of breath could fill the resenting lungs, relented in the earned medals of winning fights. Ego had ribbon-ed triumph heavily to display a childhood--robbed and berated by beaded bits of unpleasant standards. A chunk of mortals, were highly-advanced, evolved in analytical problem solving; they had seen the fear in Artemis’s eyes. "I can’t go back." On an obscure weekday, a stranger had heard the echos of person slowly vanishing before her eyes. Artemis wouldn’t have survived it until the age of eighteen, tied to the furtive strangers--unaware of the young woman standing in darkened closet, starving--ebulliently fated to die from a broken heart.

The character of Artemis was born, from the choices given to two sisters--out of the hands of the third. To be offered a satchel, with endless arrows and the rares of woods--or to take pride in a lone arrow, needing constant retrieval and maintenance, clamoring around in an empty strung up bag. Childhood had been easier--offering nascent rules or order to a sibling needing constant validation. Artemis offered her sibling the pick of the plenty, knowing a lone arrow was all she really needed. One was enough, and it didn’t really feel like losing when a single arrow was still better than nothing at all. Artemis built a world of delicate reassurances; holding a single pose...eyeing the single prize of Orion’s heart.

Their companionship could be seen as aesthetically admirable; falling through clouds and running at one another at full speed. Artemis was more-than-capable of holding a line of defense in moments of organized chaos; as result of a childhood surrounded by signs of unwellness written upon the walls of house on bricks--anchored to the rebranding efforts to distract from the fact their house was portable, double and wide. There came to be a burden too heavy for Artemis to carry alone; a day where sensibility would consummate with reality--a day where due diligence took center stage, and she was free to unload the grief the consummated her struggling heart.

The rain fell--breaking down unsolvable problems piece by piece, storm by storm. Artemis took advantage of kind company, allowing compliments to shield conversations to seem more inclusive and stimulating the idea of self-forgiveness. The choice to take consideration of others and emotions; being fostered as child had meant a life-sentence holding up an aura of discomfort, to be without joy in such strange silences--forced to know that not all people should be parent’s. A stinging silence; piercing the coldest of cold--to be witness to a straying child...a financial burden to society, as well as a sore to the heart.

Artemis had learned to deflect in moments where pitty was offered without proper solution--absorbing their actions on a tally of retribution, but forgiving the sins of those before them as she cut away at the thread of history. The ending generation viewed as young adults said brave things; passive in all of their indifferent glory--"whatever grandma, I’m so sorry about her. She is a narcissist, and yeah." Grandmas were painted as Karens; and awful elder men were just that. The discomfort no longer swirled inwards, it was drafted by empathetic leaders--too cool to actually conform. Artemis had definitive plans to change the future; to lay a brick road for success, earned by caring and applying the words of others in a more careful manner, and hand-placed upon a freeway of time. Time could care less about breaking some randoms heart.

Artemis was nothing more than a dying star in a blanket; swaddled by a sea of morons--left standing at attention and supporting entirety of weight for a world blessed with Artemis’s unbendable beliefs in Kaizen. There was no plan of contingency for a dying planet on the outer edges of a galaxy. On her better days, she wept in anger--falling ill to spells of apoplectic exhaustion. Artemis lived in a state of unsure self-doubt; laboriously analyzing where her life went wrong...to be left with only the sensation of feeling utterly alone: drifting through the darkness, abandoned by Orion for her exposed sins, the personality flaw in owning a perpetually bleeding heart.

One day: Artemis decided to tell a kind stranger of her many triumphs, and disclosed a secret that was meant for only professionals--offering trade for a book rented from the Midnight Library. The woman had a soft tone, and listened with patience, as Artemis kept her tears flowing and her head perpetually bowed...explaining that her favorite memory in life; had been the fleeting moments when she had attempted to hang herself in disparity--a dark aphorism for a step in the right direction. She didn’t know where to go from then on--the offering of nothing, the lack of suffering for only a moment in time--seemed like a prize too-precious-to-exist, especially for a person often left the shoulder the burden of others. The choice to give up in a single sobered moment--bore undeniable proof of the deep rot eating away at the software. Neglect had accelerated the localized impact of disappointment--and lambasted the spread of hopelessness to furthest reaches of her worn down heart.

She recalled how the last breaths were filled with moments of acknowledgement--the orthogonal notion, that everything was going to get better for everyone around. Life could be more simple for everyone around her...with a single action. Such sickened loneliness--were the skirting of fairy’d thoughts--resurfaced, for no reason other that for impact to those reading in slight disregard to her ability to bend the world at will. Artemis’s pain was finally going to be over, once and for all. The worlds incessant need to prove her existence to be pathetic in-full, had finally consumed every corner of a tiring mind. Artemis would be one less egregious “thing--in the lives of all those she had met, and one less excuse for them to direct the orientation of their obscure insecurities and vast ugliness in the direction of her ailing heart.

Artemis had caved into the world of Meta, refactoring pain and finding a temporary cure for her depression. She had finally needed the platforms: to give her small ahgase wings everlasting strength, to gain access to stages meant to be burnt, and stand on equal footing to her favorite seven celebrities--bring smiles and blushing fans to their own fleeting doorsteps. The seven were forever in competition with one another. Enjoying public arguments as to who had won over a particular fan’s heart.

She lived in the axiomatic daydream of one artist in particular, falling over herself--distracted by his spells of laughter; a pop prince aura and a calming expression...was something of a turn-on for her. But chasing him was out of the question--rushing into nothing for eternity. Artemis was forever a stage away from a potential rival partner, a cunning friend, and destroyer of heart.

Artemis found his lack-of adventure to be predictable and calming, a man too stubborn to let go of a past lifetime--threaded red silk had remained attached to a single finger for reasons unknown. Artemis would keep her admiration for him at arms-length, knowing she were too poor, too exhausted--at this particular moment; to be the shining star he demanded from a burgeoning partner. Issues of contention would be the pages, drafted around playful nights with a gracious ex--those dipped in precocious youthfulness, guided by the bodies ability to override the information stored in one’s heart.

She was preoccupied--crashing clumsily from demeaning situation to the next, fighting off nightmares lacing an invisible room with self pity and misdirection. A life of beauty seemed too much of an ask, when there was only debt offered to the citizens. Life was far-too-disappointing, too slow in mending itself--the centralized chaos had taken its toll on the citizens at last and led to the bearish nature of Artemis, rummaging through life--demanding reasons and whatnot. The tuning of agreement, was a joyous sound...one that could mend the bitterest heart.

To be surrounded by morons and unimpressed by one’s own contracted company--meant a life of true suffering. There was a true sickness in caring about the wrong things--or offering the right words to the wrong person. Such caring trait often counteracted an insatiable hunger for perfection--leaving her vulnerable to any and all attacks, as fair retribution for being mortal. Artemis often made the most out of what she could, without complaint while on the clock--her existence pitiful down to the minute. The irreplaceable memories of her favorite occupation remained to be of a life on a stage; a well lit set--radiating a warming passion for the arts. The sin of vanity was amplified when in the attention line to a man too-big for intimate stages, too polished to appreciate ink’d choices. It was best to remain out of sight to the marauding expectations to a man working in the ruthless fields of beauty-driven entertainment.

Artemis’s need to rise to the occasion--to set standards high, and be grateful for the adjustment in reality. The cornerstones of professionalism came from a time built upon fair-compensation for the title of civil servant; and the street credit provided for representing a Sovereign land--unarmed and guarded behind a Blue Shield of Hope. Such prideful experiences kept a dimming ambition roaring in the darkened parts of her sorrow-filled heart.

The guilty pleasure of attending events live; was the now Artemis lived in. She was just another international citizen: woo-ing in witness to seven men yelling over the directional feng shui needed for proper consideration when caring for tired dancers being tucked into bed. Her life was charmed. His falsetto charmed her--causing a sway of hips, an indecisive glare in the direction of a stranger and the appearance of red thread. Mr. Parks voracious dance moves hypnotized her. Words were forgotten mid-sentence while watching a man pull away a silk ribbon crowning over his eyes--his performance instilled a desire for Artemis to try harder, and to remain diligent in holding firm expectations in men. His perpetual seriousness was its own form of boyish entertainment.

Something about Jinyoung-ahs undying allegiance, his misconstrued logic to enable and encourage his crew of six felt familiar, too familiar--dread tingled and seeped into her dreams. A man filled with sunshine-filled eyes; reeked of decisive homily. One boy, had the face of a man Artemis had always dreamed of as a child: yet, this version was neither famed for his ability to conquer the world upon the back of a beast, or for his promiscuity in populating an entire nation. His likeliness to the conquer-er of nations provided a synergistic tale of genomes traveling through time and history; gifting dreams with scenes epic in their opening shots and braced for endless entertainment.

The famed leader of song and dance--had yet to stare into the face of Athena. He was spared from whatever crazed madness often followed the harrowing actions of a woman armed for battle at all times. Artemis had found the group of seven sporting the ears of foxes: finally having inadvertent confirmation--that she had already known all things that had come to pass. The strange veil of boredom was lifted, as she now felt curious if this epiphany had meant that the strict and disciplined suitor. Dreams were real-to-the-touch, like memories of arguments that stood in her near future. The mere idea of going toe-to-toe with such a petty and ancillary personality caused great worry to her already aching heart.

She handed the handsome boyish man a glass--lacking any extraordinary trait; filling to the brim with a magic poison that held endless potential for "fun". The meniscus of such condescending insults; were nothing in comparison to the embarrassment that lay dormant, naked and ashamed at the bottom of a hopeless bottle. The two-dimensional shallowness became a worry separate to the woman, destined to struggle with the skill of walking--forever laughing at herself as she dragged dead stumped feet along, unable to forgive a man that broke her heart.

The silliness of crushing on a public figure was new to Artemis--she found his antics in throwing hair into the wind to be woo-worthy, and went about her day, wishing the best for stranger serving his Nation. Maybe she had known that known him to be captivator of hearts, leaving plenty of room for real weapons in a arrow sack--too heavy already. Artemis hit on strangers all the time. Shameless. Brahhhaa. Her blinding confidence wasn’t confined to a chair with wheels--instead it broadened the range of empathy bursting forth from those willing to see how precious time had become for those disabled to withstand reality. Cruelty found as an underpinning to untimely beauty, was something that could break the coldest heart.

Artemis threw hearts into the air; bubbling the wind with a charmed laughter--a minute gesture would cause any sensible man to stop dead in his tracks; wondering why the lovely seeded moment of familiarity was built upon importance in timing. Artemis could easily trigger a moment of confusion by accidentally flirting with someone in passing. It had been how she had met and instantly forgot meeting a man named Orion--famed for his naked passions for Artemis, and a remarkable okay-ness with losing. He often morphed this unnamed laziness into excuses from further pursuing Artemis’s heart.

No amount of torment could make Artemis find shame in the unclosed chapters--dedicated to a sexual relationship, flowing over with youthful forgiveness and a longing to make the sunrise wait. She had crafted words of unforgiving kindness to an otherwise unworthy partner, causing a strict-eyed Prince to break the formation of a line of six, or five men presenting shitty portraits. He seemed indigent to their spells of distraction: attempting to collect his own stride of success, unable to decipher awful handwritten clues, and accidentally seeking a battlefield holding only a tall man in leather garments embracing Artemis’s chin in caution-filled doubt. The Prince-like man could no longer eschew his destiny: left with only the pride-filled option of returning to Artemis’s side, as to argue and compete with a man holding a red marble--whilst he stood busy grasping a small chunk of bread. He was forever the man standing beside it all, the man too late to correct a narrative lasso’d to a ink’d up fuckboy. She loved his flaws--bracing for impact, and accepting his love on all Levels, they were intertwined timeline and timeline over. All sharp-edged crumbs had led him to poems declarative in mapping out the unexplained parts of Artemis’s weakening heart.

Artemis was forever trapped between each man, the paths they had crafted-- held to their others vices, as one man longed to be absorbed and surrounded by all things "fun and wild", and the other man would strive each day to earn that hypothetical breading: he loved the soft tufts of yeast, but was famously savage in his meritorious existence. Too princely to approach most days. Artemis found his determination somewhat frightening--wondering if his undivided affection, was equally cunning to the cruelty she’d already experienced on the journey in searching for an equal partner. Would he love every part of her--except the key person, the locked away mistake that posed as a potential virus to any and every relationship? Artemis hadn’t a closet large enough to hold the single skeleton of a man that had once collapsed her world in upon itself--forever famous for his effusive hunting skills, ability to slay and capture his target(s) unsuspecting heart.

The man would waste away his life attempting to garner a success beyond anything attained in modern times--unsure of where Artemis fit in. She was an orphan, so there was no such place. Orion was left with only the dasterly option to look back--afraid of the less-rousing ailments of time, and wondering what had been missing. Proliferation of forgotten intrigue would build up with each romantic encounter he faced, for he was forever searching for her ingenuity and spite--too afraid to go home, and unwilling to lessen a grip on a tacitly held mirror of mortality. The silent longing for the comfort of his wife--would result in him clenching a giant left fist, as knuckles bore with an anxious paler. The game relied on the decisive realization, followed by actions--the gentle steps of a man willing to pennant their love through the fogs of unknown. He had no idea how deeply his absence hurt the woman who had willingly sacrificed the remaining shreds of her broken heart.

To fight daily adversity meant a life of open admiration, and earned tributes for a hopeless fate. This was a simple story--crafted around the unchangeable take of a woman hiding away her smile for self-preservation. Sexual abuse had broken her down to bare coding, allowing for her to only crawl through the world on all fours--pleading with the world for crumbs of forgiveness for such discomfort in witnessing the uncomfortable truths of their neighbors. No such happy ending existed for a woman born tender-hearted; frigid in it beat, meaningful in portraying the suffering of a tortured soul--an orphan anchored to a sullied heart.

Orion being cast in the same scene to a pragmatic entertainer--would destroy what balance had been built up in Artemis’s life. To be standing between two equally jealous men, would be the day Hades froze over and she had no intentions of witnessing such a catastrophe. Artemis was comfortable with being a nobody; proud to just be someone to Orion. The idea of eternity listening to him; bantering of her need to drink fermented tea and avoiding obvious umbrage by the company of other men. Artemis lessened the reigns of adjudged glares; sippin anger-laced drank and valuing Orion’s auspices--knowing he took such flaws personally, and that his version of caring meant there was a permanent place in his shallow heart.

Orion was famous for his shameless trousers--fleeing from things that confused him, despite causing endless confusion himself. The two men would be at dire odds-each hating how much happiness the other brought into Artemis’s life. A handful of dreams of such awkward situations left her dancing by herself: weeping and swaying as she said childish things like "This song is breaking my heart...I’m not afraid of the dark...I’m afraid to be lonely. We’ll leave it up to the stars". Such were the unset worries of an unwed woman, a devoted scholar, and a hopeless romantic. She watched as the men stood at opposite ends of every story--each glaring at smiles and laughter, the undeserving gestures of a woman defined by a monolithic love that had yet to occur. They individually resented Artemis for doing nothing, and somehow despised her for doing too much-the curses of a cachet woman--too cool to ignore, too broken to love--a leader none-the-less. Neither was detracted enough to leave--both committed enough to pester her in demanding their needs; pleading with her to be present during the announcement as to which random stranger had rightfully won her heart.

Artemis knew that Orions strange and occasionally "kranky" attitude would amuse her best friend--"the Viking", who seemed to be everywhere in the most inconvenient of moments. A groan of disbelief followed the mere idea of such nonsense. Artemis stood center-stage to her life--invisible weapons drawn; observing all directions with pivots and the turn of neck. They had fallen for a stranger; holding defensive marquee over a Mechanical Boar-- prepared to risk it all For The Hell Of It, if the prize of such tournament had been Artemis’s hand in marriage, and the celestial dowry that came with claiming such a prominently guarded heart.

Artemis openly fanned away at blushing cheeks; reflecting on mornings racing the sunrise with Orion. He would warm up her day with ten to fifteen minutes of passion, leaving her flustered upon furs and blankets. She hid a fleeting libido: stretching out a tired neck, and tugging away at the collars of her blouse in annoyance to the temperature changes that came with his flirtatious whispers. The idea of an otherwise unmovable woman, fixing sun-filled dresses and sighing with true content was its own form of entertainment.

It irritated her to think of both men holding judgemental conversations in proximity of her--luckily none of that was her business...yet. Because why would such a fucking cursed moment happen in reality? Companionship was a nice way to disassociate from the nightmare waiting past her front door--standing dead-ahead, painted red--splattered with the blood of childhood sacrifices. Life had been cruel in reminding Artemis that the world had every intention to Keep Spinning; it was without reason--bound to the laws of Murphy with no tipping-point in tragedy, no Red Wings to bringing a moment of salvation. Tears and tireless confusion replaced a blind belief in God, and Artemis had no issue in relaying her disappointment in being abandoned by a merciless entity. She had been abandoned at birth, forced to beg him for forgiveness for such inconvenience. There was only loneliness and an infected wound of reckless disregard--there was only pleasure to be offered to a God-less woman, ready to believe in the sexual offerings of mortals sooner than the capabilities of the miracle-working God that had once held her devoted heart.

She often brought up a knee in servitude of marriage-ready to be crowned with a round-abouted destiny of a New Era. Artemis laughed to herself, knowing the Prince-like man may be proud in his ability to rip off her childish-veil--to seek sobering relief for grief-driven battles dipped in mad woe. She had become stagnant in healing; unable to locate Buckles in reality--held back from a moments rest, and physically breaking the firewalls of a compromised immune system. Every part of her existence felt wrong. The world had been robbed of the wrong hero. Pages of wishful thinking got Artemis to roll out of bed with lethargic eyes and a narrowing robe; accenting sharp shoulders--slumped over hopeful keys; lit aflame by a need to distract herself from the men awaiting bedside to a honeymoon suite...forgetting steps and entire doorways of introduction as they followed a star in the sky; driven by the burdens of her ailing heart.

Orion existed well past her pages...far from an open door frame; a mortal romanticized for dramatic effects. He was a muse, and she amused by the temptations he offered. She’d been awarded a sigh; being informed of his declarative statements to a room of admiring men--that Artemis belonged to him, cast as his wife without her needing to say a single word. Forever tied at the hand of his desires, and she ostensibly wound his love around a single unwed finger...forever the talented athlete stepping from wooden stages--larger than life, and armed with an unforgettable smile. Artemis was just as amused as anyone else: compelled by the strangling threads of truth used to describe such love toward a gentle giant. She was forever enticed by a man strolling by and circling back for eternity--too nervous to claim what was rightfully his. Artemis and Orion were forever in a dance of avoidance; lacing the sky with gentle moments held up in the air by their individual journeys, and the scouting lengths two people would go to resist the inevitable conversations on matters pertaining to the heart.

Artemis had a cold stare; often cast his way in worry-shielded by his need to be annoyed. Orion would stare directly at her; searching in disbelief as to whether her name had really once been Tomoe. To be the bummer of room settings on occasion, meant unwelcoming glances in direction of his female friends direction. The abrasive words of a hardened person--were the worries of yesterday, they were without proper judgement to the action, depending on the level of sympathy agreed upon. Artemis wandered away with hunched shoulders, too regal with a longing to clear "muddy" situations and set net of present issues, easily avoidable ones, that continuously set a path of destruction--no matter to absence, or presence of a wife, pleading to protect pride and property from anyone, anyone in attempt to trespass the safety parameters of her life-whether it be with malicious intent, or for preserved entertainment.

Artemis felt great exhaustion, recalling the losses of such thankless battles, having to walk away, holding self-worth and a support system that refused to lean into such childish notions that a wife should ever secede priority to a lame, self-serving friendship. She had recalled the definitive breath--the choice of reasoning flooding the shorelines, those holding impending dangers ahead--dormant in wait. Artemis felt the winds change, there lay silent waves with unpredictable currents pulling the tides of normalcy further from the shorelines. Something was wrong with her own entry into a room--a feeling left behind behind in a haunted Hotel--holding a worn handle shaped in a V, known for being from a group considered intercontinental--held to a mid-level decorum, and even lower standards for their employees. Artemis had flashbacks to moment of such crudeness when a "very important person" had called her a cunt...for things beyond her control. She had no intention of greeting such a wave of humiliation-especially without the opportunity of formal payment for such an experience. Such ludicrousness would never make it past such volumes when Artemis stood guard over a famous Crystal Ballroom. Sparkling glass laughed upon the shoulders of such cowardly attacks, it’s hand-crafted edges broke the silence with twinkles--those enhanced by the flickers of flame sitting in the lit fireplace. She missed the silences of shame, aimed in proper direction of the voices disrupting the opulent air with their cheapened form of communication. Her life was sucked back to the fourth day of employment on a certain day, called then reality--Artemis was defenseless to the actions of pyromaniac, setting fire to a secondary kitchen; already exhausted by a four hour encounter with a closeted man--balding and refusing to quit running into walls of glass. Such broad comparisons could be drawn to the romance of Artemis and Orion, and his sometimes shitty best friend. Neither forms of unwelcoming environments were considered to be worth investing one’s self in, as both felt more often than not--unpleasant on most days. Except one was chalked up to be a shit job, and the other held the paramount wellness of her already damaged heart.

Artemis would allow her broad shoulders to drop with defeat--there was only such pity to pebble with the things left behind. There was nothing to see in those abandoned in the shores insecurity, ankle-deep in a sense of security, pulling gently away the weaker tides of common sense. The day of such aforementioned boredness: had gifted Artemis with a silent and reassuring moment of awkwardness, the single slicing of all caring to her presence--the one so desperately needed to break finalizing threads from an immature man--foolishly choosing a bottomless hole and his own reflection, over a woman; well enough in spirit, to provide stability on any-given day to such a restless wandering heart.

Artemis waited for him in places resembling Umbria--sitting content with warm lavender and peppermint drinks; working on her public display of ambitious efforts with the layers of efforts moving scenery with such comforting fluidity to the emotions swirling in the dark. A passion-project was methodically hold up the silence--the mastered work meant to honor all those pulled from the moment, throats obstructed by buldging discs and time playing its favorite song. Dreams took over--recalling a lover pressing upon his forearm, and looking away as tapped out willingly. The injuries that echoed in her neck were rooted with the real truths of man--carved out in a simulation that anchored her to such potential or dormant evils. The delicate piece ribboning her neck was meant to distract and remind Artemis of the fragility to life--having weighed the intent to commit harm in so many ways. Her body was beyond tired, but a love of fashion often incurred in beaded words--looped in to moments fleeting by. A flow from her hands-was easily awarded with a warmly toasted bean, and semi-sweet treats. She practiced the art of existing in peace as a way of healing an overly exerted introverted heart.

Artemis plastered gold images of a Princly man next to a meandering one of Deni--chomping on the diary pieces that were forbidden to her own body; ears panned, boyish and kind in his presence. Life was a party in the attendance a boy-ish man living his best life; yelling his own name and bragging of being held as an idol--king of the world, and a Prince-like man arguing about nothing for eternity. Life was a party for Artemis too, safe at home--moving mountains and preparing to cheer on Deni from the sidelines the next day. Artemis washed thinning hair, tightened her cheerful curls; brightening a smile to be on brand with the handsome men existing past a shield; across the oceans of her real world and in her backyard. A garden of roses brought so much comfort to a woman in grief--it was one of the last places proving a piece of her lost friend to be importance in relation to place. Artemis liked to admire talented men from afar, appreciating athletic ability or one’s commitment skills in serious-scripted entertainment.

She woo’d for the sake of woo-ing; enthralled by wardrobe changes, the changes of a wooden court being painted black. Bam-Bam had been the only man so far to step into her reality, to hold her sorrows at Bay with his love gracing a stage. Artemis took a bow. Her life was beautiful. The pride in mailing letters of admiration to such a talented man as BamBam; could be seen in clumsy step. Life was painted with fun overnight. All because she had mailed such truths traditionally, with a cowboy accent--sent such a message in a boat, across whole oceans--just to thank him for inspiring her. Artemis would cheer from afar, bouncing upon the balls of her wee feet--curls following the hardened edges of her heart shaped face. She apologized for being a loser, and began to look forward to announcing her accomplishments in publishing art and sciences to a kindly stranger. He probably hadn’t any clue that things like her merriness was backed by accomplishments that existed upon adjacent stages far away. Just like, JinYoung was unaware of how properly executed itineraries were in line with the primary things that turned Artemis on. Their matching strict and starkness had meant that their complimentary personalities could inspire a world filled with desire to deconstruct or rework expectations in compatibility, to remain patient and kinder to one’s self while waiting upon a suitor to stroll along with the sole intention of breaking her heart.

Artemis had thrown her name into a void, and then tossed her face into the book reserved primarily for the dead. The digital graveyard was scavenged to bits and pieces by a male Siren named Mark. One social thread--held the promise of meeting a man with strange laughter, and had been snatched in a violent acquisition. She chose to reach for the hand of a boy named Shane, if only to ask how he was out of politeness and obligations of gravity in one’s reality and sitution: he had lost his best friend Ryan, and Artemis felt measurable guilt for surviving past the isolated corners of the Reservations. Both were strangers--holding the title of best friends to a man torn away from the world too soon; gifted wings before more sins could weigh him down. All that remained between the two class-mates was an eerie silent ugliness and a fading recollection of person held dear in each of their heart.

The world felt like a hopeless battlefield--time wrapped itself slowly around such gore-filled stories. Careless winds forever rushed past blood-washed cheeks, it was as though she had finally fought one battle too many. Even in an advantaged state; the trials of wars lost had come at a steep cost. Each smile, or moment built around laughter--no longer stood as proper wager to whatever shit-show stood frozen in moments of blindsidedness. Very few knew what such stolen moments meant--to have life drain itself of all faith in humanity, to be robbed of the innocence in saying proper goodbye to someone homicided on a random day. She remained isolated on an island of misunderstanding, left in barely populated and unrealatable cache of strangers, shelved as stories--occasionally left behind or forgotten. There was no forgetting for Artemis, as she was forever unable to stand on the outside looking in. All normalcy had been broken down and rebuilt to new codes and standards, but no. There was no cure to mend that particular piece of her heart.

Artemis was ill-equipped and short-tempered--forced to regulate emotions whenever surrounded by lazy or balme-pushing people. There was no comforting to bring end to the grief; no solution for the void Buckles had left in the lives of so many. No offering worth it weight in gold, could buy the time needed to comprehend such chaos-the scales of Justice fell off balance, unable to blame or condemn self-inflicted wounds that trailed past griefs wake. The ripples of irreparable damage of Curtis had spun countless worlds into new directions, and he could care less. Because Curtis Edler was cursed to forever pay debt for his selfish need to inject the world with his bitter, and endlessly selfish ugliness.

She was responsible for keeping Buckles memory alive with a dedication in protecting and flexing a confusing laughter; to be prideful with each sigh of indifference, and to cast a doubtful glare to each passerby. Trust nobody, but wear a perfume familiar to Ryan. The world seemed so ugly without him. She was surrounded by fools living in a two-dimensional world--those untainted by the true darkness of mortal hands. Spurs of bones was all that was offered to a woman frozen in a moment of disbelief; stagnant in a minute of pain. Ryan was forever painted as the little Prince--Imaginary to everyone but a few--the unlucky ones left with glowing hearts in the abyss of sadness. The concept of trust could be painted by a mere door left unshielded; open and exposed to intruders and friendly villains, forever left with Ryan’s absence being noticebly present. Artemis was left to fight complex muscles in her face--prison to the aging frown lines that fell over a familiar glance of disappointment. Nothing could be delivered in full, could stand taller than the shadows of reality--there was no level of true comfort to bring peace to her ill-stricken heart.

Artemis would awake startled and conflicted; sprinting through patronizing dreams--singing with all her heart; wrapped with a familiar loneliness of a dimly-lit stage, swallowed alive by darkness the next moment--crashing into memories of a stage set in classroom, staring at a familiar stranger popping out of nowhere. A precious person with no name; a kindly gentleman to inviting a lonely student to a cafeteria, most likely out of kindness--resulting in Artemis following him without a single moment of hesitation. Something seemed so familiar; too special to be real. Something felt out of place; unauthentic to its core. It was as though she couldn’t enjoy such a blissful dream even for a second--the world was now hidden behind a lense of faithless ugliness.

Artemis remained needing routine outside of such beautiful dreams; her heart clawed at fragmented pieces, for sure--but there were a plethora of reminders to anchor an updating system in grass, and not solely to be managed along the shores of grief. Artemis remained diligent in touching such grasses, often staring off and recalling Ryan’s infectious laughter. To be reunited with a friend that had once complimented her nervous laughter was seen as the prize given on the other side of her sickness in seizing. Zeus’s lighting was the worst of curses given by the Gods; the trials of mounting forgivenesses needed for the crafting of such a predisposition life and the ruthless swirling of time was an unwinnable game for any person already grappling with the lucidity of such a horrific reality. No amount of preparing could prepare a Warriors soul for the burdens carried upon her back. There was no such description that encapsulated such strokes of grey, to capture such hopelessness in a portrait displaying Artemis--hunched over with the sins of man, lashing over the truths that explained themselves in the form of unforgettable ugliness.

Dreams were riddled with memories of mundane moments, painted gold with Artemis’s resilient laughter--Ryan’s ghostly presence often dismantled her entire week, cursing her with bouts of woe in the face of his birthday and the anniversary of his death. Nothing could seem to dull the pain--no amount of time was enough to lessen the pain that weighed heavily on her chest; no modern word described the pains of surviving homicide--the state of unnatural existence took the reigns of a chair marked for a director. Every second felt like an act, a portrayal of whatever character was needed to survive the moment. There was no return to normal for those suffering with a purposefully injured heart.

The bare notion that grief was love without a place to go...was far too simple an explanation for her to accept. Artemis felt rage and suffering that surpassed the laughter that fell emptily: she was unable to be present and caring for details--insincere in so many ways, a shell of a person. There was an engraved annoyance from the words she had said before Ryan left her life: jokingly telling him to be cautious of where he put his dick, responded with silence and the assumption that tomorrow had been guaranteed. Artemis had once said callous things like “I’ll talk to you later”; the presumptive words that now haunted her in the middle of night. The fallen Indigenous Warrior had only left her with a final drunken conversation, covering the true worries he had hidden away from the world. Their shared respect for one another success’s would later create a small crack splintering along the center of her heart.

Artemis was unsure of where the tears came from--they fell in endless streams whenever she didn’t know where to go. The lack of direction kept her feet planted--the ocean(s) of grief would easily overflow past these page; if Artemis was in charge of refilling its deepened trenches. Artemis felt nothing: saying awful things like “I hate everyone”. A wave of death brought out the worst in people, and Artemis had finally learned to wield such turer words after meeting the citizens and all their glory; their noses upturned, cowardly bellies up-sided for all the world to see in full--selfish intent lingering over their misplaced face cloths in an unprecedented moment of time where death ravaged the air. Her words became desperate, and less meaningful, as she knew none of it mattered. The world had been critically exposed to the undeniable greed, entitled by such freedom-driven ugliness.

Artemis had swallowed the entirety of her sadness--placing it deeply within a breath; crying on the inside like a winner--until it eventually crept out: throwing open a dam of exhaustion built up in her mind. Turmoil began expelling in waves; and an unquenchable thirst began to threaten destroying everything and everyone standing in her wake. A single glass of wine, poured to Western standards could easily make or break her future. The fragility of a man pained by the curses of the Gods; was unexpectedly examined with an image of Artemis striking away at a weak liver and an even weaker person--ready to use poison to cope with realities relentless ugliness.

Artemis had saved her true wrath for the final pages of her Odyssey--life was seen in reflection of a woman who had avoided looking in a mirror, all but one small heart-shaped shield. Her entire life had been a nightmare. All the mirror promised was ego-driven self-acclaimed admiration, a reason for others to judge her existence and provide evidence that the universe was real. Artemis had always said self-deprecating things to the men she had loved: asking out loud “why am I not enough?!” The action of casting the right words to the wrong people had left her alone at last, thirty-something and unbothered by the idea of spending her life childless if it meant sparing herself from further embarrassment. The world seemed just a lil bit safer without men crusading tactful ways to temporarily win over her heart.

One day: Artemis awoke and reached for the hand of a boy she had once admired, and instead of asking how he was--she articulated a fear of dying, and explained to him what she needed from life. It seemed like a good day to face the fear of inadequacy head-on: finally stripped of the anger she had often reserved just for him and dished out unpredictably through tantrums of insecurity. Orion had given her a reason to leave in a single night, and she had taken it and ran. Artemis took sobering aim--a stern hand, that mantled sentences and expectations; once been aimed at the many, many men who had attempted and failed to love her. His sharpened eyes; could prove his longing--his ability to disassociate mid-moment, to be absent in a room of attention...despite being at the center of attention had finally left him the cold. Orion could fucking care less, that he had been cast as the prized man--holding the title of cornerstone to her book. He might be annoyed by the accuracy in portrait, but unable to place blame on Artemis in full. Emotional walls of her story, were housed upon the foundations of truth. Orion had built their relationship off of resentment, cemented in place with the paralyzing doubt he gifted her with whenever addressing his spells of jealousy. Artemis had restored a flirtatious laughter--a broadening smile and work ethic that no longer orbited around his existence. Even in moments of defeat, her battles were without his criticism--they were her lessons to learn. Such self-love and procured mental wellness left Orion with only the options of haphazardness in charging at full-speed towards a door-less door, determined in the goal of winning her well-rounded heart.

Artemis felt her lips quiver, she had cried so much that her heart was finally lighter. “Everyone hates me, except maybe David--I still don’t know what that guy wants from me”. He was either deeply in love with her and didn’t know it yet, or he just found her to be pathetic--in the same manner Orion once had. Moments of missing Orion were replaced with pitiful existence, placating attention on a man probably unworthy of time...chained to thankless position in life. She felt embarrassment to be in occupation beneath her skills--unable to offer a potential suitor a moment of the day, despite the fact they were financial equals. Artemis was trapped beneath lazy management, set up for failure on two battle fronts--too shy to pick the battle worthy of her time, and unable to offer as to which would earn such a failing heart.

An endlessly messy desk, had been a strange point of contention most days, but was surrounded by fine linens and a need for constant organization that somehow eased Artemis’s obsession in secularizing things and places. To be an orphan that belonged nowhere: meant finding comfort in practice and structure--to streamline efficiency for the sake of time. Artemis’s birth parents had compartmentalized her as worthless, and then verbally expressed that her life was worth less than those afforded by their taxes. Artemis was one of the few people who could calmly declare her parents and grandparents as shitty people with confidence, as they were all people she’d never met--weird, sickened strangers that were completely unwelcome in her healing heart.

Why had suchuseless parents cursed her into such an awful world? Why hadn’t she been deemed worthy of their love? How was she supposed to get past the fact that they had selfishly thrown her into a ditch, and left her to die by way of starvation, or survive at the hand of endless sexual, emotional and physical violence? Why hadn’t she been enough? There was no right answer for a question given to two people--torn by their own narcissism and the duty of protecting a stranger, to hold dear an automated portion of each of their heart.

Artemis had shrugged; twirling in cyclone of metal shards, gold hair splattered with the blood of her enemies--holding a regal smile and steady lung. The world would pay for the answers lost to time. There was no honesty, there was no truth...outside of the decision waiting on the end of her barrel. She was beyond pissed off. Offended in a spell of deterrence--tired of having to blatantly say no to things, even if they were her own thoughts. The pages kept her safe from oversharing in the workplace--it kept the blood from leaking past the doors of a haunted hallway. Artemis was forever a childish-woman...shamelessly wishing only to go home, and ultimately remembering that there had never been a home for her to return to. Such unlikable thoughts were kept from conversations, unable to delivered to those that claimed to care about the health of her mind and heart.

One of Artemis’s biological parents had drank themselves to death, and the other lived less than an hour away from her home; too afraid to admit that Artemis existed, but not scared enough to attempt to summon a child he was now all of a sudden ready to meet. Neither people had enough time to spare a single moment to introduce themselves in the recent past--they were both too important in the world...to apologize for their inability to rise to the occasion of parenting; and instead they left a child in an unsafe environment with drunk strangers. The logic and reasoning’s of two selfish people lounging around, naked in blisses of youthful ugliness.

Artemis spent each morning: her spine fusing into the shoot of a bamboo-- afraid that her small knees would collapse beneath her, or that she’d be swallowed by the seizing darkness once more. There remained an unmatched smile that seeped past the secrets of a hunched spine, greeting strangers and describing amenities in a museum-like setting. Hospitatlity had kept her alive while surviving a childhood filled with abuses, it was a survial skill to brandished for a cost or title. The auditing of numbers was a fun distraction from preparing those around her--for the pending days where; they’d have to witness her struggling to stand, dress, or hold her head upright without padded collar. It was unsettling to know people lived in denial as to the severity of her indescribable ugliness.

Her life was golden, awesome mose days--Artemis, content with the absence of Orion and the stark change in how the general public treated her. Artemis wasn’t responsible for whatever Orion allowed others to do with his body, she was finally detached from his talents in being pretty...and his dangerously soft kisses. All that was left were tears and blushing cheeks, the encumbered notion that her biggest weakness was her unabashed love for a stranger. Orions fleeting presence; was nothing more than a decent distraction; spank-able memories cached into her memory, filed away as a boy that was strangely addicted to her sexual embrace. Many an argument, had been rightfully avoided by them holding naked debate to move past less enjoyable topics. Their indirectness and commitment issues made them a pair to be admired; led by Artemis’s longing stare, and an urgent need to display the colorful emotions free-flowing from her aching heart.

The triumph of their failures broke her life into two; Artemis had dropped his hand in a moments notice--on a day where his entirety had been absent and conversations about his actions had finally conquered his charm. Her disenchanted hatred of being blind-sided, was exposed in a single conversation with Hippolyta. Artemis had garnered the strength to say, "I’m good on all that", or "don’t worry about it."--sparing herself from a lifetime of heartbreak and a wasted trip to an alter. A best friendship had been shattered by an encountering conversation--where Hippolyta made excuses for herself by pointing out that Artemis rejected Orion’s asking to ejaculate on meticulous curls and freshly winged eyes. Artemis said nothing, livid that Orion had broken down all trust in single night--and Hippolyta had forfeited years of friendship for two minutes of drunken passion, to make a fool of herself...assuming Orion had wanted more than a fuck-fest in sticky pub. Artemis hadn’t asked why--only wanting confimation on whether the words of such an unholy casual encounter had been true. Artemis refused Orion and his dangerous kisses from then on, not out of disgust, not because she didn’t miss them--but out of concern and self-preservation to the viral herpes that Hippolyta carried around the edges of thinning lips. Such tales of deception thunked heavily with a down-pouring of raining metal shards, falling away from the bottom of a weapon without regret--littering the floor with reality as to why Artemis suffered from a broken heart.

Orion was a pawn to attribute to her list of unbelievable conquests to lay daydreams upon...a fan-favorite in an extensive roster; the starting lineup to distract from an otherwise painful future involving chairs and wheels. Artemis knew she’d always find ways to admire him more on the more pain-dipped days--Orion was the standing proof of her romantic game. He was vastly out of her league, but enjoyed the idea of their shared memories being more than just a friendship. Their sexual relationship was removed from all pity--wrapped with cynical foreplay that was raw and justified by the daily disagreements that went nowhere. A majority of their conflict was resolved with a trip to a bedroom--both needing to tailor expectations of her faithless, wandering heart.

They shared annoyance in laziness and admiration in athletics and health. The boredoms given in company of other women was just enough for Orion to finally slow down his stride--to turn back for his failing wifey. A familiar sound could shatter his spellbound sleep walk--her unapologetic laughter was reliant in dismantling his facade of chipperness, he’d be exposed by a unique type of jealousy; too authentic to hide. Orion held a famously short-temper for other men that might dare to enjoy Artemis’s laughter after he’d already cast her as the least likeable person in his life. Such audacious silliness had crafted itself an intricate game; one guided by the true intentions of the participating players heart.

Both hid their smiles from one another by way of face covering and a golden shield--their brief entanglements could cause shortages in the systems surrounding them. The world had a strange way of building itself around them and their messy love. The luxury of attraction was incalculable to the generations of hate-filled elders that stood behind them, busy bashing on their spouses for sport. Such humor-less jokes bothered the young. Artemis was only abashed by Orion’s perky bum, and gentle steps that waited and listened. It always felt like Orion expected Artemis to arrive at his elbow; staring up in disbelief to her luck in partner. Sometimes his confident stroll resulted in her tilting her head curiously to whistle a woot-woo, in the direction of a forgetful husband. Artemis knew that he too; had desperately wished to overlook the unfortunate future in fighting off her lingering curses of crippling ugliness.

Artemis hadn’t lied to him per se’, but slightly slightly omitted the details of a spine crumbling with each time he thrust himself deeper at her command. She had made the most out of their youth, storing complaints away on a shelf of unreasonable concerns. Nothing about her disease of a crumbling and spurring spine was sexy. She was still a lady after all...just a random lady existing in the world--that occasionally liked being confidently man-handled by her sexual partner, preferably Orion on most days. Artemis wanted normalcy, and instead she was condemned to a life on sticks; clamoring around like a forest animal--growling with angst as she said “I don’t want to be anywhere....I have depression.” She often kept such hate-filled words to herself--ultimately deserving more than the pity of the beautiful stranger with a sharp jawline. It was easier for her to give up on Orion, and to coddle her own ego with self-serving ugliness.

Artemis remained; half stuck in a cursed tower--pulling herself into the moment by way of sexual partners other than Orion. It seemed to be the most reasonable and efficient way to have sufficient needs met--it gave her pride to move on from an unhealthy situation, to be open for inevitable change and loved physically for the person she was within that particular moment. There wasn’t a need in the present, for her to constantly guard an easily-persuaded heart.

Orion had been nothing more than a passing temptation that she was okay with letting go after her curiousness seceded. Artemis found atonement in relinquishing all emotional commitment held by humiliating herself--by loving a man with narcissistic tendencies. One day; she began ripping a page from his ugly playbook...and using her body as a weapon to destroy his image of self. An immature act that’d be easy enough to half-heartedly apologize for. Each sexual encounter crafted the perfect amount of distance between unrealistic expectations--a line was drawn by life’s true colors. Artemis was completely content with idea of a work-place crush, but unable to foresee a trance gifting a premonition of such a relationship blossoming. She was left with puzzling words that haunted her dreams: "a bow legged man--crowned in red, holding his gentle-hearted son; both born with beautiful ocean eyes"...would make even less sense in a poem. Only Artemis could take comfort in such vague words. The world raised the expectations around her; placing the third-place of tragic pages to be a bargaining chip, too steep-a-price for someone with an evolving heart.

Artemis’s life was simple and somewhat dignified without Orion--other men seemed eager to please her direct needs. She juggled sociability in and outside of work with ease. There was nothing but time on her side; despite being given a note of death. She was an intellect, anchored to reality by way of libido--an unchecked ego, painted as an overly ambitious woman--not necessarily a person running a race against time. The illusions drawn up from smoke; drafted with assumptions...became more honorable and redeemable in character, than a traditional tale of a woman being constantly mistreated by a man wasn’t the premises of her story. Orion was forever-and-a-day, frozen in doubt; a character left behing--staring upon a marble representing the world; longing to hold the reflection below. He had been given the golden opportunity to hold another’s mortal emotions in large hands--his indecisiveness up for spectacle on a huge stage--broken down as play-by-plays for entertainment.

Orion’s absence did wonders; men began openly chasing the pheromones left behind in her change of confidence. The awards in becoming educated allowed her to be less apologetic in casting charming spells with an otherwise-strange personality. The silliness that followed her nervousness had begun to catch the attention of men all at once, and Artemis felt their lucid hopes wash over her with each mirroring sparkle of open-ended attraction. Life was easier--pressing firmly down upon the top a temporary lovers head--holding in a puff of smoke, leaning back in enjoyment and allowing herself to dwell on nights with Orion as strangers pleasured her unknowingly. There was no objection, no real issue--in allowing men to hold her temporarily, accepting that it’d take a certain type of vindictive and cruel person to demand her hand in marriage, the moves of tongue were nothing more than that. It’d take a special type of awfulness to lay the expectations that were burdened by a single ring that announced that Artemis had chosen a single husband in which to hand over her wild heart.

There was no God in her world, only the whirling of doom-filled probability. There was only suffering and death. There was only the true recollections of the selfishness of man; trapped in paintings and stories--given a stage to platform their stupidity. A boy named Travis had once encouraged his fans to stomp and storm his platform: borrowing audiences reserved for the immortal ones--he had sold his soul for fame. His talent didn’t warrant such committed and engaged audiences--which was a truth learned the hard way, as one day his fandom realized this fact, and decided to stampede his wooden stages with little-to-no encouragement. The young man leaned into the smothering anticipation--eager to be declared infamous, and so Artemis took his hand softly, and guided him to the edge of a stage. To die with innocent blood on ones hands...was a sin so unique, so negligent, and considered entirely avoidable in the world of entertainment.

Artemis allowed the crowd to stomp all over Travis’s life; staking a woman with an artificial face and her opportunist mother--tied to a man famed for his clouty ways. The world was bleak; marred by unspeakable tragedy. To be Titanus, meant a thunderous fall from grace. The book had been the place mat; a tuft used as brush to paint roads and signs. Erabitori Traditions trapped in green prison of static: built up the scene of a man tumbling over--stripped from his talent at the cost of fame and complicity. Both Artemis and Travis were trapped in nightmare; he a near God, and she an overlooked Muse. Both holding an unique affinity for verbiage, and a love of live entertainment.

Travis had sought out Artemis as a Muse of destiny; taking claim over a death-filled fate. The stains of blood would forever fall over the signs edges of a beloved park called Astroworld; its neon lights appearing more nightmare-ish than adventurous. The need for answers and accountability began to pile upon the back of a some-what famous man--with the final toll being the price of his career working in musical entertainment.

Travis had smiled, laughed freely--telling crowds to "rage" and avoid security precautions. There was no barrier between artist and crazed crowd. The world wouldn’t remember Travis a decade from now; his talents didn’t rival all other performers. He was just a dude on a stage to Artemis. She gifted him the choice to do nothing, and he had taken the laziest of roads. The world would praise two people; those climbing upon nested metals...pleading for a moment of peace--guiding medical professionals to the injured from a scouting post. The world had treated Artemis with such indifference; she knew the guilt that came from asking for help...to be dragged from the battlefield with barely a breath to cling on to. There was no relief for those that witnessed in disbelief the unheard pleas for help. She had once ran to authorities, needing for the pain to stop--if only for a day without terrorizing abuses; to raise the alarm on child abuse...only to be thrown back in a metal house, because Dianne refused to leave when Artemis held out an olive branch. The fear of the unknown had imprisoned Artemis in a building double-and-wide--forever the neglected child attempting to help herself and others; barely able to protect the sparkle of morality that lay burrowed deep within a faltering heart.

Travis however: was forever complicit--fighting off flanks of legal action alone. A moment of silence could have spared lives; when given at the direction of an idol--but alas, that’s not what Travis chose to do. His unwillingness to stop the fun for even a moment; resulted in Travis killing a couple handfuls of people. His tireless quest for fame had been successful in stampeding over all they had known. The lean artist attempted to flee from the crowd--to leave behind the bummer parts of his legacy, and so Artemis ruthlessly chained him to the growing number of casualties that now hindered his talent from being acknowledged altogether. It became bothersome to know he had wanted to brush past such turmoil; and to act as though life had been crushed out of young adults, listed as an expense collateral to his mediocre talents in entertainment.

Artemis began pacing around Travis--plastered him to a pole with a swaddling translucent wrap; looping around him and his seven years of causing harm to crowds. His pregnant significant other had escaped the barrage of music-loving monsters that clamored and begged for air--for she had conveniently stood on the sidelines of the battlefield. It hadn’t been the range of words, tones, or beats that had ensued the violence to break out, but the words of a madman that openly praised an entity called “the Devil”. Travis had allowed handfuls of people to die on his behalf--he had ordered their deaths as sacrifice to his greatness. The boyish-man attempted to stave away from the carnage without responsibility, and Artemis grew angry with Travis’s lack of self-awareness. When he made jokes about how amazingly smooth the event was going--Artemis interrupted; to remind him that people died. When he claimed it was a venue issue, Artemis corrected him--pressing on about how he and "his people" were responsible for affording the proper services and structures to accommodate high-traffic, and easily rallied crowds--all in attendance were innocent in their intent, just citizens that trusted those in charge of organizing a paid event--meant to provide an atmosphere of endless fun and entertainment.

Artemis didn’t allow his excuses of limited vision to stand-in as to why he hadn’t halted a show, mid-set. Instead: she drained the man of any future earnings, tied and knotted to a moment in time. “Make the ground shake”. She stood in the background: trapped in a painting, the voiceless muse. Someone had to pay for the loss of innocent life, to take bounty for souls destined for Hades. The man had incited violence towards strangers so many times before; negligence had turned him into a monster. Artemis twirled a hand, calling an invisible play upon wooden courts...time would hold Travis accountable in some fashion; wrung out to dry, father to one too many children. Thinning crowds, left his voice louder than ever--the tainted psychedelics, without festive favors deluding the experiences, the man would be seen arriving without a personality, spun on to apologies and tangents that didn’t or wouldn’t age well, as they exposed Travis for having a clout-chasing heart.

The immature artist had amended security procedures: he had strung out the parameters encapsulating an entire generation--all dipped in the unormalized data, all bearing a sliver of untenable code; updated by environmental impacts. Musical instruments held a beautiful backdrop to the view of those laying upon dusty ground, staring at the feet of passerby’s as they attempted to catch a single breath. Puddling of blood lay droplets of helplessness upon a map, the innocent lives lost could be heard in the sound of such haunting music--for their leading star act had played his song--danced a song of piping curses, and led children to their untimely deaths. Artemis was uncomfortable sharing a timeline with him, while the families of lost loved ones; were left observing Travis play his same tricks--the same set of rants, raves and importunity. He pleaded for the young to put themselves in immediate danger, at his behest--callously displaying patterns of a impetuous disregard for safety. The foreseeable circumstances would eventually catch up to him legally--if not today, maybe tomorrow. The entire collapse of enterprise would be the only thing to humble a man willing to have blood-soaked hands--his crowning performance being the most tragic in all of entertainment.

Artemis shrugged--there was no way to refactor the outcome; young lives had been lost...ripped from their futures in the span of a song. Travis proved that he was nothing more than mortal--limited in talent, hiding behind his own Gods; whenever he wasn’t praising a Devil. The man had summoned Artemis’s rage with his growing hypocrisy--there was limited room for contingency when dealing with morons. She had found a man with his arms crossed, paid to protect the artist on stage: collapsed by way of injection of a lethal but recreational drug. Artemis smiled to herself, explaining the future to a boyish man with thin braids--she was seen, talking over him as he held mumbling tone. A true celebrity named Bruce, a man who held answers to a few of the one’s lost on an exensive timeline. Time had ripped an entire day to shreds--pulling apart memories and capsizing time with reliability. Trauma be like that sometimes, but he held firmly to the reigns of accountability--the story continued to write itself--beats mellow and smooth, riddles and poems were Artemis’s specialized department in a world of regurgitated entertainment.

Travis remained stubborn in his pension for criminality; theft was his middle name. Artemis stood atop a void; threading along in sleepy spell of indifference--tied to a world where Travis had stomped the life out of his fans; and forgot how to apologize. He was cursed with a kingdom capsizing within itself--his suffering forever imbalanced to the damage caused. The unsteady chaos of the world--spinning, despite the topic at hand--had caused her to giggleout of nervousness. She was in danger. A bowed crown-less head could be painted with the image of Artemis sitting in retreat pond-side; staring upon the reflection of a man with the name Rivers; feet swinging gayly over the ground. The proper delivery of branding of fairness and heavy-handed lectures fell gracefully from a tireless representative of the citizens, an honorable man and a father to be jealous of. Artemis’s world spun because of such mentorship--the verbal diary entries of a man defending rights, liberty & justice for all. The fatherly man had a catchy theme-a piping tune of intrigue and bops--reminding citizens to always seek legal representation and to refrain from snitching on one’s self. Artemis took guilty pleasure in falling asleep to a calm monotone voice; coaching young adults through the basics of law while bonding with his son. Authenticity became the most valued, and valuable forms of insightful entertainment.

Bruce gave her permission to walk-out her stresses instead of sprinting to obscure tiredness, to regulate emotions with questions aimed in the right direction--systems were already broken beyond repair; the polis was ablaze. It was an all hands on deck type of vibe--in the circling conversations between intellectuals. The torn suffering of the citizens had caused a rift in time; a dimension sitting in basin of probabilities...a useless puddle of idiocy in the slurry of their universe. Artemis took pleasure in the pages of shamelessness--paced back and forth across an empty field in the rain. Time was glamorized in portraits of a woman glaring past rows of heeled shoes--rummaging racks, worried to tears while listening to witness accounts of strangers being crushed to death. Life was filled with routines and discipline; spinning out of control--spilling over in imagery of an urban woman; holding breath on a similar green turf to the poorly managed ones in the stories heard years over. Moments beneath the foot of giant man; crushing Artemis’s spine came to mind--whenever standing herself in a hypothetical room with such horrific circumstances. Vantino had said "stay down."--and, Artemis had crawled for her life, placing the finishline beyond his comprehension--crawling to win, to prove in the might of will to survive. She didn’t object outloud...he wasn’t worth the breath. Crack, crack, crack---the stomping fell heavier and heavier...time no longer made sense. Why hadn’t the blurry shadows of people in the background of such memories helped? The pathetic guilt of surviving careless violence built a poem--intertwined with similarities in violent delight, and need for life to be bound in kindness; Artemis was forever a bleeding heart.

Life began springing from her pages; spilling over her duties to manage a haunted building and audit non-existent forms. Fairness slipped past the wired cages of her paragraphs--time had cast its verdict on Travis’s love of profit over his value to life. His sins overshadowed by a debt owed; to the bigger of cons--the broader picture provided by faceless right-holders--the giants scalping the citizens for seats and tickets; geeky and masterful. Nobody would be found accountable for a party without adequate authority to control the hectic crowds--encouraged by social pressures and the spells of a man partially responsible for caused death by crushing. Rituals of life sacrifice were fairly acceptable in the realms of conspiratorial theories, horned by the hopeless expectations of the citizens--clawing away at their overstimulated hearts.

Intention-driven sins painted the stage holding a boyish-man named Travis--sneering and ranting "Let’s get in here!": building a crushing point, his actions would rip open a black hole into the middle of a crowd. The mortal man could not subscribe to hubristic actions--sixteen moments into a performance. As the stars struck nine-thirty: the evince of detail for care befell over the legacy of Travis--leaving him marked with an incident of mass casualties, and a delimiting point of compression; drawn out with screaming faces--screeching out for help; chanting with their limited air...to stop the show. Essential services were left dragging out limp bodies from unsteady crowds. Hades on Earth became trapped in a moment for the emergency services: they were forever frozen in a decisive moment; moving from one stampeded victim to the next--draining hope expelled through their tired fingertips; to be trapped in the gesture of chest compressions...pressing air out of corpses in their dreams. Artemis had spent her whole young adulthood in such volatility. There was no margin for error in her life--just as the breath of life became helpless for the cause for those responding to Travis’s feeble cries for help. The world could care less about an orphan trapped in a void of emotions--let alone; find a shred of empathy for the countless victims of Travis’s version of rageful entertainment.

One not so special day: a weakening point of confusion broke past the normal range of emotions stored away behind a corseted chest. Artemis’s smile looked insincere in a reflection of a sterile grayish powder room. Her life could be painted in the still image of a woman smiling to herself; closing a door upon the world and finding herself back in front of a mirror. The turning-point of sanity could be scripted in a scene--of Artemis sprinting past crowds of soldiers standing around. She had seen a man smile and take a small step towards freedoms of an open sky--the intuitive pull of desperation for an answer moved one foot in front of the other. Artemis had to get to him; she had to follow the lead of a man without a name--shielded as a memorable stranger; trapped behind songs and all lingering moments of peace. She began free-falling through dangerous winds--left to draft reminders in poems--in the fear of forgetting a loss so profoundly deep, that its aftermath had been catastrophic for all those left behind. Ryan was forever youthful--her book a third-place; beaded with cherished memories and pages that left Artemis with unlimited options; able to process her previous actions in attempted suicide and morbid entertainment.

Artemis laughed at the theatrics of a weeping boy named Kyle--his childish ignorance had been lethal, and yet here he was: mending chaos across a sloppy timeline--making weird faces, as he stood trial for having slaughtered other citizens; utilizing an unfair advantage in weapons--laughing. Kyle would confer an unwinnable debate lacking patriotic flame...bent over a barrel; his panties twisted, as he yammered on about his rights to protect property. A timeline of dire stupidity had tacked him to a dimension where he had been captured and charged for hunting his neighbors--traveling far-and-wide, to defend the confounds of property value. An aging judge began to argue--as to what was to be considered easily-tampered evidence, and the world had no choice to modify the expectations for an entire judicial system. A pale mans life stood in the balance after all. All because Kyle woke up one day and decided to be a lil bishhh. The world bent over backwards to aide the childish man--famed only for aiming a weapon at his opponents unprotected heart.

The boy named Kyle had distorted his face--crinkling it into bunches, contorting wrinkles and feigning remorse for a single act: he was lost in a trance given by his God--timely in illness of a spell imparted through religious piousness. Artemis coughed beneath a raised arm "Witch, witch." knowing his actions would have totally qualified him for a stake and a swim in the nearest river back in the day, the settlers liked to move past the more ridiculous parts of history that held malicious underlining, and Kyle had been the end result to generations of that. There they sat--no sin was too big to be forgiven, according to Kyle. He was burdened by the world’s refusal to pass forgiveness and spare judgement to his one day of boyish mistakes--the world had squeezed him dry, forcing him to churn tears from deep within...his face contorted with a strange duping ugliness.

He had learned from a boyish-man named Scott...that leaving his tears to stream down his face; had meant he had an understanding in the practice of empathy. The show must go on. To be born in pale privilege--meant a life free of accountability; to be without a worry to dampen the rains of terror that befell on those in proximity to such a careless heart.

Artemis held up posters of Kyle--one where he proudly boasted thumbs in the air with a shit-eating grin--wielding battle instruments and cosplaying as a hero. To be etched into the fabric of a delicate time-meant an insignificant existence on a scale of one, to surviving Genocide. To be misbehaved; would have brought on the truth wrath of Hera in Artemis’s childhood. The undeserving beliefs of a survivor of childhood abuse; sprang forth a winding thread--tightly wrapped in fibers of trauma; strung along the distance between a orphan on the day of Christ’s birth--holding a content smile and a brown rolled-up paper; her face rosey and shameless--and glaring past daydream-filled eyes. Artemis was trapped in a moment of grief. Kyle had carved his legacy into marble himself; the image of a man “awaiting-trial” and a woman guarding a door at the end of hallway were the twisted lore meant only for adults--a knotted poem meant to fully overwhelm the heart.

Kyle’s mother marched her prized son around like a show-animal, laughing and beaming with a profoundly out-of-place proud-ness that confused the citizens. The pair began yelling--how their family full-heartedly supported a Mechanical Boar. Because of course they did. To be blinded by attention-driven wants and desires: meant a life without real leadership, deaf to the causes for a future. The dire tones and ambient sounds brought assumption of pain-driven rhetoric, and lies unending, and alas--Artemis shrugged with indifference...she rarely cared what sounds lay in the background. Her childhood relied on malleability to survive in a den of monsters. A world filled with let-downs and expectations exceeding well past the lowering standard of normality--had turned a flashing moment of mockery and ticks in viewership to news divided out on the public forums of news, it fairness accidental. The lack of contingency plans for the nearing future no longer felt seasonal, trending or passed as depersonalized entertainment.

Artemis could open a scene: shaking a man awake, cursing while trying to defend from a glistening-eyed beast--now a caged criminal, corralled to a narrative violent enough to forgive missteps and misdirected anger. The pair were cemented in full-denial to the potential consequences in the actions of a nameless man; a man spawning in out of Artemis’s dreams. There was no need to ask how the characters ended up in such a comedic scenario; no opening scene of people clamoring down hallways. Artemis had crafted an event-mendable to a reader longing to know where his wife’s thoughts had wanderer off to. A moment of disassociation would shift the smallest of muscles on Artemis’s gentle face--her memories fixed on a day where Yoyo had stood in her way as the edge of a sky-lined ship drew nearer. Artemis sprinted past a channel of people--those unconcerned that she ran by, weeping openly and pressing frantically in a calm crowd. Her eye was set past a horizon unknown; seeking answers from the universe, as to why Ryan had exited her life without a proper goodbye. The single action of a best friend glancing over; noticing the glossy-eyed moment of a person letting go. A light was dimming with each step toward a welcoming ledge--Artemis was forever smiling at the idea of fair exit. Yoyo had said nothing--letting her feminine instinct to kick in with the gesture of a warm hug; doing nothing could have had irreversible consequences. Artemis let it happen, she had no choice in every other part of her life; silence was the only thing that could prove something was beyond wrong. Yoyo was forever the real hero; reaching into the darkness to protect a friendship and draw proper merit for a poem--to bring attention to the goodness in others with some outdated "no-homo" level entertainment.

Artemis would categorize ways to inform Orion of the missed events on his fragile timeline, glancing over a sharp shoulder in the direction of a spooky door. It was not delicate indecisiveness by way of mortality, but Artemis’s need to elevate the standards for herself. A stride of luck and locked-in dedication to success; became a veil--holding reasons of perfection in the eyes of men. The need to find a place in an a lonely world had been the cynical glare cast by Artemis; armed with a sigh of perpetual disappointment and ever changing hair styles...the world would never find the pin-pointed moment, as to why Orion had chosen Artemis to be the only woman victorious in lowering his narcissistic mirror. Artemis joined in on the mystery: wondering out loud as to why he had chosen her, to worry, delight, and defend--despite her conflicted heart.

Artemis was unafraid to speak in moments of hopelessness; laying waste to crowds with colorful words, uncaring as to if she was pulling focus in his life. Overshadowed the lives of others wasn’t intentional, it just came out as boldly unjustified: built upon sinful boredom and her genuine disinterest in people. This became a dimension where Orion’s lustful intent would cause dire chaos, holding up chariots and causing traffic issues in a miniature metropolis. His need to pester Artemis was measured daily--by a roping tether falling slack at the hip. Artemis had stumbled over in uncertainty as to her commitment to their love; falling behind the stride of Orion--a man, set out to be everywhere and nowhere at once; on his endless conquest to seek all things fun. The choices of caring for others was strung along by a empath, and an attractive man--unwilling to admit his feelings for a mortal woman condemned by the hand of fate. Artemis would always apologize for her hideous appearance; unable to allow the ties to reality to break. Her life morphed into a romantic tale of self-discovery; about a woman barely getting by, enthusiastic by the change in tide--the freedom to take pride in ones own accomplishments, without a flirtatious backlash of a man making special moments about himself. Artemis crafted threads of reminders in a valid worry--hurriedly twisting line around the words needed to remind a woman powering back up; a stranger in a strangers body...resuming functions after a spell of seizures thrashing away at her central nervous system. The retrofied game had been designed around a barely compatible couple-sacrificed to play out a simulation of Kyle’s choices and non-existent directive for the sake of informative entertainment.

Carelessness had resulted in the untimely deaths of others. Tax-payer funds were thrown overboard, all for Kyle and his mum. The dynamic due demanded a Jury to witness the role of a immature man “playing dumb” under the merits of a single gesture and an asshole grin. The stakes of democracy had wrapped itself around the imagery of Kyle holding up an almost-solemn patriotic right hand, and a chubby wanking hand that was placed over a murderous heart.

If life were a play--then her audience was filled with idiots. Artemis began to shake her head “tsk, tsk”...she watched as a Jury of her peers--saw past the cheap ploy, the diligent citizens had crafted a turning point in an unwinding kink in a weakened thread. The agreement of race being a factor in an unjustified execution had put a scene in motion; setting the stage of a boy-ish man throwing a small fist in the air...stating his beliefs in genetic superiority with a single motion. Artemis had seen a glowing thread while walking along a dark path; it shimmered due to its unique build-up, and blend of entitled awfulness. Artemis had wanted to be the one to call out his bullshit; to expose the contortion of moral in a single citizen--suffering from spells of privilege; forming into events forever associated with fatal causality of a neighbors actions. She knew he could care less that wasted the night away--dismantling a fragile ego by using the poisonous words of a cursed book, years after the fact. To love thy neighbor--meant a life cursed with Kyle, straight tripping about someone else’s property. Artemis had spun countless songs--laying a vein with disgust to her immediate surroundings. The bottomless examples had been a task in itself to riffle through. Kyle was forever notorious tied to his own legacy by unblinded choice--a man rambling to himself; whilst having cowardly blood-pumping weakly through his momentarily youthful heart.

The beauty of a Jury of ones peers--was a true trial to the spirit of man. Westerners had no word to explain the settlement of verdict. There was no such thing as still waters in an ocean, with a shore lined with evil, those Hades-bent on testing the worst limits of mortal souls. To be an ocean without current; meant a moment before catastrophe--the breath of true worry, the Earth screaming--tearing itself apart and unwillingly collaborating tectonic plates. Artemis had dreams of sprinting with a thread; needing to prepare the people for a wave of hopelessness building beneath the surface. It had been her goal to provide entertainment for the masses, and to better harden the readers heart.

The inevitable mass casualty of such an event was all that lay beneath the belly of a tsunami; the forgotten understanding of true power, culminating by the moment and garnering strength with each push. Their Nation had suffered from an act of domestic terrorism, and Kyle had flipped the narrative to be one of timeless boyhood--holding up triggering fingers and laughing all the way to the bank. Artemis had stood aside a tumbling wave; looking past its crests, at the faces of a honorable Jury--scribbling little notes here and there--casually dissecting the tissue’d layers of Kyles sinful ugliness.

Artemis began to smile and giggle with fits of joy. It had been one of the few great joys in life; to watch the legal crucifixion of a homicide-thirsty citizen. The implication that Kyle had been steady on a path of rampage, ink’d in the memories of a fair jury. Evidence provided unburied details in a trail of liability. The respected Jury remained impartial to the details that were accumulated with those with auras of racist assholery--because not all racist end up murdering another citizen over someone else’s property. They had been ultimately worn down by such ignorant ugliness.

Artemis watched as they sighed a heavy breath, not because they were exhausted from an underpaid duty--more so, fidgeting out of discomfort to a familiar song; a lazily-written verse that somehow felt over-played and more stupid with each day. She often felt like slapping the citizens awake more often than not; as though building a trench of warfare and a moment of fumes and blood could explain the depths of seriousness to ones environment--to flaunt a scene of a halo of shrapnel illuminating an image of Artemis reaching out a hand of apology, asking a passing enemy to get up...if it meant one less death that day. There was no cut-off point for such a tragedy-there was only Artemis, trapped inside a void of her thoughts--attempting to cope with a world swallowed alive by a wave of Genocide. There was only the visual evidence, the proof of death, and a verdict on Kyle’s choice to charge into a field of battle--armed with unethical ugliness.

A Mechanical Boar stood in his invisible corner--forever the weird grandpa with a half-limp dick in his hoof. Artemis began to laugh harder and harder...the invisible beast in most rooms, was forever caged-in by his own fumbling; dispelling already weakening words with contradictions and whimsical theories. It’d be unprofessional to diagnose him as a moron. Artemis had tricked him into leading the way to Hades door, asking him a simple question; seeking an honest reason as to why the Mechanical Boar had been a frequent visitor to an island built for pedophiles. Him and all the others trapped in black book--bound to children sex slaves and the extending merits of a good time. Artemis had held up the small book, pretending to feign interest in the variety of names--the blank trick inspired the Boar to stir alive--snuffing into brushes and stomping around with pouting frowns. Artemis didn’t need to insult the unintelligible, because her dedication to empathy made her fairly-indestructible to such criminal ugliness.

The aging beast began to beg his old constituents, scrambling to set tizzy in an already crazed fanbase; to render a cloth over their scream-holes, and to seek the free medical cures at once. The moron had taken a misstep while attempting to avoid his own fate; predictably back-track on his past condemnations on medical sciences...in order to solidify physical votes on his criminal campaign. Artemis grew bored by his antics, and laughed at the idea that the Mechanical Boar had technically done the world a favor--by killing off citizens--too stupid with herd mentality corralled to the cliff by advanced sciences and the obvious threat it posed to modern civilization. “Dead men can’t vote.” Artemis smiled wickedly--crossing arms and knowing evolution favored those willing to change, to evolve to circumstances unfavorable to parasitic mortals. They believed the world only cared about those able to successfully stave off physical ugliness.

In a scene where Artemis was painted powdered blue; puffed by unbelievable might--her blonde hair would always seem more menacing when sopping with the blood of her potential enemies; blurred and stark...a story separated by a whole dimension. The story-line followed the adventure of woman trapped in a anger level set at a constant state of two, until it was cranked up to a ten. The silly name of bubbles was meant to distract the audience from the lack dimension in such stories, but Artemis had seen past the harsh edges of likeable characters. Life was more interesting seeking answers past windows of endless stories, beyond static-filled apples. The dreary moment in time had made it where Artemis began to look forward to a future filled with less hate-filled rhetoric about epigenetics and zealous ugliness.

She turned about face to see a man named Joe, standing on the frail edges of the red tie dragged along by a Mechanical Boar...paid to rep whatever color paid the most. Both men would instill a moment of pain and or, panic. Joe left many wondering how he could be given every-single-fucking-thing he could possibly wish for on a silver platter, and he had the audacity to be impatient whenever talking to the youthful voters. He was a wrangling cockroach in the world she’d been forced to witness firsthand, and the Boar took pleasure out of pissing on his leg--for whatever reason. “Leave that old guy alone!”. Both men stood still and looked over at the stranger yelling: perplexed as to which aging idiot she had been directing the passive comment at. “Joe, you had my entire life to prepare for your position in office, and yet you still managed to drop the hypothetical ball. I heard your words...stating that it’d take over an entire year to extract our men from the lands drenched in oil, and yet here we are. Why aren’t these honored soldiers at home? Why would you deliver such a large promise, a priceless gift--with no intentions of following through with it? Joe was forever and always famed for hiding behind the excuses of bureaucratic ugliness.

"Speaking of empty-ass promises...why did you run for office with the hollow words of forgiveness to the scholars being choked to death by the entity named Sally? Your intentions are marred by your capabilities." The frail man fiddled with his blue ribbon-ing material falling flaccid over his many partial successes. He seemed unaware that Artemis knew too much: a de-crowned Demi-God, forced to grovel with the mortals--left drowning in financial debt on land...while a man boasted of his son-a hunter with terrible aim and a selfish streak that dimmed the light of the world with his childish ugliness.

Both the Mechanical Boar and and nameless man; held less-than admirable parenting skills--both hid behind titles and gestures of normalcy...to hide subsequently much larger sins. "How did your best friend yield precaution with his calm melanin-filled voice cast with authority, and contain an entire pandemic long before you took office...yet you’re so vastly unprepared? You were given everything and put on the front lines, and you somehow didn’t learn shit, Joe.” Artemis flipped over her invisible war table meant for generals and leaders alike; bored and feeling dramatic in a room filled with drama-queens...each unaware that Artemis see-sawed away at their legacies in real time. True fear: can be captured with a single look in the eyes of a man observing a woman decapitate their lies and mistruths. Artemis often laughed while mangled hands went to work; the threading of truth was a task too grand for most--meant only for those impartial to politics-the mighty individuals; incorruptible to the concept of such harmful ugliness.

“I fucking hate everyone.” Sometimes her rants were dispelled by the annoyances left behind; whenever her actions resulted in messes needing to be cleaned or fixed after a mood was long-passed. Artemis stared at the upturned table--disgruntled by the tornado of emotions that had swept through the room. She stared at it until a moment of forgetfulness fell over meandering thoughts. A spare second jolted her back into reality: a startling realization that two strange men had seen a temper tantrum had finally caught up to her. Artemis moved to the defensive position of saying nothing, walking meaningfully towards the duo of men, barely holding onto their blank gazes and faltering memories. “You two idiots bore me.” Artemis excused herself from an empty white room--filled with endless paperwork and a handful of red buttons. She had no business standing witness to the listless explanations--the air was stale, due to accountability laying waste in a humid room--rotting away...while each of the two men used the lives of many to heal each of their ego-driven heart.

The citizens were far-too stupid; burdened by a barley functioning Democracy--to realize they were stuck in a loop of obscure cycles, meant to detract them from scientific and medical exploration. They were in the midst of the dark ages of medicine and mortal-made hope. Artemis left with a whimsical step--laughing out loud to herself, humming about her longing to change and a need to Stay, knowing that the men would continue arguing with one another the second she was out of sight. At the end of the day...she was only a scholar, a lady that didn’t have the time to waste on two dying men that degraded themselves to passing back and forth their applicably blameless, shameless, fameless ugliness.

Artemis was busy. She busy. Rapping up the world with rhymes and rhythms. Bitches be busy. Preoccupied: allowing strangers to throw her to the grounds of Ash Street without provocation. A strange laughter bellowed from a place of disbelief. Her entire year had been shit. Orion’s love and life in general; were filled with countless tortures...minor cuts along the skin to the bending blade of a moment too sad to even imagine. Artemis had suffer worse falls, and knew that there were worse attacks than one aimed at an athlete casually prepared for a stunted tumble on an evening jog. With her luck--Orion would have appeared from nowhere; needing to cast judgemental words down upon her damaged spine, too annoyed by the public display of weakness to care about an assailant running away. It was first nature to blame Artemis--to sneer questions as to what she was doing on the floor. The world was waiting for her to entertain them. The need to remain disappointment in Artemis, could result in dangerous circumstances; Orion was forever unable to untie his weakly-threaded expectations, if it meant allowing his emotions to bare the lonely consequences of a wandering heart.

Dreams of riffling through drawers, gazing past a checkered-tile kitchen--past two bowls filled with dairy and fruit. She rummaged for a paper and pen, gathering loot without pace or steady hands--words scratched down in haste; like fleeting dreams needing to be captured. A pageant stage forever awaited her ballad--one recalling Artemis’ Finest Hour. She became the soulful light in a house of pure darkness; negotiating ransoms and reasonings with an understandably bitter heart.

Artemis avoided an entry to a spooky spiral stairwell: evil often remained dweller in cellars, basements and catacombs. This house was no different. The labyrinth was forever found with smudges of mortal shit--Burke’s offerings trailing lazily along the walls of a slain beauty queen, a baby girl--too precious to forget. A small child had created a safe haven for pedophiles and her attacker: in a world-inverting itself with an epidemic of apathy and mental sickness. Flashing lights and distressed witnesses observed children panties, the Wednesday cloth flaunted by her parents. The white flag; was a false operation: a waste of resources used to save the reputation of a small group of terrorists--while the world stood outside of a festive house, holding its breath and wondering what meeting John couldn’t afford to miss. Artemis had seen her father; rambling on his front steps-demanding an improvised departure to accommodate an important of his business. He blamed Lockheed; condemning a faceless entity, for their explicit direction(s) to abandon the body of his raped and slain child. Artemis had walked up to a house with open entry; just as Patsy’s sister once had, and dismantled the degrading flag that kept a soul spiteful in unrest, long after death. There was only one person on this whole timeline, that lived to spite JonBenet. Souls were trapped in dreams and the harrowing pages of Artemis’s horrific book, more often than not...they existed in both-giving Artemis precognition talents; the educated skills earned by studying the behavior and psychology of mortals--specifically those imprisoned to a nameless guilt, casually devouring away at the emotions unconsciously eating away at a person’s heart.

Artemis had seen a metal bar propping a wooden dowel vertical--click over with a soft thud. The shit lock mechanism, couldn’t keep the creature from returning to his playroom--John couldn’t stop the inevitable; because the alternative would mean careful parenting and the forfeiting of his beloved meetings. Artemis sighed, painting a childish hand on a shoulder, leaning its prey into the darkness. This was all that John had wanted out of his life: to hunt the killer of his daughter, to find peace in coldness of a cellar. The lair, the domain of such evil was encapsulated by a small heap of hair and a cloth--tied up by the moments of a child bound at her wrists, bleeding from her crotch, twitching upon a cold floor. "What did you do?!" Artemis recalled a nightmare, laughing to herself and knowing that scripts often wrote themselves in authentic fearful moments: staring up at a ceiling...feeling as though articulation in details would result in a moment of implosion. There was no way to override the truth--a small child had been found dead, but proven a victim to sexual assault long before her homicide. The scars told no lies, but bore light upon the reoccurring molestation of a young helpless child--covered up by professionals and thirty something trips to a doctor. The likeness in surviving childhood trauma gave Artemis fair-entry into a simulation meant to weigh out the true evils of the mortal heart.

A simulation of hopelessness began with a shadow in the basement. Artemis wondered where Lacey, and Hunter were--and why she had been held to higher standards than the civil servants that had robbed the citizens blind and spit in their faces. Dinner parties and political ambitions had finally aged them out of the game of endless mystery. The implied darkness that came with and without the guilt of Rosemary--the clung to a script drafted by John and Patsy themselves, following orders to instantly side-stepped, to hold a line of defensive lies while they observed a real who-done-it murder case in real time. Artemis had been the one in a whole paragraph to care about a murdered child; she was "less fun" and "more serious than needed"--even in settings filled with "professionals" and "caring parents". All facts, no matter how they were arranged--made Artemis pity the blonde child laying before a glimmering tree. No part of the child’s suffering was funny--no part of her anguish was spared from the humiliations of moving such terror; into a separate genre of entertainment.

The poor child had been violently lobotomized at the hand of a “toy” garrote, and a single thud--fracturing a small skull and all of time. The greatest mysteries of all time, were those comparing Charles and his son climbing past a window, and the one where John found his daughter laying in a cold and dampened basement. Put out of her misery, as punishment for being raped in her own basement. There was forever a void of time: the unspeakable moments passed between glances and glares--the ransom had been offered, its plotline--hidden beneath a smaller-than-most boot, treaded with receipts, seasonal along with the retrofied decorations and prints along a wall. It had been painted as warning--to a tsunami of a mental health epidemic, pulling its final unwinding threads--snapping at the single crack of a paintbrush handle breaking. A man sealing the deal lay in the evidence; stored away until a potential suspect was left with his dick in his hands once more. A dead child on the floor below, the world became trapped in cellar lacking its wine--Johns gaze forever trailing the mercy given to spare his daughter....for paying the prices of his professional trangressions. All this had been done--to pay fair retribution for John’s occupation, as a compensation package-without liability to the unfolding of such terrorizing ugliness.

Poor John. To be given a trial in suffering--bet against what little weight was left to a household reputation, and now he claimed himself bankrupt--a leper to rooms holding elongated tables and important meetings. Those had been his favorite. The wager had been too steep of price, for what would the neighbors think? John had tried to grow a brain, providing U-turns for days, paving paths that led nowhere...each promising an important meeting that needed attending to. Artemis was famous for such abruptness in departure, she too could conduct the world to bend over on occasion. There was a craft in holding a stern moment of silence, to abort all concerns on dull ugliness.

Artemis had plucked herself from the world around her--wanting to gander at a famous couple, casually aiding and abetting the creature hidden in the cellar of the universe. They had built an empire of notariety as the ultimate victimes, unable to profit--dedicated to the obvious con of CAPITALIZATION. John and Patsy were still loving parents, at the end of the day--they were responsible for ensuring that Burke would rise above such adversity--unbothered and normal as can be. A Jury, grand and logical--eventually sealed the fate of fates, inditing the sandwiching evidence that pointed in the direction of two people, too busy caring about the opinion of the neighbors and whatnot--to take care of the memory of a daughter; unintentionally sacrificed to preserve the childhood of another. There was no room in their strategy to take a second to grieve and mourn the wound that burrowed deep within Patsy’s heart.

The world was to blame for Johns inability to keep his family safe. It was your fault--he hadn’t replaced broken windows over the span of a year. It was your fault--he hadn’t gotten to know his children and or learned how to juggle the battling crimes from being committed in his house eventually. Artemis had only noticed him due to his curious urgency to flee, and his tear-less trail that left a jarring confusion in the air. John later paraded a wee casket--crying even less. He seemed dedicated to seal the body away before a proper investigation and secondary autopsy could be conducted. Strange. A single flashing grin of a boy, cast a moment of fun in the eyes of the beholder: there he was; leading the charge, the creature removed from the story for the time being--instead, was a loving brother...present in his own life at last, free from the curses of competition for a single day. There was no time to address sorrow when there were games to be played, stories to be told--friends to impress when talking about a game involving a brother and sister, drawing upon a small palm; the curious shape of a self-describing broken heart.

A red umbrella was handed off to those that lay hand upon a child--covering all suspicions, all assumptions and undeniable oddities. The vast covering grew, from covering the heads of three people--to include the corrupting citizens that begged and pleaded to take cover from the pending storm. John could barely care for his own family: so the rain swept away all those that no longer served or believed in the testimony of John. How could his family survive with ample room beneath an umbrella of suspicion, and copious amounts of wealth...if selfish losers demanded a place to stand beside him? Didn’t they know he was busy hunting for a pedophile? Didn’t they care that someone had trespassed past the best security systems monies could afford, walked past the fact the guarding pet had been removed by John himself...feeding his daughter before assaulting her small body. Transparency had twisted a tale to be too crude to mention in full. Artemis’s childhood had been painted by gardens of gossip--holding down rows of produce, and pointing directly in the direction of a family, famed for their stuck-up ugliness.

They were all trapped behind a glass wall confined by a river of static; unable to decipher the sway of public opinion. Artemis tied herself to a fascination for unsolved mysteries--all things ancient and alien on a rainy day. She had fallen down a rabbit hole and landed ungracefully in a cursed kitchen--trapped in a time of the liminal, the extravagant generation famed for its over consumption and love of such opulent ugliness.

A boy named Burke stood frozen in time: his smile remained perfectly stitched in place--paired with Artemis’s bulletproof grin. A whole timeline agreed; heads bowed over with tears on winter nights...something was very wrong with a story half-told. There was no answers for those--perturbed by the actions of parents carrying the burden of loss; too grand for a single book. They had broken his childhood into shards, rendering him jest: locked-in to a story with a clown-like expression bewildering the masses. Two whole generations were exposed to the monster-machine; expelling miasma and illness to the eyes and minds of the readers. Confusion became contagious in the scheme of a plucked thread--Artemis felt the weight of discomfort all the way down to her fingertips; tied to the responsibility of title Captain on a iceberg-ready canoe; stranded with scientific set-backs and unjust ugliness.

A breadcrumb, a poem--a strong-armed implication. She stood proud with a Grand Jury; inditing a couple between a sandwich of information--Artemis dancing in the background for the sake of it. Time was all that was left as remedy to a infamous medicated smile--rimmed in red; holding back fragments of sorrowful heartbreak--dancing was something she did in discomfort. A child had died. There were still answers for the world to offer those choosing sleeplessness to address and solve such divisive ugliness.

Her busy father was somehow filled to the brim with smoke, snotty and withholding from the activity of the caring role of father any longer--his world had kept spinning and now he got to be a grandfather. A marriage had burst into flames; a house shrouded in mystery--a home ashed in a single night. Poor John, he was just a victim to a mythical creature so uncontrollable, so perverse--there was no reason to look for such a tactical beast. He’d be imposisble to track. The flock of forgein terrorists that is, those factioning meager ransom for a chance at a penalty of death...as one does. Tourists traveled far to pay their respects; to hug the man broken-down and lifted up his campaign for justice, footing his bills out of pity. Decades later--no person had been found guilty for what they had done to his life, his career, his marriage; and there stood John--happy as a clam, holding a grandchild and pretending that his legacy wasn’t crafted on pedophilia-heavy ugliness.

An “unknown intruder”, had slain a child in two separate ways-desecrating her corpse over time, playing with a dying body in the middle of the night. The world remained stressed by the melting of crisp snow--the moments left uncaptured to a level of satisfaction worthy of the boards gaurded by Charlie; listing a red-threaded conspiracy. A tall-tale had been squashed in an obliterating flame of curiosity; the flame fed by quarantine, and the freedoms provided to access of select evidence and records. Red threads began to fall away; swaying to a the winds of change. Artemis and the proceeding generations were dedicated to seeking answers to a childhood mystery often known for it incestuous path laying front-and-center; all pointing to a scene held up by perverse ugliness.

Mounting lies and sluggish time had rendered it to where an important father could no longer uphold his blanket of smoke; no longer able to divert moments of time. Lies wear down with the passing of time--the intricate veil that had so often been laid over the advancements of science had slowly slipped away. Patsy had died with a mirror clenched tightly in her pathetically vain fist, sickened by illness and whatever stresses caused a hideous creature to stir in her household on a winter night. Artemis couldn’t even imagine what to name a monster bubbling over with such endless hateful ugliness.

Artemis had uncovered a childish voice; gazing past the foiled reflections offered in heart-shaped mirror. There in her cave of information stood a faceless shadow; screaming in a rage, that his sister was dead, and that he understood the implications--snarling in worry. He had no idea what he had “done”. He was forever a boy trapped away in a moment, the last of such well within his control--his scene set and played out before the crowning storyteller. Artemis often observed a child in survival mode--attempting to move past moments that were considered unimportant, its contents only considered naughty in their spoken ugliness.

She swayed to endless music--pulling at the threads of destiny; plucking away at themselves in due time. There wasn’t a whole lot to consider as exceptional, when explaining a common spectrum pushing past neurotypical on the rare chances. He had a unique sparkle in his eyes, a glimmering shade of red that fell upon his face--whenever placed in a trance, staring longingly at the floor with strange desire. Artemis had found proof that his mother was seeking reason, as to why he lacked normative behavior--did he know right from wrong? He’d be unable to hold up his methods of corrosion, his mum could no longer protect him from the truth. The citizens became ill just by making eye-contact with him; unable to cope with the actions buried deep within a house, bound by a gut-wrenching story--boggled down by a grief that consumed the heart.

A childish man and an unapologetic smile--left the citizens unnerved by his defensive pacing, an unforgettable the past that involved his doll-like sibling was all the world would know about him. The citizens finally had proof that a woman in public office had individually advocated for the horrific violence by abusing authority, elected and paid for by the tax-payers. Lies laced the role and duty, for invites to fancy dinners and few influential votes. The woman held an uncanny posture: welcoming an era to a blood-thirsty game...where economic classes were divided into districts. Artemis cloaked the woman with a grey Lace--gently tucking away the woman on a wooden pillar; bound with an invisible chain of guilt, as she stood ready to be lit aflame by the citizens. They had gathered in unity--collectively tired of the misguided words implying that the citizens were too stupid to understand the patriotic Tradition of incest. It was a tale, as old as puritan time. Artemis was unable to provide help as Lacy was left attempting to escape her chains for decades over: squirming with the excuse of protecting career and legacy, as she needed to deflect the melee portions of her corrupt heart.

Artemis had found a single dancing flame, a moment of peace-trapped in self-pity. Her book was entertaining as fuck. Life had been so ugly towards her-the unjustified evils that were all too often equated and excused, partially blamed on her; for choosing to look a certain way...to dress in certain cloth. The world hated women. The land had nothing to offer outside rewarding the corroding sickness of Lacey and her work ethic; whereas, there was no way to mend Artemis of her illness of a broken heart.

A sliver streak of rage began flickering with a profound curiosity; mortality had finally set a solemn orchestra into motion. Urgency to build legacy, confusion as to where time had gone--left a small flame to its vices, left to break off and duplicate into a handful of flames. She hadn’t the time to waste--to observe Johns pants as they lit themselves, until he had come knocking on her red door. Artemis wasn’t allowed to make mistakes; the combustion of inevitability left her freaked out--why had he brought his flaming bullshit to her door? She scrambled to collect each flame on all fours, sniffling up tears and attempting to keep it together--a simple glass shattering upon the floor could trigger a regression, unexplainable, but easily captured in a simulation. Most days; a childhood of abuse was able to buried down deep in the void of her thoughts. The world could care less that Artemis had barely survived such unspeakable ugliness.

Her attempts to care about others--to inspire those around her with comedy and spectacle had caught flame. In a world where women like Athena were given physical talent and every excuse needed to be an Olympian; this had been the world where people cheered for those wearing silver metals. Showing up for one’s self became cool overnight. Artemis was forever the bored sharp-shooter, hand in pocket-under accessorized, and prepared to win--if anything...to say she had been comfortable in her skin while competing on a world stage. Sometimes trying harder, meant trying less. An embossed pyre of understanding began manifesting all around her. The world stood in applause; enjoying a confident effort, a bloodless show, and the celebration of integrity. For Artemis; the world had been an arena...set out on testing the limits of her aching and occasionally misdirected heart.

The citizens had found a needle in a haystack, and spared Artemis the guilt of setting the discredited Siren-like woman and her laced reputation aflame by hand. Artemis had only been put in charge of securing the disappearing lady with a rope to a pole crafted from driftwood, and the crafty citizens had done the rest. The masses admired the flames consuming Mary alive, as she said nothing. There was nothing to say--in a world built upon such sick ugliness.

The citizens were still considered unworthy of the truth in her eyes. There was nothing to be said--the woman was left without the chance to spare a single ash of reputation: there wasn’t anything to explain the severity of her actions in enabling a false narrative. A child had died, and the lingering stench of death had followed Mary with every step of the day. Artemis hadn’t any remorse for a fleeting career that was marred by meticulous brush strokes-- painted at the hand performing a dereliction of duty. The citizens deserved the truth, they had earned a single winter season--that wasn’t frozen over with the mystery and arguments, as to what family member had probably sexually abused and slaughtered a child. Artemis set up a table; complete with chargers--setting trap for a remorseless retiree for the preceding actions on trial; for the gates of Hades be rushed by the citizens...demanding access to a release of record; marked super secret, too sensitive for public consumption...too complex for the uneducated. The tattered grey Lace was just meant to slow down a machine fueled by lies, its fabrication gathering an knotting itself; bound and gagged at the hand of the citizens and their need to protect journalistic integrity, and all of its ugliness.

Artemis had awoken in a nightmare, and found herself clasping at a rope--pulling away at tightening skin along her neck. There came a breath of life; aimed at a book without ending, held behind a gently tied knot in her hands-small feet dangling by a wooden slab. By the time she gained recollection of her ink’d mission, a nub of a story had shown itself through a tear-filled rage. Nothing had made sense in her life up until that point. It all had been without reason. Much like the death of John’s daughter. Artemis had tied each beast in position; holding them in the position of a demonic star. Triangulation in guilt had set the monsters aflame by way of affiliation, fused together by articulated stories. The world had finally began to grow weary of such evils, held back by the troubles that leaked over pages of discoveries--staining those unprepared, coddled by the universe. The flame of reconciliation would come at a cost; one too pricey in comparison to the sorrow holding back John’s daughter-less heart.

Disinterest in the health of others had made an entire Nation sick. Depravity snuck in to replace social norms...the Settlers had put their own downfall into motion: introducing words like rape, incest, and selfishness. Their purified intentions had become lost in translation...the world recall their place in the universe...not for its introduction to goodness, but for its last droplets of hope...those scooped up, demanded as offerings for safe tiding. A first impression was drawn; forever silent--drafted by each last encounter. Mortals were defined by their actions in this life: their following ones meant to repent or reward their sins in simulation of fairness. Dysfunction had began to consume each patrons sucker’d heart.

A woman named Elizabeth--no longer held her voice low, or dawned a black cloth meant for respected intellects: she now stood still in ruffle’d dresses that were intentionally wrinkled and maternally oversized. The aesthetically pleasing narrative of being the it girl---no longer worked in the her favor. Which is how the world came to know about the lustful passions of Elizabeth and her man “Sunny”. He was small in stature; often hiding behind his woman with an spiteful attitude. He was a crumpling shadow come to life-trollish in a sleezy quest for profit and glory. Artemis laughed out loud, as a Jury called Elizabeth reckless and presumptuous--in her projected desires for a future filled without chains and bars. The woman had tactfully gotten knocked-up by a nameless boy--a sucker left to pay her legal bills in exchange for a child. The Jury began to ask the woman, as to why she had fabricated protect capabilities and profit margins--at what cost had the saftey others been considered. The flames that had engulfed a laboratory nested by glass, had now began to rear the true faces and intent of Elizabeths endless ugliness.

The woman held shameless eyes; offended by the company sworn in to judge her successes. Ms.Holmes said absolutely nothing--staring aggressively at a marble floor. It offered no answers. Even though she had cornered herself into a room of due process--the strange woman still had no sense of guilt, and began to plot her escape. Artemis found it laughable--that Elizabeth hadn’t the slightest clue of the scientific process: despite her choice to dress up in a lab coat reserved for scientists. The con-woman was left without a fragment in understanding of what options were theoretically possible, and those considered robust. A single lie had taken down this woman’s glass kingdom: her actions resulted in wings clipped, left legally caged--in fair retribution to devious actions. The Jury looked past her facade of matronly duties, and wondered if the child had been born as a cheap ploy--to ring doubt in their theory: that Elizabeth was without default in judgement. They’d be smart enough to notice the timely production of an heir--rushed into existence to better protect her dwindling fortune. The new mother seemed devoid of commitment to the reality whirling all around her. The inflamed growing chances--that she may be caged for a sentence of twenty years was too harsh...too strict, compared to the punishment she’d already penciled in for herself. Artemis set up a single trap; a lone chair--meant to better capture the appearance of an odd lady that sat distinguished--an avoidant on all accounts; pulling up a chair, only to sit with her legs sprawling open--to better display dominance, and increase the chances of being picked. Elizabeth had decided that success was reserved only for those that traded in their morals and the ambiguity in agreement towards the value of life: for the hefty price of their own heart.

A man with mid-ranking military status, had once whipped out a knife swiftly without permission: needing to dissect a small cartridge of Elizabeth’s device before handing over the information of the citizens. The woman and her party of goons had nearly jumped over a table, scrambling to take control over the situation, as she pawed at the invention--inspecting it carefully and wondering whether he had uncovered the coveted “trade secrets”. The man seemed half-confused, as she dropped words like “proprietary information” as a threat: allowing her voice to travel past the stats of the serving militant. She grew insulted--that the man had the audacity to doubt the established data collected so far. Who was he to judge data that somehow had zero outliers? The defensive woman put up a battle, screeching and squawking to any man of higher ranking status--dropping seedlets of unsolicited opinions as to his harassment and bad vibes. After all, this was a timeline dedicated to the objection to health, wellness, and happiness. This was a world ran by people like Elizabeth and her inter-generational wealth--to serve as a dedication trophy of participation for all those complicit in preserving such useless ugliness.

Elizabeth wasn’t accustomed to men saying no directly to her blankly drawn face. Her ability to appear as a mortal--without proper human interactions, had left her wings held outreached for the world to observe, as though her wild imagination allowed her to prepare to take flight at any moment. The chants of the citizens and old men with endless pockets--changed their tune overnight: their words were gaunt with a range of admiration from that of verbal praise...chanting and gathering along the bay: admiring the might of a single woman about to take off before their very eyes. Countless men--had foolishly wanted a reason to be beneath her wingspan, or to stand witness to all the glory that was offered to her paler skin and dead-eyes. They had seen wealth fortified by comfortable beauty standards, and all Artemis could see was the criminal negligence, and a charade built off monetized ugliness.

The dexterity in ingenuity of mankind’s efforts were given as a responsibility to shouldered, to propel scientific engineering through the efforts of this one woman. Instead, the citizens found a cock-eyed lady with a weird voice, that was distracted by the kinky sex offered from a secret boyfriend. He had been in charge of holding up her glass nest with his financial backing, and keeping Elizabeth sexed-up at all times. The strange pair would be discovered, and the wee lover would become the laughing stock to the men all around him. He had failed, due to his limited capabilities in covering her path of destruction and inability to keep her libido in check. The poor sun-less man had the misfortune to always in the right place….at the right time, up until this one moment in his life. The Jury was stand-offish and too timid to ask about the sexual escapades of the former power-couple. His face was without, and Elizabeth’s sexuality less-than inspirational. Artemis began to smile wickedly, as a General with almost an entire handful of stars--appeared from out of thin air to stand beside her. He had taught Artemis the words needed to describe the reasons for her contention, for all those she had met with a single blunt phrase. “Be polite...be professional...but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.” No truer words, could better explain Artemis’s defensive heart.

Artemis had found a way to articulate the broad smile that expressed the bottemless hatred for all of mankind, and in doing so...she was able to reap the limitless benefits--provided by the practice of treating the world with due kindness. Time had finally began to pull in Artemis’s favor--steadily standing alone center stage, holding poems close, and her emotions closer: shameless in her wavering of talents of hardening an overlooked, and underappreciated heart.

Artemis walked around the scorned lovers, observing them with caution. She decided to scribble down a single word--to break the spell of a woman that lived in the wobbling delusion of the gravity of her actions. Artemis began to giggle, taking her small thumb and pressing a label that stated the nickname “Mado”: the squirming woman attempted to gaze upwards at the single word that’d keep her from taking the stand. Her eyes dashed and darted around at all those tied up to matching poles of stiffened expectations--she was defenseless at last. Artemis could only dream of a situation--where a scorned lover would break character, and find the legal “precedence” in placing the strangely quiet woman in turmoil, discarding her in a bottomless pit of all-consuming “truths”. Artemis was bored of the beast, as the woman hadn’t been seen as extraordinary; outside of her self-predicated title of being a boss and a bitch. The straggly-haired woman had expected to tower over her former lover; forever. Saucer eyes widened--as Elizabeth shook her head in contempt to the questions that revolved around the former sexual partner’s ability to squander funds endlessly...the disbelief of her lies fanned by gentle and steady winds. The flames swallowed them both up alive--their love memorialized throughout time. There was no level of comfort when addressing the spending allocated in order to hide their undisclosed euphoric ugliness.

Artemis saw the stout sun-less man mumble and stir--presumably afraid, that his tall lover would choose to throw him onto the tracks of Elizabeth’s blood-drenched warpath. Artemis had found proof of the man snickering urgently: pleading for the woman to lower the extended wings that glimmered in the moonlight, she was always getting ahead of herself. It was useless to through worry in the face of such carelessness--Elizabeth was cursed with dry, delicate feathers; that could and would become easily scorched by the sun if taken out on a hot day. A handful of citizens had lassoed the pair of beasts--demanding a day in court, to pluck away at the accountability needed to describe such negligent enabling--the crimes backed by fair-trade, and a few powerful holders of a shared vision. Citizens had been misdiagnosed; un-diagnosed--or sickened by the confusion of imaginary results churned out of Elizabeth’s nested laboratory. The endless stories of pain had eventually pulled away at the emotions of a Jury, armed with the law and a dutiful heart.

Every single word the Sun-less man had cast--would be weaponized, each tender kiss or sexual encounter stood as evidence that he had abused the woman he claimed to love. A portrait of worry lined the hallway of a nightmare never-ending. The moments of discourse could be seen in muted moments; of a man arguing about over-exposure--the liability of show-boating, and the few twigs of mistruths that barely held up the credibility of their lust-driven goals. All could be explained by two people kissing in the throws of passion: a monotonous scene of two people standing to deliver on their promise to change the world. Artemis had trapped him in a moment; speaking to a room of invisible audience--accidentally pointing his hand in the direction of Elizabeth. Artemis was also a fan of “hybrid-solutions”; unable to walk in a world pathless in morals--accepting that the medical world had been "disrupted" for the better by the elicit love of a Sun-less man, Elizabeth. and their greedy need to salvage and cultivate such ugliness.

Artemis had wanted to be alone in a portrait; center stage to her own life-- holding a strange smile and memorable golden hair. A ceiling began to topple over her shoulders--showering shards of glass. Victory in the famous Hunt of Mechanical Boar; involved side-quests too jarring to explain in black and white. Words couldn’t describe the frustration and satisfactions of a scientists, holding leash over a wild beast of a man; laughing without constraint as the rain fell. Glass had been a welcoming gift of rains needed--to provide relief in witnessing the caving of such a ceiling from below. There was nowhere to run--no shelter to seek in a world managed by Elizabeth, and so Artemis had hid away in the shadows of a less-profitable laboratory. The man named Sunny held the key, was the key, as to how to best ground and “transition” his lover into a room filled with an unbiased Jury. Artemis had watched them cluck and beak at the options: plucking away as to which option would help them break-even, and walk away unscathed with wealth and stocks that simmered with tepid heat. Artemis dedicated a large portion of her words to paint a picture of their lovers quarrel, as she loved the suspense-filled drama in watching the strange-looking couple argue in their blinded ugliness.

Artemis forged on, pacing around the pair--wondering when they’d be secured to the pole of judgement, feigning memory issues in moments of convenience...had their lies been enough to convince a Jury? Artemis became frustrated; worn down by life--disappointment had rendered her with indifference. A simulated drill of dramatic flare expressed her to be forever smokey, lethargic in hibernating routines. The crash out was real. A thread of disappointment fell lax in a wee clasped hand--Artemis hadn’t taken it personal--to know Orion had just been a phase of youthful love, irresponsible and un-tethered. The dysfunction of calm waters kept two mismatched personalities together for far-too-long, both ready for a moment of enouement. The sparing pair of a Sun-less man and Elizabeth--thrived in the moments of crisis, crossing one another in paths intertwined by bitterness toward other couples--powered by a balance of rationality and adronitis. Orion had owed Artemis nothing, they were nothing to each other most days--neither people were able to shine without selfish liberosis, two strangers suffering from a distantly bleeding heart.

Artemis looked around her void--spells of basorexia often captivated her day dreams and drained a machine powered by time management. There wasn’t a properly exit strategy for endless pages...its lack of conclusion--put her efforts at risk of becoming mislabeled as vaporware. To be timeless, meant a time where things mattered less. Her life had been so sullen, so void of happiness, until Orion had wandered through her life; stomping about and throwing fit as to the details of her ability to manage work and a social life in balance. She had caused him great suffering, refusing to argue about menial coupled-life milestones or a potential white ceremony--as to not mess with the time dedicated to a career amongst the stars; moving suborbital waste and taking advantage of a view so spectacular...it was said to help heal the deepest wounds of the heart.

She’d flitted through life; gentle fingertips expressing insecurity and an obvious dissatisfaction in life. The Mechanical Boar couldn’t be blamed for her already awful life. His version of exhausting commitment in moving forward; meant a life of caused suffering...to be the chaos metastasizing and oozing beyond her pages. Artemis carried on, attempting to stay afloat with honest effort and a sobering patience. There was to be no retribution fair-enough than the one planned; to reward the spectators in kind, and to point out how they had mocked her counting hands. Artemis had held her nose high--pulling at a thread, pressing firmly on ivory keys and announcing Good News. A slack rope wrapped around a clenched fist, and a game of probability--was all that was needed to capture the desperation of those fueled by attention of others, and other pathetic versions of ugliness.

Artemis was stuck in a field of netted gravity, laid accountable to a single preorder of a book. To be a man of honor; meant a life dedicated to self improvement, or risk implosion in an unstablized slashing moment ignited by deep insecurity. Artemis wasn’t like Dianne in that way; she saw no flaws in standing beneath a Sequoia Sempervirens with a book of objections and complaints--she was going to make the world care, to force it to admit her existence. Her own seedling of a Redwood brought forth its own mightiness in grandeur--it offered endless uses. Artemis had a tapestry with unlimited potential--a story worth telling, as it had been sprouted directly from her orphaned heart.

Artemis had reached her wits-end, and the tears from her unsolvable problem seemed to lasso past the successes she had wanted to achieve. Everything about this timeline felt wrong. Those around her had wished her out of sight, and demanded apologies for the inconveniences of being hunched over. She had terminated from a thankless occupation: and kicked while down. Artemis had attempted to leave with dignity, to offer three weeks for adjustments, and to spare humiliation(s) of bad leadership--by walking away with an understanding smile. She had nothing to prove to leaders without spines themselves, and blame shifting could only move so far. The world had found a new way to press down upon her injured spine, and instead of staying down--the Kind Hearted Hunters had come to her aide...pleading with Artemis to stay down, out-of-sight, and silent, completely disregaurding the people that caused her harm---focusing on preparing Artemis for the next pending waves of depression, humming from the depths of her steadily breaking heart.

Her life was fragile, somehow beautiful in its contents. The patterns of swaying her hips from side-to-side caused severe discomfort along the lumbar region of her weakened spine. Artemis fell over: sprawled out in exhaustion, her feet ankle deep in the shores of woe; trapped in a voided thought of learned helplessness. Insurmountable worry fell from each soft and insecure step. A childhood surrounded by monsterous people--meant overthought steps--to be prepared to fall into a black-hole of someone else’s anger. Self-doubt sat in the backburner of every thought. Reality had done nothing to soothe the cantankerous moods that water-logged her deprived heart.

Her head bobbed in a disgraced admittance of defeat--the ticking of time had stopped; held to a moment before the verdicts given out by a Jury. The world had found a way to strip her of humanity, to grant life to an orphan...unwilling to stay down in moments of great distress. The court room was forever a place of solace in dreams. Artemis began to wash away her sins with fermented tea, a chunk of time appointed to mental wellness. The world wasn’t a perfect place, but it defiantly was a better place with Artemis sober. That was a problem she could fix. Artemis recalled moments of such hopelessness; those laying in the bottom of a wine bottle. She began replacing swirling emotions with gratitude...recalling the Kind-Hearted Hunters taking stride out of courtrooms meant to condemn juveniles: apologizing that her attendance had been mandatory, and her childhood criminalized, robbed of all normalcy. Life had always revolved around tax-funded resolve, and the burnout of such routine had spared Artemis from a future filled with such lonely perpetuated ugliness.

One day, a mellow-toned man appeared at her side with a quizzical tilt that allowed his chin to point from side-to-side; holding only a book and friendly smile. He introduced himself as Jon, and they began a long explorative conversation--about how Artemis had once promised an honorable man named Tyler; the chance to fall into the good-graces of his respected grandfather before he passed. The man was an allied spirit, as he too...loved colorful words, advanced sciences and the power of the truth. The man adjusted his rectangular spectacles, and eventually knelt down to assist Artemis on her quest, as he softly offered a solution in moving her from a void of selfishness. “Let me Carryrou”. The stranger was unaware that books had once saved her life from the disease of great sorrow that occasionally threatened her heart.

Artemis frowned in confusion: his words were clouded by the temporary spell of the chants of Elizabeth it seemed, his tone was hopeful and his eyes fluttering in her direction. Artemis used what little strength she had, lobbing limp legs over surfaces--to casually puncture his skin with a needle: staging a venous draw from his aging arm--eventually, draining the delusions of a mad-woman from his poisoned veins. Uncomfortable scenes of a woman with limited mobility; struggling to gracefully adjust to an unlucky reality--were easy enough to plaster on a wall canvased with incongruous ugliness.

The man looked at her--startled to see a small woman sitting on his lap, and charmed by her tight lipped smile that expressed her self-satisfaction in using subtle methods of violence to help people. Artemis didn’t need to correct his temporary speech impediment, as it was rude to point out the flaws of others with disabilities. There was no room for such nonsense as a Princess that once had a lisp--there was no room for her to talk. She softly asked him to repeat himself; corrected teeth--causing a welcoming grin and warm tone to back up her endless questions. The man scooped her up in his arms mid-movement, as though recalling the plan of attack--reading the room filled with urgency. "We have to “run around” the pair". Such words were meaningless--to all but the witnesses of the words. The two inspired lovers had permanently passed ink’d strategy like notes in the winds of classroom, or in passing between the narrow hallways of their many, many conversations held mid sex. The immature flustered nature of scrupulous topics, kept the lies at bay. Tied up in disbelief: pegged to their sessions--to oggle at an image of Elizabeth mounting a man filled with sun. An image of opposing attractions, was the only thing that could tack-down two weird personalities--tied to the belief that the world deserved their peckish glares, uncomfortable mannerisms, and desired to feed the flames of innovative success by way of cons, sketch behavior, and need to rule with terrorizing tact. The world was victim to their mirroring ugliness.

Artemis liked the idea of making a Jury uncomfortable--it was easier to point up at Elizabth’s celing; and to note the renovated crown molding holding up a sexy mirror, high above a kingly bed. By describing the two people in a moment of vulnerability--Artemis could hold ear, to bring proper defense on public trials, for who was she, who was the Jury in this tale...to pass a moment of spare judgement on Elizabeth...for healthily maintaining a sex-driven relationship? Their relationship in the bedroom wasn’t on trial. It was very rare--that a couple could be asked by a court, to share less information on a particular topic. But alas, here they were. It held potential value; to specify the acutely unimaginable angles of their sexual relationship. They had done nothing exceptional as a couple--holding up a long-standing monotonous lifestyle. It was relentlessly blanketed; by a strange spite-and-critique driven silence. A silence passed between lovers seething during the rituals of pillow distribution--all signs indicated a contention built on discouraging arguments, ribboned with resentful ugliness.

Artemis asked her friend in battle, for a sincere solution to could track down the short man with slumped broad shoulders. The courts still had questions for Sun-less man; hiding somewhere in the darkness and dwelling on life without his charger-eyed woman. She had needed him to blindly take Elizabeth by the hand, and to walk down a dark street labeled fantasy lane without hesitation. The man handed Artemis a beautiful brown and cream colored feather, and left Artemis to the silly vices of loving fanciful things. Honorifics were something that healed the Westernized parts of her heart.

She turned the soft feather in one hand, and relocated it from here to there. It was lovely, lightened by her ability to turn pages with ease. Her inability to pay attention to detail and manage chronic pain had resulted in Artemis misplacing it one random day. She was baffled by a problem--needing to break the stalemate of the lovers standing a universe apart in silent agreement to be upset at the other. She sprung up and scribbled hastily upon a label--one tag; fashioned to press upon the forehead of the ex-lover. The power pose of a woman with crossed arms--admiring the essence of the effect of her work could be its own poem. The simplified unification of separation by choice had been the theme of the book. Artemis’s understanding of orphanhood had convened as truth, unluckily tied to a fate too-tragic to speak out loud. Like, beyond tragic. Artemis had used a single word to unravel the thread of mystery around the lovers, calling the disheveled man Svengali: a curse of his own doing, as he had followed the curiosity of his penis...instead of following a trail paved by common sense; cursed to survive and wonder the world with a lovesick heart.

Artemis pleaded with her friend John to hold onto her feather for safe keeping, until the tears of a cinematic orchestra flowed over. Leaving the sacred object hidden and uncovered by only her own trail of woeful turmoil: needing to misplace it in her story. The pain experienced while holding a feather upon a ceremony of celebration, felt polar opposite to a day holding such an article on the day of death. The book marking object, would always bring her the opportunity at seeking a Traditional form of sobering nullification. A round of editing had better prepared Artemis to face the embarrassment of having made it so far carrying a selfish disease in her heart.

The morally driven man--had no way of understanding the depth of violence that ran through Artemis’s blood. She was half-alive, surrounded by three people-standing guard over a game too evil to experience a second time around. It was a one-and-done type of deal, with a machine altering the contents to protect its central processing unit. At the end of the day, Artemis would always have a difficult time feeling sorry for herself. The cruelty she had imposed on the world was judged fairly; to be a person capable of harming others, and to be later rendered immobile from the waist down: meant a life fair and balanced with a humbling boredom. Life was a hell of her own making: attempting to let go of a past, needing to feel less guilt in flirting endlessly with a random guy named David. Orion still served as a reminder of true passion, hidden in plain view of a book; keeping her safe in soft sheets, held tightly in the arms of the pages that protected the weakening beat of her damaged heart.

Artemis had reached out for help from the Kind-Hearted Hunters, needing to create distance between herself and the men left along the shores...to be tugged back into the unforgiving waves of romance, to avoid the scattered agates of dissapointment that were hardly worth collecting. Life had little to offer a woman broken down to her numbered days. There seemed to be no room for regret in the mortal experience--Artemis had just been the less-than-unique candidate, chosen to experience the worst of the world. She was forever grateful to exist in a world full of beautiful music, blinded by endless tears--attempting to make sense of her indecisive heart.

To abuse oneself meant a life of suffering, to abuse a helpless animal--meant an afterlife of punishment. Artemis had always felt out of place in her own life--holding the title orphan on her forehead, until one day it displayed the bottom of barrel. She had climbed and clawed away at the mundane parts of life; struggling financially and giving up on the idea of caring for another furry companion. The world had never cared to provide a lesson on morality, but it was given trial fair to circumstances. The grayness of not knowing better; had left Artemis with blood on her hands. A disadvantage of environmental impact had shaped Artemis to be filled with a nameless rage; a resentment for the fact that the citizens cared more about the lives of furry beasts, than the lives of children sitting in fostered attendance. Injected into a scene of make-believe, forced to wear a mask whenever sitting with their own children. The understanding that ultimately nobody cares, had misshapen her already damaged six-year-old heart.

Deny. Defend. Depose. Time, felt life a sordid daydream--unsolved riddles began slipping through her hands; the gentle thread pulled past the hands of a forgotten widow...a disheartened grandson, and a young woman holding a light that offered friendship and rationality. Danger was everywhere. The three held the line, and became tucked along the exterior of the tethered lovers...crissing, and crossing with each conversation. Mistreatment often brought universes together, it wound itself in fine details and duplicated patterns--those stabilized by constant chaos. To be without redeeming qualities, meant a blatant disregard of the presence of others--the void of paranoia causing the slightest margin for error. A preoccupied couple had been busy in embrace; reared and ready to be tied off with a bow. The similar chatter of not being able to recall dates, times, and conversations had painted them red with guilt--too busy dancing nakedily in a nest made of glass. The world had grown worn down by their empty promises, and eventually looked beneath the hood of mythical device. They were forever sloppily painted and slathered together on a pole of Justice; two famous lovers, bound together by the lies that exposed their true ugliness.

Artemis began to crawl upon the floor in lethargic boredom. The woman had become animated and giddy, expressing insecurities with a bubbly tone soaked in the sheer joy in having been Just Married. The conjuring of a favorite tale, had resurfaced a muse lost to time--buried in tragedy. A hopeful life of acting gigs and interviews often mocked Artemis’s mending ego--how could she expect the world to love her...when even Orion hated or avoided looking at her? What stage was there--for a woman hunched over by way of complex trauma, and long-term spine injuries. There was no place for a woman so hideous to coexist in Orion’s world; void of most versions of such undignified ugliness.

A red rope had fallen slack from the hand or a boy named Christopher, scooped up by a pirate named Simon. To be loved by the masses; meant a false sense of security--a mismanagement of reality by way of bad company. There was nothing to call home, in a storage space called home to a mother; broken and broke, laying in bed with her daughters widow. Artemis watched as her slimy aging husband snatched the frail hand from that of a famous twin named Ashton: causing Simon to began to scream at anyone with melanin that dared to speak to his wife. The things that had come to pass, had already passed--they were all just victims to an outdated simulation; meant to entrap a few people into scenes meant to expose indescribable ugliness.

Artemis began to rip out Simons tuft of hair--knowing the vanity of his soul; lay with a thinning hairline. She knew that history could be changed forever: had she only taken the girlish blonde aside, and shed light on the true evilness of the man she had decided to love. Her life wasn’t worse because of Simon, but because she had sat along wooden courts with Ashton and his close friend Sean. If only Artemis could strip the charm from Simons crumpet-filled accent, and replace it with a backyard one that said things like “howdy” and "I reckon."...to discourage whatever spell the con-man with two hidden children had set over the beloved figure. If only Artemis could draw a picture--of a drunkard husband cuddling the mother of a pitiful wife, and quote the ugly words in which he called his slain wife a "monkey". Speaking ill of the dead didn’t trump Simon’s insistence in proceeding to rename a widows mother “babe”. Artemis stared at her scars, life had been so unfair in all respects of love. The sight triggered her spells of self-mutilation, to fast from food and drink. The world rewarded her thinning frame, overlooking the lack of warmth in her bed. She avoided dreams of a hallway unending. The night was often swallowed and consumed by such confusion in missing the wrong men, and haunting regret-filled ugliness.

Artemis wished only for the chance to whisper words of admiration to the girl named Brittany, to build bridges with apologies for the harsh scrutiny she had survived at the hands of strangers. Men in power had once laughed to themselves as they spoke loudly: saying she was “huggable, but not fuckable”. Gross. The notion of forward-facing rejection was one thing--it was another to rely occupation in creative talents to be at the mercy of such unmonitored ugliness.

Artemis could only wish for a moment to hug her restless spirit: telling herself that she’d only need the words and single poem to spring life into the fallen wifes static-filled eyes. A comedic actor had been stolen from the world; leaving a path of blood, leading the way in the darkness, an age of uninspired entertainment.

“The other Brittany is finally free after thirteen years, and no longer forced to claim a spear with a capital tip...I am so sorry that we never broke down your door.” Artemis watched as the citizens began to rally around a wooden pole, carved with nostalgic wonder--weeping and reminiscing at the fact that they had done nothing: there had been nothing to do. The world was left watching in amused horror, as the woman chained herself to a beastly husband--to a vindictive person that saw her as a solution in procuring financial security for his two hidden children. “We miss you...in the same magnitude that the world misses our fallen Robin and Tim. You each passed due to sickness that took control over your body...our ability to do nothing, means that you died without knowing that you alone had a special place in our childhood. We were there when you suffered the most, and arms lengths kept us at bay to your safety. The torturous disaster of odds had broken Brittany’s spirit, and exposed a close-circle of social ugliness.

Artemis found herself staring at a locked door once more: she listened to The gentle Knocks, as a strange lingering sensation echoed along her restless soul. She found herself drowning in a River of static, as though a living nightmare was now a demure image of Artemis dancing with a bottle. Had she hit rock bottom? Why had her entire life been an uphill battle, as well as being weighed by the regular stresses of a citizen? Financial disparity ruled the land: her earnings were dedicated to future visits in sterilized medical offices--forced to attempt to stand up...to and move past the crippling depression that followed the shadow of her monstrous appearance. Artemis was the ugliest person she knew, and even the self-description couldn’t ever prepare a potential enemy for all that her smile had in store. There was a true sense of instability etched behind the laughter of any mortal cursed with such curved ugliness.

Why had she been positioned to stand in the blind side of the men she admired? They called her a temptress, accusing her of suck up too much time, or allowing room for obsession to form. She had little to offer in objection to emotions outside of those found near a pool of pity--there was no room to build a team when her life was built around survival. Artemis was forever the unwed auntie; left alone at an altar--surrounded by a slew of men filled with more hesitation than actual love. Artemis thought of her favorite lover, and wondered aloud “why can’t I Let You go?”. Her heart was empty; presenting the world with a scar held together by a single label that reminded the world that she was a hopeless cause. There was no punishment for those born without hope. Nobody had taught Artemis how to cope with life; but somehow she was held equally accountable to the somehow free to reign in an Odyssey forgotten to time. She was forever the bringer of death; leading monsters through a stadium meant to compartmentalize mortal ugliness.

Artemis shrugged: the world had always openly resented her to the extent of deeming her to be Already Dead. They had hated her for not knowing better, and accused her of being evil in intent--when she didn’t know any better than the lessons given in misery-driven home. She had seen the way the world treated women in her position: women left drowning by way of a single bottle, the comforting response to people asking what was worn or said in moments of being sexually assaulted. They were some of the most hated and useless of all citizens. A fucking horrible citizen named Howard had mocked the disease Artemis fought in secret; he was willing to sacrafice himself for the sake of comedy. Men with pale skin and sensitive eyes were the most dangerous types of Sirens to walk the land. Artemis took the man with a poisonous tongue, and forced him to observe herself succeeding by way of sobriety--churning the man into a rage brought on by judgemental ugliness.

He sought out people to agree with him, and eventually a Siren of matching qualities appeared across from him to hold conversation. A strange large man that called himself a Captain; had appeared from the deep end of a swimming hole and began to laugh and jest--at the fact that he’d been a suspect in breaking the fragile neck of one of his many wives. It hadn’t been the one that had screeched and held him hostage with litigation over tepid sperm, but a woman that seemed to have a brittle neck and tighter grasp on the neck of a glass bottle. The wife forever painted in deep end of her own swimming hole--left victim to the resentment of her husbands dramatic heart.

Artemis had found him soon after he had returned from his trip orbiting the planet in a false star, and grew insulted that he had been allowed to make such a journey due to his age and lack of self care. The man had lowered the standards of those in blue suits, and that was before taking into account his role as a suspect in the accidental drowning of his lush wife. He spoke in a strange broken tongue, and often paused for dramatic effect: despite the lack of stage equipment present, much like the self-acclaimed entrepreneur Elizabeth. “It’s so fragile”--the man began to explain his experience staring down at the planet, but Artemis was left to assume he had successfully relinquished what little guilt he had whilst holding his wife under the water. Allegedly. The man snapped out of his modernized daydream, and Artemis was left glaring at him: remembering the man speaking to the vile Siren named Howard, as he answered questions--responding to whether he liked participating in anal sex with a Stern voice. This was the same man they had claimed to be a National Treasure? Artemis assumed the citizens had lowered their standards in expectations for heroes out of the blatant fear that remembering the recent past may quite factually break each individual’s heart.

Artemis placed the two yammering men around the perimeter of the pole that held a weird guy named Simon. She got lost in the daydream of a young man with soft kisses, and began to hate her ability to settle for men that had a unique ability to make her feel like shit. “Why are you like this?!”: Artemis began to hate her own face, it had caused so much pain in her life. She began to self-mutilate tendered skin, caved to the soft oiled texture that came to lubricate surface skin; finding comfort and relief in the relentless task of tending to the annoyance of body hair growing without her permission. Her sickness was rooted at the hand of complex trauma, protruding and curing inward as though needing to introvert upon one’s own existence. Contention in existing in such a high-maintenance vessel had been its own weird kind of ugliness.

Artemis chose to snap out of her nightmare in living as a freak that hid away in the darkness: reaching for her tea and chugging it like it was a sour-laced poisoned beverage; rimmed in a sophisticated glass. She began to shake her head back and forth, clenching her jaw in a state of euphoria. The thin-laced alcohol washed over her tongue, and Artemis sat upright as her mind came into focus. Her thoughts were sharpened and filled with self-forgiveness: “That’s not the person I chose to be anymore, and I have no intentions of going back.” Unlike the woman that had drowned in “deep end”, the lady forgotten outside of the jokes gifted by her late-husband, as he laughed at her untimely death. Artemis had no intentions of falling victim to the curse of Nerine. She had no reason to run away from the pain that ravaged her spine, her responsibilities were bare to financial bones. There was no empty hallway promising relief from pain to lure her into a black hole anymore. Artemis had found herself measuring the options that lay ahead of her future husband--secretly worried she’d marry a man that was more prone to doubt her commitment to sobriety: than to commemorate her inner-strength in spilling out the personal details that weighed down and tempted her heart.

Would the world care if she died tomorrow? Or would they exacerbate the details of her death to include a narrative that made her even more unlikable? Would they make fun of her passing, calling it unavoidable, and exaggerate the blood-alcohol content in her system--like they had done to the pregnant woman left in a shallow ditch? Artemis had watched the citizens speculate a pregnant woman to be that of a drunk, and they offered no apology when a coroner explained the fermentation of tissue cells mixed with dry heat. She had heard them laugh at the woman that had “drowned” in her sorrows, as though she hadn’t filed for divorce from a man that loved his money more than he cared for his family. It had been entirely the lushes fault..that she had broken her own neck in the shallower end of waters. Women that drank were never offered a dignified death, and it left Artemis to grow angry and blood-thirsty down to the weary tips of her fingers. She had wasted her life--relying on the childish idea that the Best Is Yet To Come, and in all reality: she had arrived at her destination. Such were the authentic thoughts of a woman that had taken back her self-worth and chosen to throw glass bottles at the walls of her home: knowing the momentary violence would heal her nihilistic heart.

Artemis looked around her coffin of a flat: it was decorated with awards and declarations of commitment to higher education. Her new family had always found ways to appear before her in times of need--often offering stuffed pillows to prop her up, or handmade socks to keep small feet warm. Artemis was loved, and respected openly: every time she checked in and offered bits of information on her daunting struggles with overcoming substance abuse--her words were heard, her smile unseen in its sadness. She had nothing to apologize for, as long as naps were had and doctors were met. Artemis had the finest walking devices--ready to be wrapped to her forearms, armored with the understanding that her luck-of-the-draw genetics had meant that people would love her smile so much more once it was gone. The lack of access to it would, and could potentially break the public’s heart.

Artemis cracked open a sparkling water: the sound of a sizzle and a slight pop...the welcoming sound stimulated relief that promised to make the night pass with a foggy somber calmness. She desperately needed the sun to rise..to offer her another day of rain, and the chance of seeing a man that refused to speak to her. Orion was out of her orbit, but remained the inspiration on days where one-to-two orgasms were needed to get out of bed. The listless exhaustion of insomnia forced Artemis to accept the reality that she was nothing more than the “single and childless” woman--her sister Athena had labelled her to be. The loser in a room of narcissists; was forever the person most capable of unspeakable ugliness.

She began to roll her shoulder-blades with a conscious forewarning that was meant for nobody--there was no enemy preparing to square up in ring of disabled people. The lingering hunch of her spine was nothing more than proof--that she was destined to be unloved and abandoned on her worst days. “Who could love such a beast of a person?” Artemis had spent days assisting fellow patrons with fate paired with wheels, aiding citizens that knew true pain and immobility at times of inconvenience. They admired her triumph in gaining the strength to crawl, walk, and then run: even when she reminded them it was temporary and a facade of sorts to work a job alongside able-bodied friends. Artemis was forever roped into selling the illusion of her life being normal, if it meant seeing people resist from avoiding glances in the direction of her perceived ugliness.

Artemis hadn’t the heart to tell the readers that her mind was strained--tied to a story that was crude and violent to no end. Agoraphobia was contagious. The free range of thought, a mandated quarantine, and a life filled with half-inspired ideas, what would make her manuscript to be worth more than her suffering? Artemis looked around her carefully placed life: she began to love the routine of a clean home, a steady week of friends saying hello, and a custom guard meant to keep her clenched jaw lax. The adaptations of expectations were meticulous and utilitarian to the daily ego--needing to protect herself from herself; grinding teeth while rushing through lingering nightmares. She had faced deeper hardships than the ones at hand--adversity meant very little to a personality with an unbending spirit, to those void of true caring--those too burdened by society, politics, and the nihilistic embraces of longing to make sense of such incomprehensible ugliness.

She felt a sense of guilt for walking away from a team barely utilizing their unionized formation, and less guilty for chosing a romantic interest and professionalism over an unsafe work environment. The Port had so many dedicated individuals; caring for others in travel, they had learned of her sense of worth with a formal complaint against an odd couple--famous for having an open bedroom door. Artemis wasn’t comfortable with such sexual harrasment--the strange rebute to in-house leaders had placed her resposible for the discomfort of being a target, unwilling and repulsed by such offerings of a bummer marriage; further defined by unprofessional ugliness.

The hourly and contract workers had deserved access to their representative, and she had abandoned her favorite occupation--upon noticing labor laws being broken. The need to protect self and ego; guided her hand to a door promising freedom. There had to be more to life. Artemis no longer shrugged at the things that were beyond her control: she could care less that a Mechanical Boar had stood by: his army of idiots attempted to assassinate a man named number Two. The world had been saved, in a moment of passing; where a white haired snake named Number-slithered off into the unknown. The Mechanical Boar had been rattled by the Snake--confused as to why no had been allowed into a limited vocabulary, betrayal had reared its face in a time of crisis. The Mechanical Boar would always fail to recognize his ability to self-inflict harm, and it left infectious wounds to fester upon aging limbs. The finest of threads were pulled away by the plucking of nails--hooves prepared to pull away at first signs of failure and the court system, picking away at one’s liver--clawing away at a citizens heart.

Artemis wondered if there was an aura of madness around her: catching herself glaring at young women tossing hair and staring past a reflection in concern. The world had always peered past her, turning hands and explaining all systems failing, and the return to the beginning of the end. Strangers laughed at the strapping young man that insisted on following her about as an echo. There was no reason to look back--the man she had assumed the role of husband and stormed off, upsetted by his choice. Why had women mentioned the concept of fairness to her on so many occasions? Why had so many people relied on the idea of her being married, or holding a family to make her appear more complete, or in-line to their unrealistic standards? Had they really thought she had been so dumb, as to not know the whereabouts of the man that loved her so fiercely. He just liked being in view. Her view. It was a weird place to be. She shrugged at their jealousy, as they were dull and without a love to draw comparison to. The citizens were two-dimensional losers in her eyes, inflicting their "traditions" of harassing a stranger upon her life. Artemis was born beyond-broken, as a prodigal child fostered by true ugliness.

Artemis admired the lights that twinkled past her window: the winter season was arriving at her door any day now, and she looked forward to spending it warm in the nook of a the useful home built as a transitional office space. She was excited to attend sporting events at a new wooden arena, glimmering with green benches. Enthalled by life: recently gifted a Golden Apple. The world had changed so much from the times of a younger Artemis tracing the stomping-grounds of an aging Viking--pestering him out of boredom, and growing concern for his narrow views on the world. He had learned the hard way--Artemis said the things that needed to be said, she had meant it when openly threatening to leave him behind. There friendship had held a void in her vulnerable heart--caused by a strange silence; two confused smiles, and two individuals; unsure of where such a path could even lead. There was no romantic potential in such a duo, as seen by the evidence in disappointment of a man--delivering the mail in duty and lost uniform. Artemis could always be seen laughing; catering to the idea of the strange yelling man--tossing aside packages and startling citizens with his self righteousness--forever en route to a life without Artemis, sinister to the facts of such boring ugliness.

Her mind had been stuck on a loop: humming a lullaby that was without lyrics, pulling at the threads of melodies too beautiful to leave behind. Tears were offered for songs to pure for her heathan soul. It was unfit for children, and so Artemis had pushed it into the back of her thoughts--in the worry it’d cause havoc amongst the dreams of the citizens. They lived in bliss of their ignorance, and Artemis lived on a separate plane of existence. Her life was shadowed with a strange green that refracted the sharp edges of her three-dimensional thinking. “It’s too late to go out and play, and I heard they’re still looking for Jonbenet. Don’t tell Bella and Cece that the strange woman is at the door, as her presence means they won’t get to meet Niko anymore. In less than three days, Eric and his fiery red hair will be free...but that doesn’t mean I want him to play with me. The gates of Hades have broken open, but not because of the release of a boy that’s now fixed...but because there is now a lone broken boy hidden away in a basement; trapped in a painting...” Artemis often trickled her heavy fingers to a haunting songs on the wind. She seemed privy to the fact that nobody could seem to hear the soft beats and tones, and it made her curious, as to the idea that she may be blinded to the idea of snake-like implants stemming from thick hair. Such whimsical conspiracy theories were born in her dreams, but she’d most likely be comfortable with such superficial “ugliness”.

Artemis looked down upon the cascade of rainbow colored lights that guided her journey: each of those tied to poles were left to the mercy of their own actions. The beasts that stood in the formation of a star were now intertwined--held tight with the thread of truth. She observed the mounting medical bills that held her mind hostage, and reminded herself of the nearing finishing line that promised the title of Master of education. Artemis had begun to pay for her schooling out of pocket: meaning that she had finally stepped up, and agreed in the belief that she deserved more out of life--chasing the childhood dream of learning without disruption. Corrosion of doubt, freedom had led to more freedom, and that...had broken a spell of falling victim to her own drunk and woeful heart.

She had been gifted a beautiful pearl, that swirled with soft-hued colors and tones. Upon holding the cursed bead-like object: she began to weep and sway back and forth in a spell. Artemis felt a soft voice gazing down upon her crying face, and gently whispering to her the same question over and over. "why are you crying?". Artemis had never lied to the man she loved, and so she was tasked with telling him a story, meant to last for ages. It began with the time, she had been thrown into a room with a boy named Burke. It was a time of breaking the wind, neon colors, ruled by sensationalism and other matching types of shallow ugliness.

The mystery swallowing them both whole; leaving Artemis and Orion trapped in an embrace--told, that a few days would eventually save countless people. Orion had been the keeper of the gates marked as Hades, and the beasts he led--were in a form of sleep demons; suppressed by the darkness of thoughts and intent--compiled of the emotions to those resting at that point in time. Artemis’s need to exists as a martyr even in her dreams, even that was undercut by the whole hag-sitting on everyone’s chests thing. She had been tasked with protecting the sanity driven trails of one’s dreams, a familiar person--small and almost-helpful, as she guided strangers through nightmare forests filled with evil fogs and unresolved memories-steeped with solution-less answers and moods of confused ugliness.

One day, Artemis was unable to be consoled--she had turned her head away, and wished the love of her life to be rendered invisible...in the desperate need to feel safe in telling him the entire truth. When he had noticed her weeping droplets of blood and finally asked for the entirety of her woes, Artemis rebutted with an honest reply: "everyone is dead". Dreams of her ancestors had broken past a dam built up neurologically, the flooding waters fell past gates meant to restrict the pressures of such unchangeable ugliness.

One day, Artemis began to curl her lip with a devilish grin--a fearful husband took notice of the change in demeanor: he was given only one other question to ask her in the game they had committed to playing. "Why are you smiling?": his wife began to sway in her thrill of bloodlust and war, drawing back tears and replacing them with an uncanny smile. Artemis hummed a strange melody, and eventually replayed it for herself with a soft laughter in her tone. "Everyone is dead". She had finally broken the character of false hope--the weight of Genocide had broken her spirit. There were no more battles to fight--no Indigenous Warriors to defend the land, two generations from now. The world had kept spinning, despite knowing and hand-crafting such fateful ugliness.

She had been cursed with the most dangerously selfish trait of all mankind: that of endless hope. Artemis made the image of such power to be a self-portrait: of a baby that had once been labelled victim. Artemis was surrounded with so many kind intellectuals, all ready to prove the magic of a house cleaning itself. The world had kept spinning then--just as it would today and tomorrow, Artemis forever left behind in articles cementing such unspeakable ugliness.

She was forever adrift to the wants of others. Left behind to bear the punishments of being born disabled. It was only then--that her husband would let go of the grasp to her life, to unhook with the confirmation needed that Artemis was the most violent person in the room--in most rooms. Who could love such a monster? He would always choose to forget her name, as the Angel of Death--dragging her along with his lustful expectations. Artemis appreciated his childish nature to overlook her awful past, out of discomfort and laziness. She had fallen head-first into a dimension known as Cronos, a planet where it lived on a loop of human error: where the ending credits could be seen when closing ones eyes, and a story panning out in real time and after. Artemis created a loop in time that reflected all things horrific; a waste plantation that kept the mind darkened in the bellows of its pages, and brightly shining beyond. It was only at this place...where Artemis could find true value in the human experience, to comb over the stupidity of their timelines, and craft a love poem that’d anchor her wandering heart.

The details of the missteps of these bummish citizens would be found in explicit detail, in a massive box that stood at the edge of a rabbit proof fence. The obscurity of a fence held the most significant values in describing the evils of mortal men. Artemis would dance around its steely walls, and bounce lightly with glee, as she applauded the ugly casing. "Its perfect". Artemis saw that the citizens had finally accepted her words of warning, and found the value of an overly-thoughtful gift-gratification in the simplistic forms could change the world. Artemis had wanted to manifest gold from a brain weighed down by leaded thoughts, bleak expectations and the urge to run away from all things painted with uncomfortable ugliness.

Much like Artemis’s manuscript, the box of threads would be filled with valuable jewels of knowledge, strung with gold to be collected in static-filled pages. Today, they fell into her hands; she riffled through them--attempting to reduce the workload for future Pete, knowing there was only so much he could fix. He was pretty awesome at fixing things. Artemis loved the idea that they had given up all hope on salvaging their place in the universe--they had noticed a prison of mind kept by the contents of a single book. They were burdened with only the truths that their leaders had failed them in every way--they had sold their souls for profit, corruption, and the falsehoods of legacy. There would be no need for battles unending--in a world void of all mankind. Artemis would no longer be in charge of validating, and excusing their tax-funded ugliness.

Artemis had the beautiful dream--of walking down a floating staircase, and watched as her house began to spin slowly; rotating as she descended. She wondered if the Kind-Hearted Hunter, Mel had been successful in building the glass house that Artemis had once described from a dream. White linens fluttered along open windows; strange and beautiful--reminding her of the curse of turning into a marble statue. Fate had been fated. Her dream was free from a throne on wheels, void of a great sorrow. Such beauty was like a warm fleece; burgundy in color, softened by gentle snows and kindly gatherings. To be uploaded into a world of flattering information and less burdened by pain sounded like heaven. Life after death sold the illusion that there was a need for pain--a desire for sorrow meant to feed the corners of ego fed by such lonely ugliness.

Artemis looked forward to a night filled with strange thoughts, avoiding worry of auditions with calls unreturned. Life was ok in the comforting sensation of knowing Jinyoung ah had left military services, before his leader dictator had rendered his political foot useless. Bamesis had begun, and January promised another comback for a famous seven. Artemis had stood up to clap twice...announcing said party. She admired the locked door that promised her safety and a life of opportunity, even if it was void of Orion and his automatic place in her heart.

Artemis had hoped to collect more pieces of paper, declaring her preparedness in rooms of intellectuals. Unrestful sleep meant that her mind wasn’t reaching the fullest potential of her academic acuity in strides. The world had been so unkind to her when it came to robbing her of sleep. She decided that her life was meaningful and fulfilling in a sense--to be awake at the wrong times, scribbling away in her mania. She’d wake up excited to continue in the practice of improving upon herself, and find discipline in attempting to meet the kind-hearted person that everyone had always believed her to be. Disappointment in failure to do so, held the potential to break her sobered heart.

She had originally planned on ending her Odyssey with the unapologetic battle cry; yelling “fuck Merica’!”, and instead she took a graceful bow that was meant for endless stages. They were yet to be built; grace in efforts earned would only compliment the succession of such a lost soul. She had grown up in an abusive environment, having questions without answers hurled in her direction--"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!"...life had moved so far past the moments of confusion brought on by doing the right thing in a den of monsters. Artemis’s life was now beautiful and fulfilling in its normality, in the silence found within appreciating a song without interruption...to read pages without disruption and mockery in doing the mundane. She was forever the woman dawning heeled shoes, a head held high--beyond the clouds of Olympus, protected by self-assured confidence that was impenetrable to such immature and uneducated ugliness.

Artemis was done hiding from the things that held her back--bored of being "the worst", and proud to meet charming men at her best. The toll of embarrassed by her past adventures in being drunk, or lost in the woods of white substances--had finally caught up to her. She had nothing left to lose in telling a cute guy her ambitions, and lack of enthusiasm for giving birth to children. There was no Orion past her pages of delusion, and she had everything to gain by leaving her blood-soaked pages behind. His love wasn’t enough for her to fight for, and so Artemis had learned to walk away; not wanting to draw attention by sprinting out of sight--reeling down a one way path with no end. Artemis had taken a moment of defeat and swallowed the bitter pill of rejection--Orion, a man that could care less had finally found freedom in the realization that she wanted and expected nothing from him. Such freedom was seen as either a liberating moment, or one that broke a mans heart.

Artemis held her golden thread in her hand--she admired the many branches of a story with unlimited possibilities, and gently tugged it one last time-her love for Orion seemed so distant from who she was today. The tears reserved just for him had subsided a bit with each spell of seizure. The cruel lightening of Zeus had spared her heart.

To be unforgiving in not knowing any better, had caused a rift in time. Artemis had secured a kink for masochistic pleasure, exploring herself and believing she deserved death as punishment for her sins. Time seemed to agree, as she whittled over the poles standing ablaze nearby: the in question Titans were not hers to capture and judge with impunity, they were left tied at the mercy of public opinion on most days. They were easily provided proof that their world was unfair and biased to its core--fueled and spun by unjust ugliness.

Artemis no longer wanted to cage two Mechanical Boars with her words, and so she opted-in for sessions of daydreams and sleep. She pricked their ears with a single mark behind each ear, and let them free--left to destroy all that was left of the population. Letting two old beasts free to be someone else’s problem. Her golden lasso fell to soil with a gentle thud--it lay in the formation of a lopsided circle, too lazy to care. Artemis could only aspire to be as well-rounded--she wished only, that her final paragraph could serve as a reminder that the wretched book had at least brought her home to sobriety and gifted her a life of respect. The chapters were a mere housing structure to hoard the emotions too large to comprehend internally. The shape of her sprawling thread was misshapen like the harsh ridges of the moon; those that encircled her with a warm glow of calmness--her life was ok. It wasn’t on her to save the world. Artemis looked forward to meeting her fans, future friends, and knowing that her words were finally enough to earn the right to discuss the pain that had once almost stolen the last amount of light resting within her heart.

Next Chapter: *[ / ] Artemis and the Cursed Red Thread of Destiny*