Artemis had issues with general communications--she remained emphatic to survive at any expense, or give up and risk being mocked in a grave. Arriving late for lecture: Artemis stepped into a random hall...ready to learn all the things. The year was two-thousand and four and a voice boomed past poignant comments..."I wish all of the Indians had died; then we wouldn’t have had to study them." Her dedications to integrity and goodness tenuous--seen and heard by none.

She took steps in; insofar over a neatly pressed hairdo--vim and vigor made up for the moments where silence was the only proper response. The prominent lecture hall had a lot of scholars holding stickball equipment--there was tempered irony in knowing such blurted truths had probably set the Duke scholar free. Cruelty was rewarded with the lack of consequences until it was too late, if ever--Artemis was left only the option to sigh heavily in fearful consternation. The task of making her feel unwanted had often be reserved to two elder sisters since the beginning of time. There was no turning back when the institution itself was set aflame; the doors of a journalistic tragedy had burst open with the advent issuance of a woman and such Fantastic Lies--Crystal’s ongoing conflagration with the truth brought to trial, her impetuous desire to make strangers pay for their words understood by none.

Artemis had stumbled along in life...not a care in the world to the fact that three men were wandering free; able to exculpate meaningful introduction...the fatuous lie had already been wrapped and ribbon’d. There had been wired structure of defensiveness that resulting in Artemis taking it upon herself to draft fissures; to horde opinions on an unjust legal system, to feather dust the pages of a story thrown in a box--her virtuoso in poetic passion held up to the test of time.

Such aloofness was why her elder sister took annoyance--how dare she mosey about when a trail of louts were afoot. Artemis had rolled up on a cursed timeline--seven months late and standing at arms length to a woman holding the face of a world leader in another dimension. This had been the plane of existence where Ms. Magnum "hoped it would be easier". A clock of caution began ticking and tocking softly...A single day of discipline for dissipating truths and remorseless surliness had been traded by three men for three-hundred and ninety-five days of torture--their heads swaddled and held low: unaware that Artemis had been completely unknowing of their parade of shame...A single man’s dedication to corruption and campaign brought to the courts of public opinion in due time.

A venomous lie had caused a professional to pile-drive upon sword; siding with a random woman that had wanted to provide three random men with honor to disseminate a rendering of "God’s love" and she went on to stab Reggie as fair bargain. Had she been wrong in lying, than it was responsibility of the public to provide formidable discipline...a fatherly politburo standing committee member had blinded himself by hand--berating the public for their role in raping daughter, causing emotional harm with questions as the hanging fruits--the ornaments threading along a line of plausible deniability. The unwrapping of truths and coverups hid beneath spruced up wording and tinseled reason--the painstaking process of a death by a thousand cuts seemed less sad, when learning the cuts of Nifong had been self-inflicted with a pointed imbroglio. His choice to disembark from the path of truth came with perfunctory context, with onslaught being a journalistic nightmare--a public trial of impunity, with an outcry for extemporaneous news being promised but rarely delivered without spin or excuses. Tenuous efforts were about to be memorialized, studied, and dissected for the rest of time.

Artemis often stood behind a smile, an ardor for patriotism behind closed doors; too invested in a theory of trepidation when heightened political morass dominated daily events. Askance at the state of affairs; kept the world busy with an onslaught of matriculating chaos--there was no answers when hate was at the helm, and the Mechanical Boar remained dead set on throttling Democracy in the near background. Artemis was seen walking back and forth rummaging like a madman--claiming to have everything managed whilst lugging around a squealing Mechanical Boar from behind on the frontside of an enormous house painted white--she had borrowed a ladder from a man named Lindbergh. Artemis hadn’t noticed the man, but regardless was distracted...pleading for the elderly beast to get off the prominent rooftop--the catch and release of a guilty man-in-worry could outpace plenty of good ranch hands. Threats of mass destruction and a longstanding dislike of a citizen named Hilary had been on full display for the neighbors to witness, and Artemis tasked with lowering the sore-loser into its caging to approach a trial with a date that remained disclosed at this time.

The woman in fine red linens and one white shoe had wanted to make three men pay for their ill-intended words, and for whatever inexplicable reason--Crystal had blindly selected three men from a rigged line up, to parciptate a theory mortal lasciviousness and to embroider a tale worth unassailable outcry. Artemis had crash landed seven months late--too far from removed from the event to roar, and the witch hunt aspect done and over with many moons ago. The struggling student was unable to levy such lies, instead the public chose to disseminate a sclerotic personality--to label the discharged soldier as a Sparrow. The strange woman had imposed a wrath to pay for her endless loveless mistakes in a simulation: to paint herself ancillary: a sanguine survivor to a racial movement that had almost already hashed itself out. The world of three men fell into dissary: because one woman remained longing for her father to take piteous eyes, and defend a besmirched reputation. The persuant walls of time came barrelling down all at once; a single unraveling lie would prove to be anticlimactic, thankless in expressing the detrimental Price of Silence--when the inscrutable weight of accountability was held by none.

Artemis loved to explain to people; that her eldest sister often accused her of being funny...in a way that formed of threat somehow. Artemis would throw her hips to the right and lean nobly into an invisible Orion, and casually singing “thanks...I know.” Artemis was guile and cared less of what ruffled attire she had been assigned for the entertainment of Athena--the trait came in handy for the more public professions. Time seemed of less value; knowing Athena would never take a moment to judge frizzy-haired and chaotic appearances. Artemis superfluous worries persisted; she remained nervous... knowing Dianne was the harsher of judges. It took a village to make Artemis successful: she just happened to be born ready--rotating a tattered script in hand, and looking for a reason to improve. The ornate excuse of “well how was I supposed to know”, kept life decorated with white pillared candles--reminding her that social contracts were nullified within aggrieved families all the time.

Artemis looked at her homage-drenched chapters as they wandered away from the sandy shores below tired feet. Why had an otherwise inert book led her to an empty room with unending waters? She looked past the centrality of pages and told the echo of a sister “I have depression, and so does one of your beautiful children...I need you to take better care of her please.” Athena would hate that others and a Judge on top of that, would hear her--calling out a sibling on neglectful parenting habits: offering fealty to an entire community instead of a single ego. Such sad forfeiture for such arguments would haunt Artemis from time to time.

In a perfect world: there would be a winningest option where Artemis would be free to exit a marble chamber--excluded from the festivities of decorating a lush spruce tree with ribboned tales and apple’d decorations. A world built on Just firmament would mean a hyped Athena banged on pots and pans to “hide” their scent. Artemis used pages to Move Mountains--to manage disregulated emotions, to hold opinions sanctimonious in a life where her endless trauma was met without obeisance. No one cared that she painted a portrait of self-harm over and over again...inarticulateness pushed aside, immutable sorrow taking the reigns of an unwilling devotee to the allowance of suffering amended to compromise with the laws of time.

Athena would hand them Fanta flavored drank, and watch them go haywire with sugar rushes--bouncing off the walls and pretending to draw a mouse-eared intro with retro flair. Their ancient genomes were unable to process additive sugars; the outcome of over-consumption causing projectile vomiting or blackouts--simultaneous panic attacks in doing something that was naughty added a frosted layer of paranoia to a hectic situation. Athena was always left ensuring nobody died during the game, as she was the lady of Liberty and Justice--painted as wearing teal bed sheet and hand crafted crown. The parameters of life, where Athena were dressed the part of a caring sister--grumbling in a kingly garment and held suspect to the missing case of a local jogger and a particular childhood had splintered off into its own timeline, the pages of which were printed out and sold to none.

Artemis had swaddled Athena with a one-shouldered bed sheet to rule “the land”, and sighed--knowing she’d have to explain the ridiculousness to a woman with a harsh judgement of comedy and tragedy in few words than the ones comprising of her temper. Artemis crafted a crown of glitter: giggling that her sister’s confusion and sky-turned eyes looked pissed...a silent stare said a lot with that lady. For whatever reason--Artemis had been the tendered part of Athena’s heart: snickering about a baby sister ruling an invisible castle--taking the title of Prettiest Princess for the loot, and less for the job description. The severity of envy posing as the only threat to a Polis built upon the back-breaking studies of a shabbily-ragged leader; trapped in a moment of depreciation...a victim to time.

“Send me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse your teeming shore.” Athena hated things like whimsical poems filled with hope--such diligent words delivered with a serious conviction; meant Artemis could easily overwhelm an elder sibling...wondering why such quotes were pulled from random cargo’s pockets. Artemis would say such silly phrases in context to her day, holding up tools to her supervisor and crafting a game while surviving the burnout of a few cannons; unable to fire on all fronts--hostage to scholastic loans and the physical toll from an “essential” job during an unprecedented time.

Artemis and Athena shared the same laughter, it had once silenced the entire pub: leaving them alone with their shared bond of enjoying good drank and okay company. Artemis often called herself a peasant in her presence, only to be glared at for making a funny...half-convinced that the grumpy eldest sibling would eventually care. Athena had been bewildered by her strange charisma--eventually recalling a friend sending word of Artemis’s public performance singing somber song without band or hymn. The extracurricular tryst with public humiliation was painted as "not good." There was no shame in image of Artemis sitting nearby with a book; not allowed to listen to music at all in the home. When asked why, Artemis let out a deep breath...laughing awkwardly and explaining that they event staff had moved up her performance by two weeks to fill a half-time spot last minute. Artemis had been the star thrown on stage last minute--choosing a song that bookmarked her brand of woe, and making the most out the luck in doing the ballad with smokey scent and glossy eyes. Luck ran out for Artemis from time to time.

The lack-of-attention being given to an adolescent Artemis meant creative disposition; broadening stages and forcing the world to hear her sing off key. Athena would say beautiful sisterly things like “I have to go get Tila”, forgetting their ages and holding her small wrist as they crossed the street. Her words were full of meaning, because she meant them. Athena had healed her mind through childbirth, and then told Artemis that she could look forward to “feeling better” in the future. They didn’t share a whole lot in common--since Artemis was kind of a loser, and there was a four year age gap that teetered and waved all the time.

There was an uncanny ability for Artemis to look like their shared grandma from a distance and was often something Athena took amusement in pointing out first thing in the morning. Artemis would say “stop, this is my nightmare. Please stop”: elongating her words dramatically whenever her sister pointed out how shuffling flat feet held its own familiar glory. Artemis would roll grape or tobacco leaves over a crushed medicinal plant--Athena sitting nearer, bemused by a baby sister accidentally blossoming into their shared grandmother...down to the warm aroma of brew and morning smoke routine. Such kind reminders of their shared childhood--it served a lofty purpose to soften the edges of the hardened baby sister over time.

The path of Athena’s destruction had caught up to time.

Artemis longed for a day of peace, to be able and fix the problems of a niece--but unable to let go of the honorable title of baby sister...unless it meant a calm conversation and medical appointments being set in stone were the outcome. There was only the truths given when accountability came knocking upon the door of any other citizen: Athena had never been the exception to the rule, and careless choices would eventually catch up to her all at one time.

There was nothing but love for memories of winters--selecting trees and knowing the stand-alone task would keep Athena bed-ridden the rest of the day. Self-forgiveness came with loping it all off, and providing room for mental disabilities to work themselves out. She took it upon herself to accessorize when in moments where normalcy is or was...lacking. Athena’s propensity to prioritize the feeling of men over everyone else, meant it was a rare event where attention was forfeited to fulfill a promise rendered and half-heartedly forgotten until a giddy sister began to pester. Artemis often resorted to wearing nice linens and making a big deal out of nothing in a merry fashion; trying to give comfort to a sibling trapped in haunted house, double-and-wide--one sibling had been there voluntarily and the other was trapped as spirit. Artemis had walked up on a story of tragic probability and taken a mythical axe to its rotting base--tossing contents into a royal Trident; tucked away in a soft locker for a niece to discover with time.

She grunted, mumbling succisa virescit beneath a rasping breath; the hobby of smoke-filled lungs took a heavy toll in rushed moments--pulling an axe heavily over a weary right shoulder. The debugging of thick fir, came with the shimmy and shakes needed to prep a tree for decorations. Artemis had been an overlooked pawn in a simulation belonging to anyone but her most days: unable to gift the world with frills and complicated lies...patterns and seamed edges holding down a books spine. She were trapped in portrait too narrow to include those working double-shifts. Artemis willingly ran back to pages: jogging past scattered snows, and a plopping on a leather loveseat--sitting in observation of a conversation around a guarding white-fur beast named Jacques...being pet-sat by the Barnhills evidently; never to return home...his non-mortal struggles lost to the totality of time.

Next Chapter: *[ LIX ] Artemis and the Death Marches of the West*