Artemis stepped into a dark house filled with beasts and children. She looked over to her bestest friend Yoyo, and said and asked “Do you smell that? “Yeah, it smells like death”. Artemis loved that her friend was equally as awkward and morbidly pointed. Two people that barely found people tolerable had nothing to stop them from destroying the world, and they just happened to be women. “Smells like Todt.” Words of true disgust--those left on the breading crumbs of the actions of doctor; slicing his family out of his life, holding corpses captive for a week in sick embraces. The evil in his veins had spilled over into a pit of despair; the sewer of an entire galaxy was the reality of Tony--a mortal crowned with every right and privilege; winning all that precious beyond words, and still managing to fumble it all in one day and failing in life’s mundane Odyssey.

Artemis smirked in boredom, knowing that few would care to follow her tales of blood-filled massacres that never seemed to fucking end. Gags and yawns often slipped out when reviewing the tracks of Tony. The sleepiness of gained trauma left hazed eyes and a disinterest in surroundings to bog the mind. Bog life. Artemis grabbed Yoyo’s hand in a panic; yawning and staring at checkered tiles and a bowl of fruit soaking in dairy. Simple images captured with spells of nostalgia--were the few underlining totems laying in the basin of a primordial souped-up timeline. The theme of dread held a poem together by a thread. “On no...I think we’re in Burke’s house”: her body began to tremble without hesitation-pleading for legs to flee past a basement--tear filled eyes left Artemis frozen in fear. Petrified resounding echoes enclosed over the sterilized room-sweeping in its imagery, clicking and winding pulling paragraphs through a pinhole in time.

On a less-than routine trip wandering to a desolate planets--Artemis and her crew had stumbled upon the sands of legacy; squiggled sands and dunes crafting scenery--mad, grunge, and action-packed to the max. A guarding Sphinx had transported them to a dimension where all the beasts and children were left to their wicked vices. Artemis was only afraid of the one beastly creature, who somehow always came to existence in the visual form of a childish shadow. She couldn’t back out of the pages, even if it had been an option.

“This isn’t right, we need to leave...like, right now dude.” Artemis was afraid for the safety of her friend-the biases of assumption in the shadows identity; predictive worry in the things capable of such a creature--left a taste of pending danger in her mouth. Something was wrong with the taste of the air; it held a pungent taste of decomposition and dusted heaviness. Just as she turned to usher her friend to flee; the splashing flicking of scene flashed to disguise a door from a door.

Each time Artemis reached for an antique handle: a hissing boy holding a bowled haircut, dawning small boots and poopy hands appeared before them. He seemed to be in a trance of sorts, walking around with a bowl of decaying pineapple: doused in soured dairy. “But I’m...I’m basically going on with my life...you know?” Artemis began to recoil into a ball, heaping upon the floor as she suffered a panic attack. “What...is happening?” Yoyo had a way of observing things in a very calm manner: the image of Artemis standing tall--ceasing tears at last...taking a calm step off with a calm breath left Yoyo trapped in a spell reaching out to catch the burden of Artemis’s deep sorrow.

Burke walked up to Artemis and handed off a tightly threaded cord; plastering a trickster smile and painted spell of wicked intent across a room of swirling colors. The ancient artifact left Artemis feeling a rage built in the silence, too violent for words. The were trapped in a basement dimension; falling into a spiral of sadness and undiminished self-hesitation with every breath. “What is it?” Yoyo observed as Artemis took the cord blindly and dropped it upon the black and white checkered floor; there was no fire, but the item burnt her to touch such selfishness.“It’s from my favorite toy”: Yoyo heard the boy chirping with pride, was smirking upwards as he stared hungrily for a reaction to consume--there was no trace of childish innocence in his expression. Artemis began to whimper: waiting a sibling holding similar masks of childish demurring facade to appear once more. Dianne loved the hypothetical game of guessing how Artemis would die and or suffer. It was past time that was chalked-up to being sibling-esque games, taken too seriously as the butt of every joke. Artemis was frozen; trapped in a game within a game: lucidly accepting that they had fallen into the dimension where Burke had craftily “played” with a toy garrote, and no one had deterred Dianne’s Ruth-less "jokes".

Yoyo looked around worried: what was being said, didn’t always match up to the words or actions of those trapped within a room. Why had the boy began smirking and chuckling to himself? Artemis began to trace the steps of her fallen friend, eventually picking up a cord and nestling in around her neck with a shocking calmness. Nothing had been wrong, no event too grandeur-- for the causation of suicidal ideation to take the reigns. Artemis had said things like "I’ll see you later...sounds good to me...", closing a door and acting as though tomorrow was guaranteed all while measuring out the strength and tightness of looped necklace.

A smile had replaced fear; for a split second, Artemis was no longer disappointed with how her life had turned out, left unable to be annoyed that the only man that could help her was now and forever deceased. There was nothing left, but the surface level beauty, and a misdiagnosis eating away at her soul. She was trapped in sterile hallway; tucked away in numbness and the surrounding voices that fell over hollow walls. The range of lostness had found new depths; indifference had taken over.

Artemis awoke in Yoyo arms. Hugs had anchored the sorrow to a bay far beyond reach. The woeful tears of a confused child had fallen upon the shoulders of a woman willing to listen, too concerned to stand by and do nothing will children suffered. Yoyo tucked Artemis into nap after nap; unaware she was practicing for future motherhood but able to shoulder the burden of fixing what needed to be fixed while others slept. Yoyo was Artemis’ third best friend--after the devastating loss of Buckles and her exodus from allowing the Viking to walk all over her life. Yoyo couldn’t hide the inflections of worry in her voice when attending to a friend that seemed unable to stop crying and so she took to task of unorthodox inspo: collecting up every “inspirational hoe” she could find, and accidentally allowing men to delay traffic with a swaying army built around loose specifications. The volunteered, and the men found in Artemis’s reality--were two very different types of audiences. Yoyo had avoiding bringing Orion, as she found him to be “dumb”, and constantly reminded Artemis that she could do better--he was the unwinnable argument that they both avoided having. The arrival of his jock-inspired scent was somewhat of a comfort to Artemis; Yoyo couldn’t deny the implications brought on whenever Orion was found silently checking-in on Artemis out of “boredom”.

Artemis began to wail and scream her wishes to go home; slicing injuries into her face out of habit of discomfort. Her childhood was riddled with mutilation aimed at beauty undeserving; pain being offered as fair compromise by captors for over a decade. Her life revolved around an unexplainable loneliness--perpetuated by success and the skill of never needing a man to fulfill, solve or mend problems. The air was better kept, without hateful arguments filling it up, and Artemis was comfortable existing as her own entity--unable to be enmeshed in a toxic family. An insoluble laughter had caused a simulation to stir awake; if only to tell a tale with no formidable exit.

The boy began to stab Artemis with the two prongs of a toy track--meant for miniature silver chariots and childish wonder. As always--Artemis was left the victim to circumstances unchangeable, helpless in fighting back. He began to scavenge his oversized home for a tool to better torture Artemis, and Yoyo felt un-eased by his choice in wielding a paintbrush, as he blindly searched in the dark for his unarmed prey and her golden hair.

“What the fuck.” Yoyo grabbed the art supply from his small hand, and turned to watch as Dianne appeared out of thin air...attempting to kiss Artemis as she wept upon the floor. “Are you kidding me?!” Yoyo hadn’t any way to defend the broken woman from the misery that followed her in the depths of the night. She pushed Dianne away--handing her a candle as a last-ditch effort to save the girl that was blinded by her kindness, deaf to words of warning, and almost dumb when it came to understanding criminal intent.

Yoyo hugged Artemis--shielding her from the self-doubt bringing on the curse of endless tears. No amount of words or wealth could fix the brokenness of Artemis’s childhood--to be an outcast in a den of monsters, had built the premise of a game--where an orphan held a golden compass of moral, protecting it at costs. Sanity relied on someone taking the path of most resistance, and choosing the more-complex, enlightened path--paved with horrific darkness, pebbled by resilience and self-efficacy. Artemis began to speak...explaining how she was indescribably sorry for having attempted suicide on a random day. She remained patient; listening to the Yoyos words of confusion, as to why Artemis had been so casual throughout the early parts of their day. Despair had swallowed a day on routine--replacing it with burdened disagreement to what reality should feel like. Artemis looked away in shame...she hadn’t the heart to tell her friend of the things Dianne had done to her as a child without consent, and she knew that most people couldn’t ever understand the terror-filled confusion that came from disagreeing with a family member that had already shown their cards and capabilities.

Artemis began blindly clamoring on the floor, scratching around in the dark and attempting to find words to paint the picture needed. “The book….Patsy marked the book.” Words--that were meaningless to someone that had never met Burke, but meaningful beyond words to Artemis and her small army of sleuths and admirers. Yoyo returned with a book that was frayed and tattered--a worn-in self-help guide that Patsy had once been “interrupted” in reading remained a clue in the abyss of unsolved mysteries. Probable deniability began to lighten the sadness laying as fog blanketing the citizens--those trapped wandering in house, forever unable to be called a home.

It would only be a matter of time, before Yoyo began rifling through to find the folded clues aimed at a chapter explaining incestual attractions and abuse. Artemis felt Yoyo growing frantic, exhausted by a worthless story--abnormal and fucked. up. “What is this?!”: it was funny to think of her best friend reading away in nook, talking to a spooky friend, afraid of the worst story ever--curled away in a corner and mending injuries of battles-long-passed. Artemis couldn’t even say the word spooky; without a hint of worry and disbelief in her voice. She waited for Artemis to find the necessary verbiage to explain her highly-delayed and disrupted search for such a curious book. “Lena...Dianne’s other name is Lena”. Artemis had a way of leading her way through the unknown with a blind confidence, the probabilty of being right, the skill of ganrering spellbound words came from the brevety of placing bet on one’s self--or placing ballot in a thankless cesspool of corruption. The house was going to win.

Yoyo looked around at the children left abandoned in one room, peering down a hallway full of monsters...attempting to break down each and every door and to better protect those trapped in a simulation gated by a single red door.

“I don’t want to be Tila anymore”: Artemis was filled with anguish that left her deaf to the endless words of encouragement--stranded in hallway without exit. Yoyo was left searching out and finding the voices of the Kind-Hearted Hunters, as they were the only ears that Artemis valued enough to tell the truth to. They had held her while letting her manage and cope with insurmountable anger. “Before you guys--I was so alone...what happens if I have to go back to being alone?” Her voice broke; fragmented by disbelief in what little luck life had provided, causing a crack in a persona of unbendable strength--stunned silence replaced the dreaded words meant to rattle any parent, unsure of how to carefully tread the waters of such threatening isolation.

Artemis waited for their kind kind and reassuring words to guarantee that they’d always try to be there; always attempting to reach their voices into a sterile hallway--void of joy an self-security. Artemis repeated herself until the right voices matched the right bodies--watching murmurs and answers fall from the mouths of those standing guard.

Artemis had asked Yoyo to help unscramble the trauma that debilitated her neurological receptors, and she had gone and retrieved adults fitted for the task. They had said things like “thank you for sharing”...knowing that her suffering was beyond anything that any parent could manage. They also held a line of defense whenever stories of childhood abuse fell in words meant to express forgiveness or reasonings for the torture of an unprotected infant. All Artemis knew--was that evil existed in the world, and that her existence was somehow tangled up in the countless stories of children being held more accountable than the perpetrators inflicting pain.

Artemis stood up at last, and stared down upon a small boy...stabbing away at her thigh; holding a smirk and violently jabbing away at flesh with a toy that was bent in a smoothing right degree. “That’s enough Burke.” The child was maniacal with a calm rage--carving away at her tissue along an adult-framed torso: his glistening eyes darting across mutilated artwork. The strange boy began moving his wrist in a manner that suggested whisking upwards, but since Yoyo had taken away his “toy”...he was left stirring the air in front of Artemis and her tall pelvis. “John. Come get your son please.” Artemis was now lucid, angry that her body had been volunteered as a prop to a psychopath child in a spooky house. A weasley man appeared from thin air...asking why his ex-wife wasn’t “taking care of him”. “She’s dead John...she lived in fear of the truth, and it eventually crashed her entire immune system. There aren’t enough funds in this entire fucking world...that could ever help your son.”

Artemis hated being bad at things--whether it was helping others, or cooking simple dishes. A disparaged heart remained sprinting in the directions of Orion in her moments of weakness and insecurity. Her heart pounded, the reminiscent of her struggling soul shuddered: Artemis often felt his casual resentment in her Bones. She was forever trapped in a hallway of self-doubt; searching for a man that had barely set foot in frame.

Artemis felt pathetic in her unrelenting love of this one mortal, and it bothered her--that he took obvious advantages of her need to be admired by him alone. The world began to seem painted with her words and colors, each surface splashing emotions that bleed over the outlines of objects. Her love of love, left Artemis--surrounding herself in a gold blanket given by the mighty Kind-Hearted Hunter: Mel.

Artemis aspired to be unmoving--much like the woman named after no reincarnated warrior; a woman that managed to avenge her own name each lifetime over. She had handed Artemis a knitted blanket, and reminded her of a peaceful time where Artemis had fallen asleep outside and awoken with a silky golden throw blanket nestled over her unapologetic sins. Artemis was loved. Protected from the elements and shielded from the dangers of herself: finally allowed to make uncomfortable missteps and be reminded that friendship was rare, and earned by methods of practice and patients. Mel had inspired Artemis to write a book without mentioning it, after observing Mel writing an entire song overnight. She had never known of such art to be so raw and therapeutic, such commitment, such drive...held the off-chance to inspire a bleak world. Artemis often wondered if her dreams and nightmares--were only tales of her past, or the overlooked forewarnings of an emphatically darkening future.

Artemis left her void to make new friends--to practice her skills in social interaction through practice and repetition: the talent of being easy to talk to, was no longer a curse to be avoided. She’d return in times of woe to the cave of moodiness, needing to stew and mend in threaded moments of helplessness. Artemis began to weep: Mel had accidentally put herself in a situation of danger, and Artemis had fallen quiet--wringing awful hands burdened with bloodless crimes. Some stories were too personal for Artemis to hold. The closeness in friendship left Artemis struggling--small hands tied to the facts of mortality. The things that had come to pass with Mel were thrown into a box of the inevitable--things that occurred before company was kept close to her heart. All Artemis could do was listen patiently, and worry about the things given permissions to grant worry over; like her eyesight worsening, or the placement of feathers in her wild red hair.

Artemis used her favorite day--a magic-filled moment in the yearly dreariness, to accessorize the mundane with twinkling lights and presents galore. Thankfulness was expressed when Artemis used phrasing like: “I was really alone before you guys, and I hurt myself...I was really sick and I didn’t know how to tell anyone.” It had taken a handful of professionals to lessen the burden of knowing that she had given up on the facade of victim for three whole minutes. Artemis had selfishly shrugged: forgetting that a dangling corpse would have made a lot of people...indescribably sick. Her grief knew no limits...it was confined by no boundaries. Artemis had survived the worst of the storm: reaching into its eye to seize it from the darkness. An orphan from birth--robbed of consideration to be an apple to one’s eye, a person unworthy of fighting for.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to be ok”. Life was dull, lamed by the winds of chaos, the discord of stupidity and unkindness had brought out the cloudy underbelly of billowing stampedes of the nimbo-form blanketing the sky. The citizens often found ways to point out or acknowledge that something was lingering in the air. Something felt so unsettling to those born with the blinded privilege of holding one’s head above the clouds. Artemis had elevated an entire generation, by bringing the suffering to rain down upon the the crowns of the citizens. They were spawned into scenes of great disparity; given the chance to be standing behind Artemis holding a stance meant to provide coverage to a surrounding ambush.

Two arms: ink’d and announcing rounds of ruthlessness, swiftly moved in weaving motions...there was no nervous laughter--in lucid scene; where Artemis had enlisted to serve a Nation and accidentally excelled in dangerous operations of extraction and stealthily excused ambition to bend morality to a pin-pointed scope. Whether that meant pushing out her thoughts of agon, or to admit a shrill scream into the universe--her common addiction to a legal substance...the suffering added to a women born to no one--added expectations of those that cared for Artemis had paid off. Poems and stories of an orphan undefeated--was a reality worth living for. Artemis had learned the hard ways, that valor was her most redeemable and invaluable trait.

She learned how to craft an intricately beaded tapestry; built with an added dimension raised by the realistic ugliness that seeped deep within the endless pages. Artistry flowed without the glassed vices: she had faced the mirrors--a man given the chance to embrace potential evil at its core. To be mortal--meant the tests of intent, the bending of will--the need to find commonality in agreement to social contracts, basic and flexible to the disabilities provided through adversity.

The image of distress of man’s soul could be painted by a portrait of Artemis embracing her reflection one moment, and eventually breaking character with another image of her screaming aimlessly--bleeding freely from her tear ducts. Artemis was finally free to be woeful...she was held up by three kind individuals--hunting for a talents in song, and finding Artemis holding a high-set ponytail humming along to a silly tune.

Life along the shores of indifference no longer swept Artemis off her feet. She felt their embraces as the held their backs to the clashing waves; hopelessly shielding an abandoned child; anchored to a fate of star-loved woman. They had heard a small voice sobbing in the distance, holding a conversation upon a vacation built around traveling through time. Enterprise tourism had meet the static edges of an Ancestor Simulation--boxing Artemis into a story where she was chained and beat down to the barest of person.

Marv stood taller than the rest--looking past the waves unending in the direction of a woman kneeling alone, hair washing over hunched shoulders and small breaths being given a chance to meet the waters that dripped delicately over her button nose...he held his arm high to block out the sunlight; giving her water and a kind ear to practice speech upon.

He had found Artemis after pointing true West, seeking songs given--the tall man left momentarily kneeling to a woman famed for her song many moons ago--married since the beginning of times without child, gifted with celebrity in due respect. Both had stumbled upon a tall Warrior woman with flaming hair--Mel had been the messenger between a couple a young woman displaying covert tendencies, dedicated to living upon an island of insufferable isolation. Mel often informed the petite songstress, of Artemis drifting to sea--lost in the thoughts of self-harm and the thrill of a grape-filled night. The three had tethered themselves to one another, and began to hold a line against the currents. Their struggles--following from her burdening existence in the world; had brought tears matching the might of the waved that slammed harshly over their outstretched arms. There was no merry moment--opening time and space, to manifest a tale beginning with a crew of travelers finding a body floating face-down along the shore. Their dedication to changing the world, had led them directly to her wavering voice. The three had taken turns unlocking her constraints and eventually dragged a grey haired, nameless woman ashore--building fire, and waiting patiently for her to regain consciousness.

They had seen a passerby: asking questions as to her weighted leathers, thrashing around in the waves--slopping in debris and her sadness in being seen a spectacle. The stranger informed Artemis that her culture was fascinating--her adversity in existing was a wonder to behold. The indifference to modernity had left Artemis to be a relic on his shelf on knick-knacks--the defeated Warrior, crawling along the shores of victory. This is what dreams had been made of, right?

Artemis awoke in the arms two strangers, confused as to why they were gazing down upon her with an unfamiliar admiration. They had seen her naked body and decided to protect it instead of raping it: which was all Artemis had known before she had walked out to greet the ocean. It had been the pushing point to her sanity; the need to live a day without being considered victim to the actions of others had finally taken its toll. They brought her cloth after cloth, but nothing fit right--which resulted in Artemis choosing to de-robe at random moments...it was quite the silly curse to have. The appreciation of fashion was what Artemis would be famous for, but alas...she chose to be near-naked most days; drunk in her denials. Her “whoredom” brought crowds to stare and jeer at her expense, and at some point they began to hold their hands to their mouths and mock Artemis. Annihilation had been the lesser of their crimes, but history had yet to be rounded out by the surviving generations. The three linked arms and formed a shield around Artemis, only asking that she sleep and regain strength. They had desperately believed that there was someone out there...that could help clothe her outside of their loving grasps.

Life had been unkind to Artemis, cruel beyond all words. There was nothing left, but the travels of a wanderer-blinded by love, deafened by mean words and intentions and dumb to the emotions of others. There wasn’t enough spare love in the world, to bring comfort to an orphan walking along a darkening path. There was only anguish, and the tears that built up the oceans roaring away in the background.

One day a man was walking by hallowed shores--reading a book about the moon and the stars. He peered around the crowd that had lined the shallow cliff overlooking the shore: amused that the masses had congregated to make rude remarks in a savage tongue. They chopped away invisible war tomahawks, and raised a mocking hand over a butthole shaped mouth.

Artemis said nothing. She wept over the waters dancing over a kneeling calve, and attempted to wipe away the tears of embarrassment that came from feeling unwanted. The discomfort of sandy embraces, the shelled compliments given by settlers--those excited to compare her dying race to an exotic species.

There was nothing to be done. History had already written itself. The kind engineer closed his book eventually--giving the scene undivided attention at last...finally having pushed past the rows of strangers wearing red caps--rambling away. He looked at the situation with confusion. The commotion focused on the eye of a storm; an injured woman, naked and chained to the land.

To be kind at heart, meant moments of brevity--an ounce of freedom given in the form of an olive branch. To be openly appalled by the ignorance--accidentally stumbled upon in the midst of routine. The strangers had resorted to throwing trash at the human struggling to stay with shoulders facing the sky. One day she knelt over--flopping onto compressed sands; stone and cold. She remained a body laying bare upon the sand--where eventually a passerby handed the engineer an object to throw, and invented him to join in the “fun”.

The man looked around at his company at last--sprinting back to his offices, and frantically collecting items as he prepared to return shore side. The man lowered himself down eroding terrains--sliding into view of a battlefield without grace, clinging to loose gravels that crumbled away beneath his hands. There was no stability beneath each step, no cliff to hold his weight as he tumbled toes-first. There was only a free-fall to provide him security in doing the right thing--tangible kindness offered little-to-no support in reasoning during the moments of true discomfortability. All he had known: his sense of patriotism was eroded overnight by the actions of a few screaming individuals, held up by a stranger holding anchor in the violent waves.

He tapped the tallest Kind-Hearted Hunter on his shoulder--saying nothing as he handed off a blue cloth badged with patches, guarding a single zipper that trailed down the front. They offered the cloth to Artemis, as she lay crying and gazing at the ocean longingly in a trance--mouth gaping, words failing, senses overwhelmed by the saline falling to and from the mumbles of a woman--too disappointment by life’s circumstances to care.

The offering had been sufficient to break her spell, her eyes filled with pride as stares of undeserving confusion boiled over. "It’s so blue!" Artemis peered around; left in disbelief that nobody noticed the blueness of the deepest blue. She sat up slowly: tilting her head from side-to-side like a calm tide ebbing over a steep terrain. The cloth turned a collared uniform into an aspiration that churned something alive in a scientist--longing to build evidence in adversity providing for a community. To build nothing from a life lacking a scale of extraordinarily fairness had been a bare and straight forward-enough task.

Artemis turned to the kind man, smiling at last and wondering how he had stumbled across such a tragic tale of a mortal--only to realize he was simply a man; embracing his shadow as well, and all of its undignified glory. The single-piece outfit was the color of the ocean that she had loved so dearly--its hues unforgiving, strict in the beliefs of unbridled success, and the counterpart of imminent failure.

All systems had failed upon her birth: all parts of normality were not nominal to the peers that easily discarded, mocked or or judged an orphan attempting to reach the stars above. Artemis began to mumble “thank you”, and the Kind-Hearted Hunters stepped back in relief--the woman had finally found the words to articulate gratefulness in a meaningful tone. For whatever reason: the man decided to thank Artemis instead--whether it was for existing, or maybe to just say the right thing--at the right time...the words meant more than decades of medicated therapy and she had been longing for anyone to realize just how much surviving each day had brought on agonizing pains that held her captive to the clamoring of the ocean shore.

To be ineradicable, meant a life laying face down in the shorelines--adrift, tumbling over with the symptomatology of a lovesick individual. To be out of love with life, stemmed the larger issues of a childhood uprooted upon a single trip around the sun. The stripped away opportunity for one to experience childhood had been deducted to the unholiest of occurrences. The ipso facto crudities implied by having one’s child ripped away from a mother; couldn’t be contained as a soul speck of evil...causing its remould to split away--ever so slightly causing a rip in a dimension. A machine had been powered on, and a weaselly creature had cause delay in operations; a beam of hopelessness, irreligiousness sparked in moment of science gone wrong. This had been the moments peace, where life was wrapped up into the single emotion of wrongness.

Artemis had caught a sense of metanoia, preparing bulwark in the rare--but, not impossible theory that an elder sibling may commit crimes at the alter of passion. To be the solution to a made up problem, cursed in existing outside of the frameworks of childhood constraints and stunted expectations.

Artemis had found a way out--an exit from the simulation of Dianne; stomping into the shorelines and allowing the world to wash away at what was left out her humility. A wretched sibling and a disassociating personality held no cogent responsibility to the other, and Artemis had seen the threads of enmeshment pooling at her thin ankles. The shameless waves of commensurable force held Artemis hostage to a shoreline of unforgiving sands. No amount of time could bring sluice to the woes of Artemis’s dampened soul. No amount of forgiveness could ease the guilt she felt for existing.

One strange foggy day: a man walked up to Artemis, settling himself into her life, and handing off a wonderful blue cloth in a casual moment of introduction. "I had read about your work." the man had known that Artemis changed history--carrying a different type of legacy for her love of fire. She had climbed to Mt. Olympus--declaring herself to be faster than the speed of sound...breaking a barrier of oppression, and sprinting past a finish line meant only for the pale-the highly educated, entitled engineers that had proceeded her sparkly arrival. Life had brought her tumbling down, spiraling in times of opportunity.

She’d awake; ready to pester an intellect--questioning his water intake, preparing a smirk for whenever random questions were hurled in her direction. Meetings were met with smiles and sleepy eyes. Artemis gained the strength to sit up once more, afraid of letting everyone down--the crew of strangers held her arms over their slumped shoulders; dragging small feet along the sand, watching as toddler-like stomps became gentle turns--the playful toes of a ballerina warming a stage. Her body had been irreparably damaged from the endless darkened waves, stubby toes dragged along the tides of reality--marked by the smell of fresh fish, and the harsh waters tearing her from limb to limb over the span of eternity.

The crowds along the shores began to recede in volume--bored of their own tirades, unable to defend their own counterpoints. The range of acceptance fell and pressed on like a high tide, its waves stumbling to apologize for the things that came naturally. Chaos brought on a lingering scent of death; it attracted the citizens clamoring to the brims of their red toques. The rushing tides of Democracy held no biases, no reason to declare a color to be all it needed to be, and then some. Representation and tribalism had brought death upon the land, striking up armies in its wake--of elders left behind, those left without the system updates needed to thrive in an accepting society.

Elders had often strolled by; demanding anecdotal tales of her journey to a developed Nation and back. Up until the Kind-Hearted Hunters--the staged life had been all she’d known. To sit in the silence comfortably, or pay mind and due respect to the older generations as a past time. Minor inconviences fractured whole families, and forced on a whole generation forced to be left to pay the steepest of consequences--those gifted by their distant but-not-gone, relatives of the sort. The direct cause and affects of nurturing environments could be seen with a single scene--of elders surrounding a nearly-always-naked woman chained to the shore, and no home-arena advantages to hold the line. A towering audience began to gather in a slop -line, noses turned up as they hurled trash below a rocky cliffline--crowned with agots and arrowheads. Surrounding pattrons shuffled by, asking a few questions here and there, and foregoing the depth of horrific answers given by a young woman--cursed to survive as a loveless fate, a woman unworthy of pity to the parading men with blue eyes.

They had come to poke at a dead corpse that washed ashore--and found the audacity to be annoyed when she came alive on command and asked that they cease with their dehumanizing tacts. They were terrorists. They left their waste to collect alone the tides--frivolous in how they treated the one planet they had ever known. True entitlement. Eventually the crowds would trudge along, moseying by as though they hadn’t just berated a stranger with their expectations--returning homes in their unending boredom. They disrespected the land, and needed forms of entertainment to get them by.

The wickedness of doing nothing had washed itself up along the shores that had kept Artemis chained to the land. They had brought corruption to the waters edge, gifting it haphazardly to all those that held order in a world filled with unspeakable evils. Entitlement and all its glory--had been willingly given away for a man named Adams to succeed--holding key and title; only to bend over an entire metropolis with his actions and to fuck them deeply and passionately. His soft whispered promises were of no value to the citizens, as they’d always be left stranded with their emotions--naked and alone with the distortion of sentiment found in the words "beyond reproach".

Artemis didn’t declare herself to be a good person, nor did she hold a public office most days. The mere chance to represent a world of wonder, an office of reasoning and sciences had helped Artemis press on--crawling slowly away from the depths of shores. She began to drag along the chains of oppression, pulling anchors ashore little by little. All the while the Kind-Hearted Hunters took turns holding her head above the waves, leaning up against her failing spine and slowly fixing the disarray of hairs nesting upon her bowed crown.

“Come get your trash!” Artemis had begun fighting back in moments of boredom, screaming at strangers as they walked away with ignorant pride. Her company took mild amusement at Artemis caring about silly issues, often asking her to calm down, or to evaluate how much of the issue fell within her control. Brattiness was a response that only certain types of patience could manage and appreciate. Luckily--Artemis, had found the one crowd that took immense entertainment in her stoney stares and glares.

She walked along the cliffs-edge and began chuckling the heavy trash upwards; tossing waste into the crowds spitting over an edge of the ocean shore line. She lugged items blindly--in the hopes of thunking an asshole with their own waste. “That’s enough kiddo.” The smallest of the Kind-Hearted Hunters had taken the voice of a gentle mother hen, and often reminded Artemis to utilize her anger in more efficient ways. “Fine...I needed that anyways.” Artemis retorted snarky remarks that she’d eventually have to back up with actions, even if it was something as mundane as declaring ownership over someone else’s trash. She had been raised to be fair, well-rounded, reasonable and most important: to be kind. Artemis collected endless waste, and began to grind it into fine-shredded-pellets: she had set out to prove that her existence was more important than theirs by creating a strong impact on the environment surrounding them. Man’s legacy was built upon his own efforts, and in a town hand-crafted by Mr. Benson; Artemis had a high bar to pass. Nights were used to heat and metal to squeeze the trash into new forms, to craft words meant to bring in financial incentives to future laboratories.

People began to seek out her lectures--show casing exceptional feats of building something from imagination, from draft to prototype and then some. Artemis had crafted a professional life--holding out her wee mighty fist and displaying useful objects one at a time, expressing how plentiful the future of close-looped systems could be in missions traveling amongst the stars. Her respected friend, known for his intellect and fast-slung questions--would wiggle his bushy brow in amusement and sigh with a patient breath. Sometimes he had to put checks and balances on her tone, reminding Artemis that sometimes men chose to hear her voice as filled with nag, instead of inspiration--or that her smile and silence often left men in general, thrown from their own questions...left speechless by her undivided attention.

He wasn’t an easy man to impress--but Artemis did it quite effortlessly on the daily. She found no sense of reasoning when he mentioned her physique. He was mildly annoyed that she also held a strange ability to entertain the masses, and to drop the act of a choir girl in moments of enthusiasm--as she engineered intricate objects out of thin air and lost control over her tone as she yelled “I made that shit!”. Artemis would wave her hands in explanatory motions, hyping herself up and gazing across audiences for the gesturing nod from her kind boss--whether it be to lower her voice, or slow down the tempo in the words falling in lecture form. “Opppp…sorry sir.” A simple thought that could span past a multitude of mistakes. Artemis would apologize with a massive smile that made her cheeks glisten--skin stretched tightly with her agreed, quirky charm--a sense of being content splashed across her face, it was a trait that she had harnessed in the midwest: of taking joy in the things directly in front of her, and to spread moments of okay-ness to others. He’d turn away in a swerving chair whenever he was done coddling her ego, and Artemis respected him too much--as to take up his valuable time. “Ok, byeeee”...Artemis would giggle in guile, as she returned to her position guarding the valued time in her open office as the first line of defense. Artemis valued the silence, as a single woman living alone most days. He valued an audience, married and stationed in the same moment of based expectation. Much like their home base: Artemis’s life had very much felt like a failed project, where the shell of normalcy had been deconstructed and sold for parts. Together...the platonic duo were proud to be destined in changing the world.

One day, Artemis began crafting a tapestry of tales: riddled with her friendship with the Viking, it was romanticized and gory in its contents--a distraction for equations about aquatic propellers. The poem had been inspired, but even she didn’t believe in its outcome, men like the Viking--never chose the path least paved. The fear of rejection had left him still as a stone; left holding out a friendly arm as if handing off an orange sphere and holding a whistling device in his mouth.

She felt guilt in admiring his swift stride, he had been brought back to life with colorful words--meant to help a childish girl dissect a confusing relationship with nothing to anchor itself to. Artemis had taken drafts of games, child-made riddles meant to remind her of a quest to draft a game within a game--to parse identity, threaded lies meant to compile a truthful portrait. Artemis painted the word BENNET in dripping letters, the sloppy word was meant to build off of the old--to reprise the overlooked and undervalued, and create a soundtrack mashed-up by two deflecting friends, avoiding fleeting moments of sexual attraction and the need to establish expectations in the other.

One day--a strange boy arrived in her life glaring at both Artemis and the Viking in disappointment. The strangers had held joy in each other’s company without permission from an absent husband. The sins of a wife, unwed and living in a timeline before the main introductory to a life of marital bliss. Spite had landed Artemis and Orion to be stranded in moment of time where she had been angry beyond all words, willing to burn the world down in his absence.

Orion only cared that Artemis had loved or cared about other men before him--the depth of his pettiness knew no bounds. He had never known of the woman that took prideful strides in the rain, laughing and leaning into moments charmed by the Viking offering a cover from the drizzle--and she denying it over the fact his vanity in hairdo was something she’d cater to on any given Monday.

High-maintenance was the Viking’s middle name. Artemis had found his lack in demureness to be cute, and had spent years catering to his many moods--relishing the days filled with aimless flirtation and strong athletic competition. Their inability to be compatible upon wooden courts had caused a giant crack to break into a splintering and undeniable realization on a random Wednesday.

Artemis hid away her memories in words and short stories that were never to see a warm press machine. The girlish crushes that kept her cheeks filled with blush, and spirits held high--were the the few things that kept her studious head above water on certain days. Artemis had returned to a time before Orion’s demanding love and admiration had bore a black hole into her chest...missing a time where the three Kind-Hearted Hunters were hers alone, and before he’d find the chance to charm her favorite intellect--in a way that struck her with jealousy. The Viking had been unwinnable, undefeated by Orion’s strict bow’d charms--forever holding the line behind a woman easily swayed by bedroom activities. Artemis had forgotten who she was before their vows and her white dress.

Artemis had given up on the idea of being alone outside of their unit titleship, and resorted to begging the Viking to start up a machine that’d remind her of a time filled with sorrow and mounting woes. The segway of a cursed book was meant to recraft humility into a life without apathy, to use the strings of Rybak--and build a fairy tale meant to equalize the partnership between a distant couple. Artemis was forever the insecure wife; unable to see the man before her--too harbored by the fear of rejection to take a step outside of her ocean of misery.

One man--would hold a Sampo hostage, singing hymns in Shallou tides. The other--would hold a mirror hostage from the Orion out of arms range, asking a stranger whether his quest for desire could be considered his Finest Hour. Each man needed her love in some capacity, her friendship and all the perks that came from having a worthy advisory--wielding feelings and unmovable moods that held strict tones and tore down mountains of lies or shakiness in personalities. Armies of men had fallen at her feet--long before she had met either Orion or the Viking, they had just been willing participants upon realizing the authenticity of a soul free’d by way of mistreatment.

Artemis had known better, she’d taken great consideration on path that strayed into two paths--one leading into an unknown romance with Orion, and the other lighting a trail of friendship--where she was prized for her athletic talents, but her femininity forgotten to a man with an aging libido. Artemis had shamelessly dallied with the idea of what her life could have been like--if she’d expressed her feeling to the Viking in a more eloquent fashion. There hadn’t been any proof that such a path existed, and so Artemis had turned on heel--and sprinted into the unknown, reaching out for Orion’s leading hand.

He refused to look back at her, needing blind trust and the expression of a deep need to be comfortable in being pathetic in love. His love held high risks, but offered a higher reward to someone as exhausted as Artemis. A unsightly partner--overshadowing her life with his good looks, was not really a problem worth solving. Being his wife had been the most dangerous daydream she could encourage, and now Orion seemed adamant on dragging her to chapel by her hand...if it meant his day was easier somehow: Artemis had no choice but to remain silent. She’d see her future filled with arguments as to what the sexual past between her and the Viking had been like, a wicked smirk grow--as she’d shrug off the accusations with a coy reply like “chhhh...I wish” knowing the day would pan toward a larger argument for no reason. Something that was half-truthful, and remarkably hurtful to Orion, as he believed he had been the sole-being to inspire such lustful urges in Artemis. She blushed at the mere daydream--fumbling to strip away clothes and avoiding breaking the mood by hedging past any potential arguments that could distract an old man, excited to be grumpy about something at any moment. Such a scene would involve a lot of wine on her part, as she loved the idea of the unknown: hoping that her assumptions in fantasy where the Viking was shy and gentle, were true-ish...in ways that’d make him softened along the harsher edges of his very, very enduring personality.

Artemis felt Orion glare at her over her shoulder. Murmuring and simultaneously saying “What?!” with annoyance as he peered at her without hesitation. To turn and see him reading over her shoulders was something sprung from the deepest of nightmares. Artemis caught herself sweetly saying “uhhhhh”...until she could gather explicit thoughts and bring herself into the moment and out of the pages swelling over with fantasy. “Whattt.” Artemis would toss her head aside dramatically and squint her eyes close, pretending that her vision failed in moments of such inconvenience.

Sometimes her mannerisms were large, often gesturing the depth of fed-up-ness she experienced. There was no escaping the bombastic glares of a husband being forced to read and learn of former lovers by way of poem and rhymes. She held bent arms over her head, debating whether to square up-- or to take deep breaths in response to the discomcomfort of Orion’s presence in her digi-room of solitude. There was no harm in having thoughts of another--since she was without a ring upon her finger. “I already said it!” Artemis stood by her words of crass lust towards a memory she’d never lived. Her words were dangerous--they weighed down her ability to live in the now, her ocean of woes left time prisoner to the ebb and flow of her emotions. Her sampo began to respond with his rebuttal to “her jokes”: “bitch.” The world had been covered with juice, and Artemis fell in a fit of laughter that her words were heard light-years away, as his emotions began to heat up. “I hope you’re not talking to me like that Mr. Kness.” Artemis had a way of calming his built-up anger by dismantling him with the reminder that their names were held apart by a ring he’d never given her.

Artemis enjoyed her time being single, the silence and lack of responsibility for what Orion had done in the past. She had found plenty of women that inspired her to fly, to cast her golden threads of truth until they crept into reality. One day, she walked into a “murder-house” that had a triangle protruding from the ground, and gasped at the sight of Orion being pinned up against the wall by a monster that was mad that Artemis had trapped him in a room to fuck his mother as he pleased. There was no logical reason for Orion to ever be left in a room with any of the Watts family members, lil mistress included.

The superfluous cruelty of the world had made Artemis the perfect canidate for Orion’s love--the environmental impacts of shaking grounds, sandy rugs, pulled thoughtlessly from beneath her feet. She’d awake on random days; angry that the world had yet to offer a suitor willing to meet Artemis Halfway. She had tossed and turned in the tides pulling away at the threads of whatever remained from an unraveling soul--life’s experiences had become intertwined with the stolen aspects of a childhood, unalived and unaccounted for. She was cursed to remain assiduously crawling, shameless in her need to survive the brash waves of the uncaring ocean.

Artemis began to weep, afraid that her blind faith in Orion meant that their love wasn’t able to withstand his heavy past. Sandy memories boggled her memories, the innocuous tics-and-tacks of hurting her feelings intentionally--for sadistic pleasure, or reasons of ego. Whereas, Artemis longed to rest with content--to find comfort on dry sands at best. She had no scientific proof that her ocean of woes would ever cease to exist. Plenty of strong men had battled the shrill cries of the ocean, and yet--Artemis had been one of the few, the rarest of rare of mortals...willing to hold mirror below the waters, to aid the bleeding weal of wounds splashed upon by salted waters. The crassness of such silly insult to injuries was nothing to a woman a thread away from crisis--determined to beat an unbeatable game by imperceptibly dragging her own half-alive body along a foggy shoreline.

“I don’t know what to do?!”--Artemis had forgotten how hopeless the roars fell from her chest. There was a strange sense of vulnerability without her lost husband casually catechizing husband protecting her from the monsters of the world. She collapsed and receded into suppressed memories washing ashore in heaps and sloppily-chopped waves. The apotropaic expectations of a gorgeous man needing perfection the first-time-around had come at a cost. Artemis had often been painted in portraits-snaked hair bouncing in the winds of danger, arms outstretched and defensively striding with a numinous grin. The jobbery of protecting one’s home and heart--were a trait unearned in the current life outside of the pages. Her cowardice in telling Orion of feelings too heavy to carry alone--left Artemis unarmed, unwed, and unable to become the fictive wife Orion would eventually fall in love with.

Artemis felt the clods of cold sand clumping beneath her fists--the unfairness of life felt grainy, undeniably unpleasant like the demonstrably balmy dampness of the ocean-brushed sands remaining stuck between her small fingers. Orion’s absence remained as pejorative evidence to his maturity--the proclivity to his willingness to leave her side, captured in an empty scene.

The inability to be on brand with perfection had left Artemis fumbling in the dark--crawling along brisk winds and stoney sands. This included her struggles with battling substance abuse, and overcoming sexual abuse that occurred in the youngest of years. Contempt for the things unmovable, had placed Orion in a room; pinning a whiney-bitch named Christopher to a wall.

Orion had seen Artemis at last--looking over the shoulder of the man with a shooting glance. The striking glares of expectations often brought women to their knees, or broke down their lives entirely. Artemis was no different. She had come to believe Orion could beat/break/or bend the will of the inmate with tattoo of a snake bursting from his shoulder. All it took--was for Orion to apologize, for bells of accountability to ring-for the lights of self-awareness to rise; to break her saddened trance. He had finally wondered where his wife’s thoughts raced off to when moments of despair crashed around them.

Artemis had fallen ill to symptoms of regression--sickened by a dream, clawing away at the soils below...frantically scraping nails into bloody nubs and needing to find the final resting place of her slain best friend. She turned a knuckle inward, longing to hold a weapon to a sullen temple--laughing with an unhinged lack of apology for those standing witness to true depth of her sorrows.

The simulation cast Orion in the role of obvious suspect; tossed carelessly into a box with a stranger. Neither men--had any inclination as to how they had landed in a room filled with the endless ocean. Orion held a curtain of static reasoning; needing to stay silent to protect strangers and allies. The other inmate had stood in the way of an open door; resulting in Orion holding up a forearm to defend the fleeting truth billowing past an open door. Freedom, was meant only to reward the courageous.

One day the Viking was strolling by--delivering mail and staring at his feet...as one does, and began to follow the coned scope of a couple--trapped in a device meant to blind beaked beasts. He heard the couple yelling, and realized soon after his entry into the house...that the pair were being held hostage to a boy with strange blue eyes and an ugly grin; holding court over gaudy checkered tiles. The siren was trapped in the form of a child; grinning in wicked delight, and waiting for his father to defend the actions of a creature on the prowl--a child murderer lost and forgotten to time.

Artemis awoke back on the sand, attempting to dig up a grave that seemed to be fleeting beneath bloody fingertips. One day, the fog began to settle--Artemis looked over to see a woman socially distancing herself on another plot of sand, clawing away at the cold sands. "Kyron", the woman was stuck in a trance--clamoring around on all fours and searching for the grave of her son.

She looked down upon the slurry of stone-gray sands, swallowing up frail wrists and slurping a suctioning of water as she lifted a tired hand from the thankless pit. A slow melody began to swell behind the waves trickling away at their feet, there was no reasoning On the Nature of Daylight--no true bill to bring closure to a suffering without a name. Artemis became angry--offended by all the life had offered her before tragedy struck, and the agony had brought her to the shore--anchored in grief for to the many things unchangeable.

One day the Kind-Hearted hunters had seen new smile splash across Artemis’s face; if was the smile of a woman, unfearful of a God unknown. They mentioned that a man had come by; needing assistance with a machine--temperamental and neglected. Artemis began to murmur "yea", stumbling to regain balance and falling over again and again until the Kind-Hearted Hunters told her to rest upon their shoulders. The machine needed sacrifice of maintenance and great care--and she had been the integral part of its processing unit, as the baseline for its evils--and a fair judge of its capabilities.

Each time Artemis becan to crawl away from the shores: the Kind Hearted Hunters would ask "are you ok?", and Artemis would reply "Yea." without fail. One day she beagan to pull along her half-alive body, and for no particular reason--she said "No." when being asked if she were ok. None of the things she experienced on the shores of mortality could be concieved as ok, no part of her fucking miserable life had ever been ok. The Kind-Hearted Hunters began to bustle in worry--their lost child had finally reached out for a hand for survival, and they had been there to catch her on the one day of weakness. All was right in the world, because kind strangers had seen Artemis chained to the land, waiting for a wave to sneak up upon her and give reason to be swallowed alive by the unforgiving ocean.

The annoyance of needing to care for a machine had brought out the ruder parts of Artemis--it was as though she were often one nudge from being awoken prematurely and against her wishes. The machine didn’t care who tended to it--Artemis just happened to be one of it’s many victims, chewed up, spit-out, and forgotten when the next horrific headline superseded hers. Artemis held cuffs to the shores of great sadness, one tied off with a dainty knot, the second one encrusted with precious stones--pieced together with a falling pattern suggesting organized chaos. She remained out of reach in the winter seasons; stuck with the sorrows of a life that seemed unreal, in daze of the things she felt were undeserving--unable to be grateful for a speck or grain of normalcy; in the rare chance that lightning struck the cold shores twice.

A yelling Viking had brought Artemis to smile once more; he had presumed the world was filled with sunshine and privilege and offered the bout of good luck whenever they were left to tango past unclaimed emotions. Artemis was often left dancing through life, holding in daydreams of ballrooms and suitors holding out a hand in the request of a dance. The approval of such--could be measured by a mans ability to make Artemis laugh, and were in indicator of clear waters--the bounty of healthy relationships could be seen in a single chalice, flowing over with bloody wines or crystal waters. There was no middle-range for how men treated Artemis-only intent, and outcome.

The brave man straightened his oversized Viking hat, and began to craft a situation where he could introduce himself to Artemis--needing to heal her wounds with friendship and admiration. He sat pigeon-toed behind a static- filled tapestry, and blushed at situations where his small and fiery friend was placed in a room with any man that wasn’t him. Artemis had a way with men that was built around her authenticity, giving her the nickname lover-girl to a Viking--too moody and broody to care about young love, halfway amused by the charms of woman too foolish to give up on love.

He saw the timing lining up--a moment where planets aligned just enough, to where Artemis met a rude husband. A single glance matched with a single grin could tether worlds across galaxies, to suspend a moment in time as tipping-point to life once seen as unlivable. Artemis had decided to dive head-first in the attempts to seize the opportunity of his love--sprinting toward a horizon holding the daring mission of becoming Orions only muse. The man had given nothing to her, but for whatever reason..he meant the most. Artemis had known his love was familiar--“Have we met before?” the man stared into his future, blinking with a blank expression--instantaneously shutting down undammed daydreams with an instant…”no”. Artemis giggled--unphased by how aggressive his response was--as though he needed to call her wrong, or prove that he’d remember such a meeting occurring. She waved him off, remaining indifferent to his beauty and wandering off none-the-wiser.

The Viking had been a break-out muse to a story of a heroine wandering aimlessly, and nothing else in this story of hopeless romance. Artemis respected his request that she didn’t wander and drift in and out of his life however she pleased: butting him out of her life outside of a single day in October. He was a pretty maintenance best friend, and she proved this by dedicating two chapters just for him.

It was quite the sight: seeing Orion being pinned to the wall by a man of wee and unimpressive stature. “Put him down tiny.” Artemis felt her body begin to circulate blood at a rapid pace--the splashes of adrenaline falling recklessly over her mind began preparing her for a physical altercation to the death. The mirroring worry of a man needing to survive the night, was nothing to Artemis. She knew the groveling husband would rather die a painful death, than to provide closure to a world sickened by his evil actions.

Artemis left the house of endless haunting, placing a hat with horns back upon the Viking before she departed-crooked and silly in its angle. She took immense pleasure from asking that the strange man to kneel and dawn his horns with pride. Knighting a man of another culture--had been a prophecy written in among the forgetful stars since the beginning of times, and Artemis had drafted the silliness around the single fact. The inability to be mad at the Viking had left him to a mutual candidate in a tale of lust and passion--Artemis had seen him as the middle-ground to her anger. She was often prepared for disagreements and debates with the Viking, but often remained too-bored by his lack of compassion to care about his feelings.

Artemis and her friendship with the Viking was meant only to annoy Orion into caring. It wasn’t the fur-brimmed hat of a pale warrior that incurred jealousy within Orion, but the act of her crowning another man...that’d send a ping, a short spurt of jealousy to pull at the minutes unmovable within his clocked anger. Artemis wasn’t allowed to be admired by men that were of equal caliber to Orion, true competition was rare in their world. For whatever reason--Orion was nearly intimidated by the sly grin and silver hair that tufted boyishly from beneath the Viking hat. “Weirdo”...Artemis loved winning arguments with her husband. It was her favorite thing to do: outside of eating melons comprised of mostly water and their small black seeds. Artemis left in a hurry--gathering her satchel and patting the boy with blue eyes upon his youthful head in pity. His only worry, was directed toward what would happen to him--if the world pieced together the loosening threads of a horrific story. He had no clue-what awaited him outside of the simulation his father had forced them into: Artemis had come to help keep the citizens safe, to protect a child from himself, and to barricade two parenting beasts into a home by way of the most priceless thing known to man: evidence.

“I need your help ma’am...I heard you were trained by some of the best institutions!” Artemis had a way of alarming professional women with her massive bows that sparkled in the light, and her silly giggle that slipped whenever she was nervous or comfortable in being the least intelligent in the room. The woman stood up, and said very little: Artemis had found her easily, already familiar with the name Tammy, and sharing the same tired posture and love of large necklaces and cardigans--the accents of a simpler time, a splice of time filled with party rocking, neon colors, and social nets expanding beyond neighborhoods and overseas overnight.

Artemis was swallowed into a nightmare; looking over tufts of miniature ponytails facing every which way, caring for the two toddlers causing mayhem and chaos while looking for a lost mother. The ground shook with disappointment whenever the names of Bella and Cece, nightmares became nightmares in fleeting seconds: a whirlwind of colors and fearful emotions wrapped itself in the moments of a dream where two innocuous names were whispered out loud. Artemis had been born to swallow dread, to thread away at woven stories made of fringe topics and less-pleasant parts of life. To be trapped upon the shores of woe, needing proper sleep and a nest to call home.

A loop of infinite time meant that Artemis and a wandering wife had been cursed to live ordinary lives filled with indescribable suffering. There was deep madness found in seeking the answers to life’s many questions, and the shores of fate could care less if the asker had the strength to ask. Artemis had been wandering philosopher, and Shan’ann was cast as the lost-soul-of-a-wife--left traveling the afterlife with spite and more questions than answers. Their faces could be easily pasted on characters of the past: transported back to a time of marble temples, when Goddesses walked alongside man--red lips pointing toward their inevitable failures, and delicate white cloths that draped over their shoulders. The dusk of such a regal scene made for equal sadness of a story forced to loop and lap over itself. The laws of time meant Artemis was unable to interfere with the events of cannon--those meant to elevate the empathy of mortals, and test the mortality of man by example of a single marriage.

Artemis looked around and attempted to understand what had just happened--she was back in her cell of isolation, regaining composure and glanced past Orion--half-heartily committing violence toward a stranger. How did they get there? Why would Orion be in room with such a untruthful beast? Artemis introduced Tammy to the husband brimming with lies--watching as he began to recoil by nearing proxity; reminders of a day filled with a clock ticking, and tocking away at his freedom. Athena strode up alongside Artemis and whispered girlishly in her ear until there was a small scenes of raised hands and small debates breaking up the tension. Athena made a silly face eventually and said “ok” slowly, and exhausted by disbelief of whatever conversations had passed in front of a hostile audience. “I guess you get a wish lady...what do you want?” The woman named Tammy--chose not to look around in a flurry of confusion, but gazed at the two women that seemed to be playing out a scene of false-mystics. Muses of fate were often invisible, and uncalled upon--until fate and luck were the only options available to those in trances of deep prayer and this instance had been no different.

“I want to use my ability to connect to people, and help serve in protecting the citizens.” Artemis glanced over at Athena…”that’s a really good wish...I like this lady. Man, she’s cool.” Athena nodded yes in silent agreement: which was an invaluable compliment, since she was also famous for being effortlessly cool. Artemis was always accused of "trying too hard", whereas these two women always seemed to know just what to do, or say--in a surreal way that outshined everyone around them. Artemis shook her hand and transformed her white cascading toga; into a sweater lined with chunky stripes within the flick of a scene. “That’s the coolest Tammy I’ve ever met”...Artemis and Athena stared at the marble flooring where the woman had just been standing. They had little to say to one another, but appreciated the beauty the other sibling brought into the world. Athena brought discipline and war, and Artemis brought laughter and tragedy. They had a relative named Tammy, but she fucking sucked...in a way that reflected in Artemis, in moments of hissing anger. Artemis had learned how to be “the worst” from that particular Tammy, and how to “be legendary” from the unrelated Tammy.

The next person to step in front of Artemis--was the awful couple in question, one woman with black hair and red lips, and the other a tiny man with an oversized torso and stubby limbs: he attempted to hide these odd measurements by inking himself with a snake tattoo. Artemis sighed, unable to bend the events of time. “What’s your wish”, she was too saddened to ask the bubbly woman why she didn’t leave a loveless nest of in-laws at the sight of the first red flags.

“I want our love to be famous!” The poor helpless wife grabbed the hand of her passive husband--Artemis observed, as his clubbish hand lay limp as she clasped it with a truthful eagerness that remained beyond sorrowful to anyone that knew their island of love. Artemis turned to Chris at last: “and what’s your wish?”...the man who only knew how to mirror other people, was tricked by this easily answerable question. All he had to do--was to say that he agreed, to declare that he wanted the unmeasurable love his wife offered so willingly.

Their shared greed had cast them in a portrait to be famous beyond all words. The selfish husband stared past Artemis, eyeing something or someone in the distance. Artemis had an overwhelming wave of hesitation, a tsunami of dread crash over her shoulders. Nothing could prepare her for the crazed eyes of the woman standing behind her--the predatory stance of a person lurking in the shadows, preparing for a moment of attack . He nodded and said simply in a wimpy voice: “The girl.”

Artemis held back tears--guiding the two young toddlers to a nearby doorway. She knelt down and began to whisper goodbye to a sweet young girl named Bella: “you are so brave in how well you take care of your mom and sister, and I am so proud that I had the chance to get to know you.” Artemis had crafted a book that was meant to be given to her in the next life, unable to change any of the footprints of the past. Nightmares--the unspeakable evidence of evil came in the form of two children, fated to be cast into the darkness, abandoned in caskets filled with a slicked substance, crude and toxic. Artemis had placed herself in rooms with monsters and beasts, clamoring to the belief that the stories of the innocent bore more importance than the shallow waves, forcing their way upon the shore.

Artemis stood up, forgetting their place in a Temple of Athena--brushing off robes and brimming tears at the end embraces of a kind reunion. There came a sense of valiant allegiance to two small sisters, as Artemis had once been called upon with the childish name of chaos, and held a crown of hectic ponytails--Athena had been the silent nurturing sister...ready to defend a baby sister with her own life. Artemis turned and solemnly relayed a single warning to the wife that would remain forever disappeared--“If you lock this child up in the dark with only her books and tears...your husband will murder you.” The hands of fate held no reason to lie--the clock of mortality held faced numbers that were events, marked by people--unable to be guessed until moments passed. Artemis knew that there was no such thing as a perfect mother, but she couldn’t help but try and warn the wife of the sickness her tale of “famous love” would cast over the world.

“You are so loved Cece, and you deserve better grandparents.” Artemis sniffled at the thought of Celeste being left at the mercy of her vile grandparents. They were the worst, and Artemis had awful grandparents herself, so the feat was a pretty mighty task to achieve. There was no reassurance of their love for slaughtered children, only the payout of insurance for the wicked deeds of their favorite child--an idiot son painted gold at the hand of Cindy. Artemis thought secretly that Cindy just liked the detail of painting his private parts with a fine brush--a task the simulation would bring to life with a veil of static. It became difficult to hold the squirming toddler in an embrace, as though she could sense the violent fate in motion or maybe the discomfort of being in a room with spiteful grandparents and a forgiving auntie. Artemis handed Cece off to her "father"...just in case she forgot which grandparents she had cast harsh judgement upon.

A senate of half-Gods and beasts had comprised a game meant to alter the hands of fate--to fast track diagnosis and criminal proceedings, wrapped in a room depicting the calming rage of an unforgiving ocean. She had arrived upon the shores; trotting upon the back of a majestic white animal, armed with two lost children and a tale of immense sorrow. Artemis paused and said: “wait”...grabbing the two girls in desperation and hugging them while handing them off, there was a hesitation of guilt in placing them anywhere but with her. Someone had to feel some way accountable for what had happened to them. Each were given one of her paintbrushes, and told to paint the world black--welled by the oils trapped within their robbed toddlerhoods. Artemis gifted one girl--cute pigtails that often looked chaotic, and a heavy step that announced her arrival and a white label that only stated: Lee. The other dawned a star in her hair and judgemental glare that she cast openly at her "father"...granted a label that simply said: NK. She felt tears building up as she hugged them tightly, and she gave them back to their parents with a sigh of sadness that transcended time and space.

Artemis returned to the home filled with black and white tiles sprawling across the floor. She hated the era of ostentatious neon’s, but understood how the sliver of time served as the perfect playgrounds for a tournament set to place the Metamorphosis of the Gods on a world stage.

Orion still had static filling his eyes, cursed to circumambulate his many missteps and arrive at the man named “tiny”--famed for strangling a pregnant woman with his small hands. Artemis felt a kind voice awaken her-- it was the understanding tone of an intellect named Tammy, and her famous cardigan had been replaced with a stone lain necklace. The hands of fate had began to churn out seamy minutes, and changing the tempo of evil being introduced into the world.

Artemis fell to the floor gasping for breath...had she really done this all to spite her husband? Or maybe the simulation had been a last-ditch effort to clasp onto humility, and or, purposive to saving a depotentiated marriage. Tammy didn’t want to patronize Artemis with words meant for interrogation, and so she hugged her instead. Such kindness had been what had originally changed her fate as a lost child...heading straight for a successful career in a life of crime. “Whenever you’re ready.” Artemis began to sob uncontrollably-- until her tears streamed with blood, unregrettably tarnishing the immaculate flooring. She nodded in agreement...moving stiffly from a position on all fours, to that of laying hunched over a tucked-away leg. Artemis was surrounded by people that were ready to fight for justice--those willing to preserve democracy, and believe in the power of words and good intentions.

Artemis regained her strength at last--Tammy had seen her ruby red tears begin to drip and fall from her nose and handed off napkins nonchalantly to spare embarrassment to the situation. Artemis was spiraling beyond a sadness that she had ever seen--there was no training crafted to deal with the true wrath of her orphaned victim-hood.

Tammy had been watching from the sidelines, as Artemis shed a shameless title of being a compulsive liar, and eventually un-tethered her from a Viking that screamed so effortlessly in her face, as just reward for their friendship...obviously. Artemis missed his attachment, or the sense of someone having expectations of greatness for her. He had been a friendship built to last the ages, and then some.

One day she hugged him in desperation to the seasonal affect disorder that had begun creeping into her life. The pain felt unbearable, beyond anything she had dealt with before. The Viking had re-adjusted his tether to be bound tightly to her waist--tied off with his unspoken expectations for her, and in doing so...he summoned Orion and his keen sense of jealousy from a darkened space of time. Artemis excused the Viking: sassily asking him if he thought the mail was going to deliver itself, and knowing he’d look cute and prideful in a blue outfit.

The man borrowed her satchel and began to deliver mail that he had hand-written...some letters filled with self-pity, some with admiration for the talent he had coached. Artemis felt sorry for the citizens that had to deal with stripping delivery man--as he would yell that he had brought their mail, and frighten their pets with his snarls. Artemis wanted to capture their surprise in his booming voice, to witness as their eyes widened without the chance to ask him to lower his voice. He’d toss mail and wander off mumbling to himself--wondering when enough mail was enough. The man casually gained confidence in the memories of their friendship, occasionally thinking of Artemis’s kind flirts--resulting in the public servant, serving the public with a glitter-laced dance, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing his articles of clothing on their lawns randomly.

Artemis began to laugh--she knew the Viking would not be amused by his curses in a simulation built upon mayhem’s: the only way for him to break the odd spell, was for him to hug his weeping friend and to meet her husband. Instead...he yelled and blared loud music, as he arrived back at his back offices everyday: only to ignore the non-judgemental stares of his co-workers, those weary of the task of being un-ironically mailed his uniform back in separate packages. There were no words to describe the silliness of such use in tax-dollars, but at least the citizens got a free show out of it. A majority of the citizens were simply bemused by the experience and hoping to gift the silly show to their neighbors in passing. Artemis had the habit of declaring the time to be "Gametime." at all hours, and the Viking was dedicated to his "Mailtime", expressed in a truly Pacific Northwest fashion--complete with the thrusting hips of a glittery mailman.

“I’m funny.” Artemis had run out of ways to amuse her judgy sister with a tale of ostensibly unfettered nonsense, and so she returned to the task at hand. The rave music of a delivery man that stripped upon the yards of unsuspecting citizens...was pretty fucking funny in its own oddity. This wasn’t because the Viking was male, or considered rightfully handsome, but because he had a problem with controlling his volume. The outlier of patience was built into his volume settings, and he had a difficult time ending a conversation. He’d fill awkward silences with things like “ok...thank you.” walking away without his trousers and a dramatic hat with horns wobbling back and forth. Their soggy homeland--was famous for the women and men that shed their clothing, so Artemis honored their efforts by adding a flair of elegant prestige to their job. She had plans to fix their local economy after the Boar was ejected from a house painted white-wanting to preserve historic sights and scenes. It made her laugh to watch the citizens speak so highly of the postal services, and she had joined in the excitement toward their federal mail system(s)--diligently delivering their packages and smirking as though she knew something they didn’t, as she said mundane things like: “Yeah, it’s a good time...love me some mail.”

Orion wouldn’t find it to be funny, so he wore chaps to inspire the land and make his wife blush. She had wanted to prove that woman presented themselves differently with Orion at her side--even when blinded by a scenario of regular day shit. Artemis couldn’t look at him in such fine leather articles without the urge to book a private suite for two. His presence in Traditional attire held the same effect she felt--whenever seeing him in a all-black suit. He was the achillies heel, the thread of desire in a world of conflicting resolve--and Artemis had been the stone holding down the shores of adversity, standing guard over the lost souls tucked away at sea.

The only way for Orion to change his wardrobe to one of current fashion-- was for him to admit feelings toward Artemis. He had to break past his fears that the world wouldn’t cheer him on in such a decision. He had chosen to give up on the words people threw his way, to read the winds of caution guiding him along a fog-filled shoreline. Maybe he had grown tired of people pointing out that Artemis could do better: exhausted from trying to be a better man for her. Artemis had only wanted Orion to learn how to be a better man for himself--as he had an issue in understanding that it was his responsibility as a lone citizen...to arrive at the shores of understanding for no reason other than caring. The world had given him the excuse of being a beautiful mortal--in lieu of moral judgements. The citizens feared the glares he cast without care, no different that Artemis--he had kept everyone at arms length, and had the audacity to wonder why his estranged wife longed for the shores of woe and worry. He’d wear creamy colored timeless leather and stand taller than ever...knowing he could easily command and charm an entire room--no matter which fine threads he chose to wear. He had only the option to apologize to his wife, and to break his curse(s) in “bad luck” with a single passionate embrace: something he’d later blame on her. He had gotten lost--shamelessly preparing himself for the title of husband, and for the role of lifetime as a loving father.

Next Chapter: *[ LXI ] Artemis and the Cursed Horn*