Upon looking over the disappointingly disruption of the undeniable patterns that swelled in waves of shapeless ink: her story was derided with characters lacking the bare-minimum understanding of accountability. Artemis thought of the blood-less battle with the Centaur--it seemed quite fitting, that both parties had agreed to a polite diatribe in lieu of violent animosity. Her fastidious nature exposed the correlating links: forming a path that was otherwise elusive to her rival tortured authors, and their love of slamming their skull upon a wall. To be filled with journalistic integrity meant a life of suffering, a belied opinion on the those that mismanaged the entirety of the land.

She had silently walked past the muzzled suckers lost in their hobby: held prisoner to deadlines and financial advances. Her endeavors in spreading elucidation--led the readers past the Three Sisters, the unmovable that held hands, and sang songs of a an ancient time that had been long forgotten. The mountain range--held a crisp salient hymn that filled the neighboring territory with melodic sonorous winds that healed the South through gentle songs and time. Artemis knelt down and felt the soft soils smothered by grey material beneath her feet. She was injured in doing the mundane; unable to stand upright under the weight of gravity. She hitched up a leg; attempting to make light of a hopeless situation. Her lumbar had turned to stone in a single swift movement; rendering Artemis specious, hips locked-in a captains stance, and trying to strategize a plan in the frolicking moments of disability. She was left with only the option to crawl, to grunt through the pain and accept that mortality meant a thankless and ongoing battle with an emotional labyrinth.

The thole of her battle was gifted with answers--the land expressed that it was chagrined by the massive fire left smoldering in its own ashes; the world was blessed with chaos. Artemis tread along a salient line of burning grass, eventually falling over fighting a battle with exhaustion-waking up to burns dancing away at tissue scared. Injured nerves began curling---pulling away the flames chasing at her feet. She scrambled awake; her heart racing an invisible orchestra-swaying precariously in a fog. Hades had frozen over; seeping past its iron-clad gates, determinants of willful ignorance had won--the citizens trapped in nightmare filled with only their elders. The youths had given up on attempting to communicate with the corruption and disorderly of the land.

The range of tacit stupidity was represented by a horde of randoms--complicit and arrogant of their blessings in occupation security. Artemis had returned to a time; where the world was jostled from its axis. She had wanted to travel in time...if only to lead through example; a way to abrade those "in charge" and to set proper precedence for an entire future--worthy, and fully capable of appreciating the value in frailties. Albeit, a person, and or live document--capable of bringing true Justice to the land.

Artemis trailed along the tertiary burns sprawling inward, eventually finding a hardening scar--covered by a gargantuan red and white tent that implied a circus was in town. Artemis had never seen such an ornate and simple structure--cautiously approaching it, and marveling at the sheer height in which the erected tent. Heavy canvas and fine stitching made the remarkable structure so beyond memorable in all of its flimsy glory. The mesmerizing soft sways of alternating stripes couldn’t distract her from questioning the actual structural integrity of the tent. The ground beneath her began to rumble and quiver. Artemis drew back an arm in a defensive position: ready to draw an arrow out at any moment--venturing up to a spellbound structure on light steps. The aggressive, yet basic pattern of red and white fabric began whipping in the wind--inviting strangers with its intrigue. The mystical tent held an uncanny personification, as though it were exhaling in exhaustion. The erroneous sounds of grumbling and casual shrieks of agony--were its informal invitation to enter its ominous labyrinth.

Artemis felt the blended fabric fall loosely between her thumb and index: A deep sense of dread washed over ever thought. It wasn’t the first time she had entered into a space plagued by insanity, as the only sane person in attendance. Her need to care allowed entry, to stand along the edge of the interior: confused by the entire foundation and its inhabitants--they seemed vehement in their craft of yelling. Artemis set foot inside emphatically, flanking along the outer edges of the crowd, and sprinkling in agreement here-and-there as passing strangers demanded interpersonal conversations. She was without-ease, attempting to pull away from arguments about scientific fact and focusing on the calming the agitated state of surmised political views. The best part of her generation had been an appreciation to care of others emotional state; to say "I don’t know" and to never back down from the idea of change for the better. The right to make mistakes and correct them in a timely manner--without the need to vituperate another, was all that was need for a young polis. The fog of ignorance had held back an entire three generations of lost souls--those defined by youthful, crass patriotism, and a vilipend beast that had once religiously overshadowed the land.

A scowling expression was plastered across her brow--the hectic crowd distracted her from the initial interests to observe the engineering feat, and prioritize safety protocol. Everything in the situation was tantamount in its impressiveness--in displaying utter instability, darkened humor found in in depicting such indescribable learned-hopelessness. She pressed blindly through the moshing of the crowd, and headed West as to find the center of the labyrinth.

The giant circus tent housed countless dead-eyed savages: all spawning in at random moments--blinded by the same injuries and wailing about their devalued emotional states. Their effervescent ability to consummate the same act of self inflicted eye-gouging, was a curse too gnarly to describe. Their bleeding passion towards sensationalism, was almost monumental without the visual aid of sockets hollowed out by their own hands. Their need to reign terror over others--to imbibe their bullshit beliefs, had landed each elder and idiot in a tent; hand-labelled as potential domestic terrorists to the land.

This obstinence in misunderstanding of patriotism was a labor in itself for Artemis, as she was obligated in title of Princess...to secure the safety of all those claiming residence on her yard. She began to frantically excoriate the citizens running amok in swaying tent--pleading with them to stop their abrupt and erratic behaviors, for the sake of compromised safety in the easily-jostled tent. Her terse words of "what the fuck?!"--fell on deaf ears, as she pounced frantically between the citizens--attempting to pull dedicated arms from retrieving eyeballs out of shallow sockets. The intonation of worry could be found in her softened whispering; the gore had finally gotten to her spirit; flooding over with each imagery of strangers spurting rivers of blood. Her chest clasped tightly--instantaneous worry was drowned out and replaced by their yells of hate-filled intimidation and threats. She had forgotten the pale strangers clung to the idea that blessed skin, superseded skill and capabilities--the didn’t want her fucking help. To be brown and an intellectual; meant struggling alone in the thrashing currents. To travel upriver, and be conflicted by a moral labyrinth.

Artemis felt her strength weaken for a second: her spine was exhausted from the intemperance of endless shoulder bumping. The act of doing nothing would rob the breath from her chest, and amplify the sounds that bellowed all around her. Artemis had a migraine that lasted for what seemed like many moons--fatigue had finally resulted in her falling asleep: laying crumpled in a heap under the ever-swaying tent. She was unconscious in mere minutes: trampled over by the dead-eyed savages...strangers, yelling nothing and everything all at once. Artemis had failed to find center of the labyrinth.

She awoke to a seizing shock--yelling profanities and going into fake labor. Grunts and groans--was all she could muster for torture that resembled the a boulder trampling over her spine in Hades. The crowd of idiots had stampeded over her petite body--until the majority of her clothes fell away. The tattered cloth reminding the crowd of her true heathen roots, and saddled mentality. Artemis looked down her front-side and shrugged. “Aight then”, she said with confidence and an amused smile. Shame in clothing choice was a learned behavior that was given to her family less than four generations ago. Artemis was taught to understand value in existing, to live comfortably in ones own skin-and to stand aside from those wishing to bring hate-filled violence to an unbothered land.

Artemis was an Indigenous Warrior from the West: being naked was how the original ancestors used to gyrate on the regular, and she personally held proud dichotomy to her woman parts. Her shapeless wardrobe often hid a blessed wavy shape. It seemed silly to be offended by something she clearly couldn’t change, and so Artemis continued past the obstacles that the zombie-like tenants presented. Such a vulnerable state of dress, was no different than dawning patches of cloth and glitter; spinning gracefully upon a metal pole...basking in the youthful chilliness of Hades, bathed in fragrance and unbeatable glitter. Artemis chose a stage separate to the one of a birth mother, a seemingly pathetic parent--forever missing in action. She continued West--in view of a growing pillar that stood dead center of the labyrinth.

Artemis made her way through the crowds of shrieking dead-eyed savages, and found her small stature made it easy to hedge past the ebb and flow the crowd. She stood in front of a pillar made from an exotic species of lumber--found only in her yard, and two other places in the world. She began to pace its circumference looking for a clue. There were no roots, just a slab of wood erected as a pole--and canvasing of a tent filled with unreasonable and valueless pundits. Carved on a small door: held an entry sign that indicated the presence of a Mechanical Boar, and below a smaller etching of religious cult...both working together to provide cirricula of misinformation with the intentions of committing theft to their constituents. Both entities refused to pay taxes, unlike the otherwise impoverished residents of the land.

The massive Redwood stump--held a small door along its backside, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the engineer of the structure--knew the crowd would always face stand guard of the tents entry. Artemis cracked her neck in annoyance, as she stepped forward to investigate whatever lay beyond the door. The interior of the room was craftlessly hollowed-out, and there upon the gravel--sat a hunched over beast Artemis had only known as...the Minotaur. A boyish-man seeking mental remission, validation of any kind--in any form; from an emotionally absent father. A father, that just happened to a wannabe dictator, and an utter traitor to their otherwise freedom-filled land.

The Minotaur wasn’t the quickest of monsters, and his endeavors were often topic of jest, as he was one of the many in a diverse litter, and his mother--prized as an eternal enemy to a husband unable to exist without a partner. Artemis had known little of the Minotaur, as he were were only quoted-- contradicting himself frequently or holding pillory debate on behalf of a crazed beast. She approached the room with caution, stumbling in and taking a moment to roll her eyes, listening to a grown-man yammer on--"my father this...my father that.", spreading his lies to the invisible crowds that hid behind his static-filled eyes. The moron was given the task of distracting the endless audiences, while his appointed father destroyed the land.

Artemis strode up to the brunette beast--the Minotaur was hunching over crossed legs, clinging to a magic book resembling her own Golden Fleece. She pulled aggressively at his shoulder, interrupting his snickering and banter of total domination; grappling with him to fold in the lid of swirling paradoxes and slamming the topside of his hooves in the process. The Minotaur simply tightened the grip of clenched hooves--his "ruthless competitiveness" often rendered him to be a laughing stock, a clueless party to an all-encompassing orbit of Titan crew: immortalized in fame for their direct line of incompetence. Much like Artemis; they had both survived the roughest of storms; by committing to the role of survivorship basis. It was a generational trait that was scripted into their hardened drive. A flicker of intellectual hope in the vast darkness--a great enlightenment switching on. Access to information began to seed over and bloom on a once barren land.

The Minotaur, although blind...could sense her presence; hold to her strange laughter, or otherwise sit in the strange and eerie silence. One day, the beast grew weary, waiting for a delivery of cabbage’d information--informal bill of particulars and haphazardly discovered that he’d been sent on a fools errand. "Where is everybody?" Artemis and her endless standup skills had worn him down, and eventually lessened grip on a device, to applaud the talent in a simulated and emptied tavern. A wench in every timeline. She leapt over a groggy beast, slamming a lid and putting him to sleep. He had spun a web of bronze, intertwined with frail threads--the pressures to provide utility had led a lost son to seek favor of the Cyclops. He had compromised national security, needing recognition and an end to his suffering. The childish man was unaware his father had a difficult time coming to recognition with accepting the finite experiences provided by time, and together the two would stand in the direct path of the other--with Minotaur, pointy-eared and hanging grin; left abandoned at will by his father. The willing relationship of mortal men and their father could easily be drawn out as it own fucked-up treacherous labyrinth.

The amateur politician was now sitting stuck in the pillar, surrounded by the maze of dead-eyed savages in his dads cursed red hats. His father was mocked with the nickname Tillman; for his cheap and extreme antics--replacing red robes for sporty touques. Artemis rubbed a patient temple in annoyance to his voice his uninsured intonation was unpleasant--in being that of a banshee voice, but also the self-deprecating part. She refraining from losing a shortening temper on a stranger--replying wryly, wrapped words meant to lean into his bullshit. The man had a enough excuses to fill a book, and it had qualified him for a tournament, predicting the future, or providing unpredictable weather patterns to the land.

The Minotaur attempted to present old datum as new information to her, selling points filled with blight: on opportunity and room grow--through the experience of his father being crowned king. The issues of absent fathers had left Artemis to gain entry to the of a moron sitting upon the floor-holding a white sign with only four letters (R one), he too was a product of his environment-a lost child, longing to go home. The Minotaur began to cry and clumsily lunged at her feet: frightened by the repercussions to whatever he had done. Artemis stood ready to leave, understanding her unwelcome presence, holding a sign...probably labelled with the four letters (R two) on a confused forehead. One person was dedicated to the art of disenfranchising others, and Artemis was dedicated to preserving the liberty and freedom to a youthful land.

Yelling at this dawdling beast wouldn’t achieve anything she thought to herself. Artemis knelt beside his repudiated ear: needing to lower her voice, and knowing that her vocals would only contribute to the instability of the unsound structure. "I was only given entry to this room, to find solitude, and wallow on the facts of my gregarious and absent father". Artemis knew that such a broad comparison would leave room for interpretation, and possibly inspire the monster of a man to say less--and write more. She didn’t need to amalgamate the similarities to a stranger, to a struggling individual--boyish and unforgiving. Both had loser birth fathers, that loved anyone and everyone but them. Exclusionary parenting was a fairly new development--driven by manifest destiny and the circumventing excuse that public positions veto’d the role of parent. Why not, abandon an average duty...if you could take hold of a conspicuous role, and craft a sloppy legacy with the rule the land?

Artemis shrugged: the Minotaur was still in a daze of static and longing for his father to enter the nearside doorway, holding on to the back of her knees. "It could be worse." The Minotaur wasn’t a hopeless cause--just a person without the cognizance to place his efforts elsewhere. "I got it." Artemis had almost forgotten the person waiting outside their door, that had startled her upon entry. She grabbed the door knob, swinging it inward, and knowing that the stranger on the other side wouldn’t be able to enter at any cost. Ritas daughter stood at attention, lacking a red hat, grasping craft sheers--but still yelling with the crazed crowd, as to how "The law is such a travesty!" Bad parenting would always result in Tonina placing mirrors on the walls, and tantamount suffering for anyone that came in proximity to such a beastly person. Artemis had come to the conclusion that their dimension had been made as a prison; to imprison the souls of those born without remorse and deep antagonism. No army was big enough--to defend the world from the strict intent of someone so wicked, so selfish, so removed from fucking reality...and to enacted sense or reason into their twisted mental labyrinth.

"I am afraid." Artemis closed the door in her face with a definitive gesture; years of training and school still hadn’t readied her to be in the presence of such un-wellness. People like Tonina--those, masquerading as regular people frightened her--nay, scared the living shit out of her. Artemis knew a secret way of announcing undeniable triggers; like compliments given to young child--expressing genetic similarities to a handsome father...a mundane tipping-point to an already "upset" auntie, obsessed with all the things that wouldn’t ever belong to her. One simple story, and a simple cutout of a mannequin standing before masqueraded glasses was all it’d take--to claw away at the pages; and break through the bullshit excuses of hallucinating and walking in ones sleep. Three trials later; and still no worry for a favorite daughter, just half-inspired stories and no place for contradiction to land.

To remain a demi-god, to be left standing in pure confusion--was all Artemis thought, the lyrical madness pent-up while she stood staring at a closed door; blinking heavily. "What were those scratches on her legs from?" Artemis awoke from a fleeting nightmare: legs locked, back on fire--realizing the man had de-veiled his eyes with a primitive need to protect a female frozen-in-fear. The overlooked companion fastidiously understood somehow--that Artemis had accidentally become petrified in meeting such an off-colored person. "I don’t know, it looks like someone small--clawed away at her thigh, like if Tonina had sat at the edge of a bathtub, or something". There wasn’t a whole lot of words to say, considering the impinging personality remained a free citizen--a strange person left to their vices, as they casually terrorized the land.

Artemis anchored herself back into the moment, informing the Minotaur in a raised voice, how his impetuousness put the citizens in immediate danger with the flimsy construction and parsonage indebted upon opening night. He began each sentence with "my father", and it resulted in them arguing over one another. Artemis set out two palms; in the same exhausted gesture often reserved for people like Tonina--As if to say "stop", or just "ahhhhh" because they didn’t seem to understand the concept of enough. Artemis explained that his fathers plan, to hide behind amortized wealth had failed--the world had already began questioning the ingredients in his gold paint. There was absolutely nothing the could stop the financial evaluation of the properties: Seven Springs, a Tower Triplex, and Park Avenue. His father was bound to the same laws, regulations and collected taxes, as those burdened by every-other-citizen of their prosperous land.

Artemis was forced to watch him think: his woeful face began to show signs of great worry--he attempted to change the topic, asking if it were raining outside...pointing up their pillar and asking if she could hear the drips and drops awaiting them beyond the tent. "Bitch, I am the rain." more often than not, men were unprepared for a battle of wits--because Artemis was blessed with the gifts of memorable traits and often held a shielding smile; battle ready to wield a silver tongue. She reserved words of kindness and wisdom for those standing on outskirts of such a clown-led family. The dynamics of a "fucked-up family" were forever to measured on a ruler painted with the Kings gold paint; held in the hooves of a Minotaur. Whatever was in that book, held golden threads strong enough to paint the man untouchable--held to the minimum standard. To be forgotten in plain sight, was a skill of middle children, given a pass on all things easy to overlook, and occasionally lucky when the blame fell from the skies--showering truth upon a drought land.

She didn’t have to inform him--there was investigations as to an accomplice; fabricating property retail values on unkempt buildings. The fucking weatherman knew that already. Obviously. Artemis resisted the urge to punch him in grin--one lil boop right to the snout, each time the insufferable guy began a sentence talking about his father. "How long have we been here?", the Minotaur was late to the party--unanticipated, and the audience unperceptive. Artemis threw fingertips to the floor and gestured outwards "My guess, would be sixteen weeks.", relying on the sole fact that people pulling convenient numbers out of nowhere. Why shouldn’t she benefit precious rewards like silence, if the verbal-con was already being implemented across the land?

The Minotaur didn’t care if the attention from his family was appraisal or disapproval--foolishly holding smile; enamored with the rare occurrence of being center of attention. So she asked him a simple question "That’s your father?!" knowing the nepo baby would gleefully take a bite to such a savory social feast. Artemis then said “Oi”; in interruption to the Minotaur reminding a stranger of the successes and charity given to anyone, and everyone...by his father. "Is he not worried about you?"--they were just two people for a moment, Artemis with her crumpet-filled inquiries, unable to be serious and this random, and his aimless heeming and hawing--with nobody to look out for their futures; outlier siblings with high-morals and a need to take hobby, and hand-dissect an otherwise daunting political labyrinth.

The Minotaur’s banshee voice grew tiresome quickly, no search party to stand proof of his painful absence. Artemis slapped the beast with his doe-eyed stare; there were pressing matters on hand. She needed him to shut the fuck up, and had always wanted to slap someone like the Goddess Cher. Artemis didn’t have time for this shit, but watching patiently as it dawned on him the purposeful strength that had been used when she had slapped him. If only life was a easy as slapping sense into someone. He fell silent as Artemis stood without apology, her face expressing the dire lack-of-amusement and her stance holding a aura of justification to the situation. It wasn’t hard to see Artemis visibly judging the beast, and forcing him to think of an exit plan. The pimpified gesture was rebranded as assault for the locals and dead-eyed savages that barely lived in simpatico on their recently cursed land.

Artemis had little patience without the kind Argonauts beside her, and so she swiped away the balance of the standing Minotaur; kicking the backside of his knobby knees in swift single gesture. To this unexpected violence: he fell awkwardly with a thud, and Artemis stood above him...suggesting in a threatening timbre--that he start worrying about himself more, because his father’s paper kingdom wasn’t reality. She was so frustrated--that the guy didn’t understand the depth of detriment his father had imposed upon the land.

The Minotaur lay on the floor massaging the fresh bruises and mumbling under his breath sureness--that his sister would know what to do. Artemis didn’t understand the hype around the Daughter of King Minos, but then again--they lived in two opposing worlds and held separating standards of beauty. The Indigenous valued personalities, laughter, and athleticism as a set of standards. She had little knowledge of the woman...beside the occurrences where the entitled daughter publicly boasted of being complicit, and the boundaries she crossed with her father. The pair were unruly; in their fervent perversion and methodology in enabling. The reversals in their parent-child roles would just result in the woman holding office and lectern, as she demanded: Don’t Look Up. The ending of such tangenital misfortunes--the already witnessed events of a loving father and his only daughter, meant Artemis would also have to resort to abandoning the beast; to seek solo exodus from the labyrinth.

She exited the pillar: slamming the door out of habit, and yelling in realization--that she’d wasted a whole lot of time talking to an idiot. When he asked shy she had to leave, there was only the fitting reply: "I gotta go "a storms a comin"". She handed the man a kernel--then she left, left. Back to wander through the crowds of elders--some armed, others overdressed considering the suffocating heat from being inside a humid hell-ish tent. Artemis noticed there wasn’t a whole lot of serving veterans in the crowd, because they’d seen the non-existant logic in the words given, and found reasons to retire arms--instead of plotting a shitty coup over the public offices that left-handedly preserved the laws of the land.

Artemis avoided the dead-eyed savages that held loud soliloquies, and marched in their tightly knitted huddled masses. She looked up and began to scale the Redwood pillar; pulling a golden rope from a leather arrow bag and scaling it with tiny steps

Atop the pillar lay flattened with a harshly sawed surface, a flat--protruding from the fabric gathering that wrapped the wood with ruffles all the way around: Artemis looked down the ledge of the cloth, attempted to be unafraid of the height and a harmless cloth that thrashed violently in the wind. Artemis hated heights. Her anxiety was exacerbated atop this swaying pillar, and the begrudging understand that there was only the option to jump and attempt to slide down to be far, far away from the constant coflict--to touch grass, her feet finally steady over land.

She rolled around aimlessly and attempted to grab handfuls of material to attempt and reduce the unpredictable speeds--as though the small efforts could ease her fright, and assist in drawing back a jettisoned object. Artemis became afraid of the colors--the aggressive ripples in the fabric: clashing like misguided waves, and whisking her away in a red and white nightmare. No amount of assets could be seized in leverage of making an escape from their shared simulation. There was only time, and hope that everything would evenetully work itself out. All Artemis could do, was to free-fall and lean into the madness if it meant being forever on the outside. Eventually, Artemis was desensitized to the quantity of adrenaline produced by her own body. Nothing could bring about grace, or due preparation for whenever she hit the ground with a heavy thud. The slow lolly of Artemis giggling and plopping to a halt, at the edges of the loose fabric that trickled lazily over the land.

She stood up--winded and scuffed, falling over instantly due to the sheer dizziness given by the entirity in the experience: it was mildly-impressive that she hadn’t died fufilling a shitty plan of blindly leaping into the unknown. She looked around momentarily embarrassed--fixing tussled hair and observed the minor scratches and burns, caused by the friction of the heavy-duty fabric wrestling with her already nearly-naked body. The smallest amount of blood usually meant it was time to check-in and report health concerns to the Kind-Hearted Hunters, and just like usual...Artemis set out to join those she admired, needing only the supplies of fermented cabagges, eggs, clean water and decent reason to defend the land.

Next Chapter: [ IX ] Artemis and the Kind-Hearted Hunters