Artemis often gazed past galvanized emotions running past rooted feet--hesitation fell easily in every step; there was nothing for her left in a redwood-roofed longhouse to salvage. Athena had told her to run, and Artemis had fled for her life...believing that she’d break free the demons holding her arms snuggly from behind. A gentle violence; had changed the winds of time--the weary strides on bare balling of her toes...Artemis had warned everyone and anyone, the demon that lay in the heart of her grandfather had found his true clan; giggling as pointed the enemy in the direction of the resident meant for women and children. Artemis had fought to keep running; only looking back to see children being led away, the presumption in value of life had been the biggest misstep since the arrival of settling men. She climbed atop the sturdy needles, flattened by the weight of constant trembling. There was an awful sensation of hatred that over her mind; watching a single night pan out....and seeing civilization collapse...the moment homes filled with protective mothers were set ablaze with full occupancy. Artemis had ran and ran....weeping endlessly and attempting to sort out the implications of poisoning troops with a fire-filled liquid, only to steal children and murder its war council. The opening of her home was off-putting, considering a maternal grandfather had been exiled and found guilty for sexual violence with the citizens. The leap to traitor was something that could be of value when taking the toll of the blame for whatever actions and inaction’s had caused the color-coded vitriol transcended in the genes of the citizens.

Life had been so unkind to Artemis--the chance at opportunity and freedom kept an orphan trapped in moments of misery. The echos of the past haunted endless dreams...where Artemis had been called by the name of a great-great grandma, and the beast that led the enemy to a nest of children--appeared in the role of grandfather, but in title and not genetics. The demon wore the skin of a grandfather, rusting along a plump belly--labelled a wild hog; unfit for society. Artemis had cast a spell; claiming to hunt him down in each lifetime; to scream on a cliff-side near a pristine river "he touches children....don’t affiliate yourself with the outcast...nothing good comes from allowing him into your home" Her newest and only true label; a cage holding dark swirling of sorrow, left to deal with a lifetime of agony...to play out the same rage in new directions--the discordant smile had been crafted by the Gods of Olympus...had been delicately carved out to deceive the citizens.

Artemis had been sucked into a story of garish criminals....holding a mirror to a puffy-eyed reflection, bringing a sinful boredom to the Western world: waiting for precipitous competition and audience to attend a performance of a lifetime. The silence-filled moments of apathy; falling untoward trickling twinkles of midnight...wondering if the Mechanical Boar had finally passed away from sickly spells or old age. There was nothing to say; avoiding the nervous childish boy named number two...scraping ashen liner to lower eyelid, as though gossips of alternates stepping off the bench were so simple--his folly being a sense of pure entitlement. The man lived in the delusion that his presence was necessary for the success of a Nation--eyes self-gouged, bleeding over black ash; he was a freak in nice linen and threads, too stupid to understand such a thing as circumstances that deperate would never pan out--the one point of contention agreed upon by both parties of voting citizens.

A single weekend had angered a divided public: topped off with some sloppy head--the public servants actively bending over to gag themselves on the penis of their criminal comrade in combat. Artemis had relied of falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus to break the crown of tyrant--the medical warning had been sent as a message from God, the Gods of Olympus, Allah, whatever dogma held a compass of morality pointing North. The concept of a few verse the many could be introduced in a non-violent and wildly inappropriate way to the more stubborn and "Traditional" citizens.

The sight of a JD’s flickering eyes, and a few conversations skirting around the list of Jeffrey made for a ripe moment to pluck. The extension of boundaries and fortitude kept the citizens silent for an evening or two...wondering why a barricade of chariots had split a sea of citizens. Artemis had seen the citizens wake up one morning; tired of the lies, pissed off by the lack of improvements promised...slowly being retracted. Artemis stared at a house; filled with inspirations and triumph...a number two had been so proud to show off lopsided and dangling wood decals--painted with the cheapest gold finishes possible. Artemis glared at the windows--pointing with excitement: "there!", the improper disposal or removal of tax-funded artifacts and or, property were being chucked out a window. A single lie, about the most obscure rule being broken...would force sychophants to lock arms...marching in force...attempting to rule with intimidation and lie directly to the faces of the citizens.

It wasn’t hard to convince others to look, and to care about the opinions of a few out-of-character gestures. A trail of pork and breaded dairy had told the world something was amiss. As a female: Artemis wasn’t surprised when a crew of thugs lied to the tax-payers--a majority of so called men and trashy women had been traitorous since birth: models of dead-eyed savages, hand-sculpted by the Gods of Olympus from blobs of clay. Formed to protect the actions of a child-abusing, woman-assaulting "leader"--giggling in fits of excitement, as contemporaneous trophies to a man with a bow-kneed pose...the wad of nonsense was barely holding it shape when thrown in a kiln. Artemis had seen the claws; hugging the bloated squash-shaped stomach of a baby Mechanical boar--tricked into saying "awwww" passing by an open chamber and attending a meeting...a girlish delight disrupting an ominous speech about the beast bringing on the end of Democracy--the unseriousness of her gushing...pulling-focus around a long table. Her fair remark had been out of place while cooling down the gregarious weapon; the tip of a dull spear--forever pointed in the face of the citizens.

Time was invaluable; the next commodity of water had been foretold...firmly intertwined by a muted mortal named Burry. Artemis began searched for his teachings and gazing upward at a passing bubble--silly questions about the indicators of gravitational forces; imposed upon the slicked surface of wandering nothing...gave a gallivanting curiosity, an attractive package and delivery. There had been so many days; where she had wanted to disappear--to leave it all behind. The small gifts to an impoverished woman were like that of a man on a reserved guards, wandering around happy to see her--asking an opinion on newly trimmed hair. The passing stranger was an unexpected distraction when treading in choppy waters. The strongest of soldiers couldn’t extrapolate a straight-forward answer; needling to find the soul reason for her single status. Artemis was overcome with the worries; unable to shake a seasonal doom and gloom spell. It would all circle back on her self-worth, as with the minor embarrassment of not being able to afford the three pound-sixty needed to co-pay proper medication. To make the seas of tear rescind...to numb out the nagging sense of misery that lingered in moments of suffering. No matter the political climate--Artemis had resurfaced with the same face and laughter....avid in her belief of nobody caring--apologetically late; sarcastic in elaborating her values as a leader to unknowing citizens.

Artemis needed her book to get to the fucking point: if only to create more space and time for edits and inventoried drawings. Her body wasted away; beauty drained in a home that was no longer affordable. The thrashes of failures building upon her back; until eventually, she felt a strange sensation of a breaking heart. Artemis was either insane, or part of a very fucked up experiment. A hunt for a Mechanical Boar named Thiel; the epic mission had brought out smaller armies of beastly men...and lured a Mechanical Boar to break past locks and keys...drooling over the promise of adolescent sacrifices. Artemis crumpled over ivory weakness, wrenched by the ticks-and-tocks of mortality ringing true, hoping a Mechanical Boar named Chief felt the same pains in the chest...would a health scare change his evil ways, and how long would it be until the next health issue...at what point would the Mechanical Boar realize that the Gods didn’t give af about his feelings. A stacked-deck had been handed off as fair, painted in clashing colors and bringing down the value of the land--an aging leader digging up holes by accident and delegating the clean-up to any coward willing to take a pay decrease when given the opportunity to drag down the egos of the sleazy enabling citizens.

Artemis felt her heart at ease, racing home from work to hangout with a fellow influencer(s): Cody Ko, and Cyds. One day she outgrew one entertainer, and the other outgrew an entire audience. There had been a new appreciation to the struggles of others; seeing lives painted gold...veering off on unpredictable paths. Artemis had come to spare the few: extracting even fewer, a reincarnated Captain--retrieving a handful of exceptionally memorable individuals to complete, or reinstate as her former Crew.

Such loneliness was without cure, an echo cast from the cursed vice that Artemis spread across the land--a dipping net of information meant to help the world improve upon itself. Nobody cared. Jeffrey was given free reign; to build up combs of honey--sweeping away children; seeking one in particular to paint with an alluring gold...its corrupt intend sloppily dripping over--chosen for having resembling features to Donald’s favorite daughter. Artemis had nowhere to run: nowhere to call home...nobody cared that children were being harmed. She was surrounded by people yelping and snarling in public offices; disrupting civil services to throw around despondent organizational tools--screaming about their rights to wed or hold sexual confrontations with literal children. She was just a woman named Sir--living in an era of bruh; a hard-working, low-earning citizen with decades of experience--groveling to find a place in a smoldering economy. The wars of a fostered youth kept a brow low--eyes darting around as she patrolled the nothing on the ground...an angry soldier, too grief-stricken to care...legally disarmed to better serve the citizens.

Artemis said “I like to learn new shit”. --unsure as to why people were surprised whenever she let herself regurgitate knowledge on the spot. It bothered her when infomative lectures were rummaged through to best coddle the listener. Artemis was eager to be taken as seriously, to the same degree that she took herself. It was no different--than trying to convince the masses that a massive bruise bubbling beneath the thin-skin of a Mechanical Boar and a red ribbon had been less than what was presupposed. They raised painted hands in solidarity to his triumph over time; and Artemis had twisted their motive--shaking a clay figurine alive...pointing out how the citizens were worried about his ailments--more than the saftey of children. The tortures of immortality came with caveats; the frumpy leaves of a crown...those needing constant fluffing. The reminder of death and natural order had cast the strongest of spells--Artemis had only shorted the option of debt falling on the taxed shoulders of the younger today, or upcoming citizens.

Artemis had once been placed in a lineup, asked to observe her findings as to a quite plain, wooden tray--offered up; against a closed wreath as trophy. Those in charge of the experiment walking past each answer--attempting to make reason behind the choices of a child: until they stood directly in front of her. When they asked what she would call the tray: Artemis puffed out her chest and claimed it to be an obvious rice tray. Not a lie...essentially--but, a thing that hadn’t quite happened yet. She had liked the swirls that were inlay on each end: crafting a story of a magic tray that resembled an ancient device called a cornucopia. Artemis liked stories of fantasy: having followed a trail of bubbles...watching as each literary genre burst without order. The mighty Indigenous Warriors that were underrepresented in the world--she had hoped poems about awful shit could offer twisted comfort, where a woman remained trapped in a head-space of woe...dragged along two boulders, lugging a baby niece and going back for more. The crafting of conviction had powered on a machine without operation manual, and the rest of the shit spewed past its barrel. The outpouring of run-off bullshit had been solidified by the direct affects of intent--imposed on a machine by the stupidity of the citizens.

Artemis bopped the backside of her head; patting away with indifference...assuming her less-than-charming hair flakes were the cause of discomfort; still blind to the soft beeps and scratches. Her skin felt dry from walking around naked in the sun. Had she gotten tanner than usual? The memories of her perpetrator from childhood often landed her thoughts in joked that she looked like a famous homely boy that was raised by a grey bear. Such were the mean-spirited things that left her wings drooping along the floor: confused as to what she was “supposed to look like”. Artemis had spent an entire lifetime avoiding mirrors and conversations with herself--there wasn’t anything to prove unfair projections--no way to sense that the wrongs of the world; had occurred with malice or fair-reasonings, let alone--able to be painted as wrong.

Artemis was reminded of the hugs of the Kind-Hearted Hunters in moments of grief: knowing she was never going back to being “that alone”--having shattered a glass forever half-empty. She had been taught to step and ask for help when all roads fell into the mouth of the other. The wreath of destiny had been earned; broken in the hands of sobriety, a piece removed by relinquishing the blame of immediate and very much alive elders. There was no argument as to who was or deserved priority in most public of conversations--Artemis was incompatible with what the new locals called a pedophile...alarmed when they attempted to convince her of protective concerns being somehow bendable, her objections to lesser judgements on strangers was somehow seen as wrong.

Artemis remained unable to drain her body with the poisons of self-doubt. It could always be worse; a disease of selfishness had nothing to offer a woman attempting to recall the face and name of a man named husband--supposedly standing patiently at an alter. Artemis was admired for impartial strengths, and loved beyond words--she no longer felt guilt for wanting regular things, spry relationships, devoted romance, and a chance at parenting...if medicine allowed it. She had a home to call--despite wasting ever last pound of sterling on a landlord stranger. Complaints that were lessened when she could pat a weary-back, scrounging shifts to pay bills; losing sleep and dealing the drawn-out public trials of a family named Adelson...screeching without persuasion--how everyone hated Dan. The nest of peckish personalities; strong-in-theory, their song of warning--claiming a daughter to be helpless, a damsel worth murdering over: flashing and flaunting pearly grins--mechanical hands pulling at mouth-hole skin in an anxious manner, crowned with an angler beam of light--the will of one clan was seen as well-worth intruding upon the impartial opinions of the citizens.

Artemis had barely broken past the never-ending lectures of a group of strangers hiding in attendance of other strangers. The choice to opt out of listening to fucking Charlie lie past beaked arguments--came with its own sense of blessing. A decade of Artemis asking cheerful crowds, as to whether they had been fired up...or comfortable with title of being number one--fizzled out with the introduction of the creepy Adleson clan. Artemis had needed their passions...in particular, to dwindle--the lust for violence enhanced with a distressed female victim; vomiting at the dinner table without reflex to gag upon, shoving a hastily crafted fictional book down the throats of those surrounding such an unfortunate supper setting. The only way to break down a kingdom filled with destruction; was to place a mirror in the hands of the sinner...to force them to face the music in some fashion: knowing the family would live and die at such a table; all minus one man...an isolated hero that had stood up and left when hearing the undertones of hatred leaking past the threshold of what was considered morally wrong.

Artemis had made the same decision in her early twenties; complete with orally obsessed grandparents--and sketchy friends. There had been no love-loss between parents; claiming burden in the presence of a birth...inconvenienced by the method of nurturing an infant, reappearing as young adult--wondering only what it meant to be part of a family. The snark of needing money; and supposedly being fully employed triggered the senses....she had survived this long without the drama of the McMullins causing chaos. Artemis had said nothing, expected even less...showing half-siblings her life, and then backing out. Their shared grandparents had biases toward anyone of diversity; despite Artemis being in the dark to their ability to outlive everyone...adding to the sense of helplessness when she looked back and noticed how easy it was for some strangers to mistreat her, to add slight to her grin. There were some elders that would live and die by the actions of their choices--unmovable in listening to any complaints as to who was in the wrong

Artemis had recalled a veil of ignorance lifting; standing up from a den of bizarre and inappropriate people, as if to say "I’m good on all of that"--removing herself from a nothing hand, and nestling cheerfully within a chosen family that helped her achieve her goals in being a better person. They reminded her to be kind to herself, and patient with the things she couldn’t change--to sleep in times of big changes, or call out for help when there was nowhere to go. The title gifted with being cast as an orphaned at birth...was only as strong as she allowed it to be. Such were the words of wisdom, a musical treasure--encased into a small group of quarterly people. It gave her courage in traveling from home: seeking temporary refuge, at the home bases of the Argonauts--the idea of adventure seemed less scary on the paths of the Kind-Hearted Hunters. They had enjoyed her humor and distaste for the crude traits of the invading dead-eyed citizens--there was a calmness that came with knowing how hard Artemis would have to fall, to spiral in a drunk rage and set her life in flames. The rewards of caring family friends had taught Artemis to take broad steps, to no longer stew on the idea of tip-toeing a line of fragility...there was no reason to punish herself for things without imprints or memory, and it was best to just sort through a box of trauma in times where nothing was wrong.

Artemis felt her heart heave with utter anguish. There was a deep gnawing sadness from another lifetime ago: maybe from her great-great-great grandmother. Self-doubt rung as a thought running wild--a broken wreath halting its laps in its tracks. Something was deeply wrong with the world, and she had been the least-responsible for it--fully employed without working hours; paying taxes on the opportunity to work, and attempting to notify a public official that archiving self-serving paperwork kept magically setting itself aflame...the flames of four-zero-four--declaring that fraud may be occurring in a house painted white. Artemis had shrugged at the dubious combustion of flickers and flame; "that’s not a good sign"...the rarity in lingering threats to standard operations of living...a familiar indicator to someone like her; defensive in the belief that things can always get worse--a lesson that remained more-than-earned, by the misdeeds of the obese and or lazy citizens.

Artemis needn’t pamper her readers egos; their legacy had already been painted....mocking a crown of feathers--a ceremonial prop, meant to remind her of the game manifesting destiny. They hadn’t realized the Yurok word for crown or “headdress”...had been an ancient word for Laurel Wreath. They had called it a war-bonnet, to paint it with intimidating presence...despite its lack of bonnet ruffles. It was not lame or outdated in any sense--only a tribute to those that achieved the amazing: being crowned with prestige in a world lacking in crowned elegance. Those unable to attend a dinner of celebration included a short list of gear-grinding personalities--like the primed example of the Adelson gang: bringing terror into the world, and hiding behind other criminals when predicting the weather patterns of storm brewing; their mere image caused claustrophobia, since a normal mind and kind heart was unable to fully describe the birth and threat of a perfect storm. The burdens of such relatable caution-ready tiredness came with the slightest of relief: when plopping a black-pillared hat upon a soured mother named Donna...asking the elderly lady to lead the way while entering a darkening conversation. A testimony that would eventually fall upon the booming shoulders, those avoiding the obvious facts of abandonment and charms--turning into gray stones...holding zero contact with hate-filled citizens.

A collection of toys kept Artemis inspired, a clear tube: capping in colorful beasts that had once roamed the land. The security uncovered with mundane object--called toys had thrown off the importance and lack of monetary value in the world. The day had run out, and there had been no valid evidence of life coming from the corner of the room...Artemis had been too afraid to look--scooping the wounded beast in a golden fleece, and looked forward to learning more of the beast she hunted...to learn whether or not a list of predators existed in the lining of a crown made of repurposed rubbish. The level of care and craftsmanship wasn’t meant to be a back-handed slap of the hard-working citizens.

Artemis reminded the citizens to be kind to themselves--to take care of their own safety and learn from the past, or risk time repeating itself and the harshest of judgements; accountability amplified by the way of technology. The realization of which, had broken a gold wreath of sorrow--she feared the faces of her children; wondering how trauma could break someone’s heart into two. Artemis called the sadness of such; only felt by a mother named Donna...claiming a son was lost from a path of enlightenment, gone forever....having the audacity to remove himself from royal company. The greed to uphold a social contract; to flitter away without a plan on the dexks of a poorly constructed boat of logic--wondering why Wendi was pretending to be close with him as sibling. The lack of protecection caused a tiled-mask to slip away expressed by a woman claiming the world ran on the emotion of all-or-nothing. The grown woman often hid behind an elderly shield--finding refuge in a quivering voice; ignoring the claws reaching from beneath each bed--the body-sweeping soul...looming on perched opinion. Artemis feared the sympathies given to the mother of a prideful son; claiming a home broken--her life in peril when a house no longer offered the supply to leech from two sons and live vicariously through a doe-eyed daughter. To pity one son, meant having to pity both...a house set aflame by the lies of a baby sister that could do no wrong.

If Artemis had the actual time to correct the warming of the globe with Greta--she would have already started doing that. There was no rush to authentic famedom: she didn’t really look forward to public scrutiny given heavy-handed--Artemis resorting to hot-handed talents...unable to argue when the citizens demand more from themselves, or hers; than those in public office. The future looked bleak; nobody cared. A daydream of selecting a bridge told to a professional, on a day where it didn’t feel true...in a moment where the words were no longer loaded in weight and value. Artemis hadn’t anything to worry of, as she had come to observe an election--the historic war crimes being committed on the daily didn’t have anything to do with the lack-of-affordable living; threatening as a sinking hole...the sand pit promised for any neon-glizzied burn-outs...still sad nobody gave them accolades in surviving the mental health epidemic, let alone the same affections reserved for the Gen-Zers and younger. To some it meant nothing, and to others...it defined and branded them as unlovable citizens.

Artemis knew better than to believe in strangers blindly; yet, remained silent when reminding people that the trickle of a few drops of rain...meant the pouring of death came from all directions. When tyrannic rule reigned the land....the blood of the citizens was soon to pour. A new but somehow entirely unchanged model of consent--would unravel to jarring moments where elders would come crashing through walls; grumbling about bad eyesight and lack-of-sleep...their too easily accessible chariots, un-mended mental health issues masked in sedatives-prescribed hypnotics--when a burning man festival was finally at its last curtains...the fun-drained by booming greed. The invaluable treasures found within the silence; the art of being left the fuck alone....had been an unlocked feature, an option that was unreachable to a greying generation. The rock-bottom of surviving trauma came with only the rewards of reflecting the true evils of those surrounding...to claw out of the base of a black hole and know that there was nothing wrong with being wrong.

Believing in others hadn’t gotten Artemis very far, but then again...she was surrounded by sketchy company most days. It was more simple to believe in a slowwwww, but steady enough Judicial system to churn away...if it meant a professional explained the scenario in a reasonable tongue--foreign to criminals, or those not holding public offices, those labelled incarcerated. It didn’t seem appropriate to mention that she had settled on this shitty timeline...maybe, sitting sideline on a couple of State-Funded executions--to prove that beasts would willingly sort themselves into their designated cages with zero force...if it meant reaching their point of contention. The sins of carelessness had slowly dragged and ripped the edges of prized social contract. The most heinous of family trees were up for public trial, opinions courted with striking eyes falling in ever direction. The sensation of a glass lenses; intensifying passionate chemicals...arousing all the things. A proper introduction to an indescribable clump of people...labelled with the cursed title as a unit, complete or broken down...with no weak points, and no room for anyone to take a step without overkill in oversight or the daunting task of righting the expanding definitions of a personal wrong.

The most dangerous of relationships being forever and always: between the relationship with man and his mother. The lesson of ten-minutes worth of reading, summed up in a decade and a half. Such were the strangely chosen words, the God-less ramblings of a single woman--unworthy of even the barest of welfare. Sometimes there was nothing left but a sense of shameless pride held in trying her best, and to appreciating the eager smile of a serious pale man...trying his best not to scare off a nymph-ish woman...causing a stranger to blush--while politely stepping by slews of older men: stripping back button clothes as he went...claiming Artemis to be: "a mother I’d like to fuck", and he...he was "that mother fucker". He chose to overlook the falsity of such claims...considering she was childless--appearing from seemingly thin air to flash hard-earned abs and ask stray questions. There was unique stress that came from allowing a cute younger man to stroke ego and laughter--abs bearing at any hour, and in any location...levied by the idea that Artemis was upset, which was a lot of the time. Homie was sinful...despite having a biblical name, and Artemis was just there to woo--tossing non-existent currency in his direction and turning beat red. At one point, she wondered why he chose to lavish or pretend to care for someone without monies or family--stumbling by him with happenstance; not really looking to enter the era of a cougar. At some point his intrigue would run dry--it was only a matter of time...Artemis was set to brace for the fall from his graces at any moment, just happy to be seen for a change. His kind company was just reward for the days where Orion treated Artemis as an old shoe...the stares of admiration easily clocked by witnessing citizens.

Sometimes being a Princess without a throne; meant less stakes in an already rigged race...where nobody seemed to notice she was missing from dull meetings or trials, and she had been too polite to self-report to a house painted white. Artemis looked forward to saving on male-company; the luxuries placed out of reach in times of financial drought...in a dreary city where the residents were forever delighted, or surprised by the rain--yapping about an era of pride where they had been famous world-wide as Blazermaniacs for a day. The rain would stay...clinging to one obscure day a year; flipping the season in a day...seemingly to get the worst part over with. She took pride in place; keeping a humble head down, and hoping that tomorrow would be a better day, followed by better dayz...it could be worse. Sales on taxes were real, impending death was reality...triggered by the falling of handful of riders: riding and dying with their golden legacy, chained to a Mechanical Boar. Life was painted with elegance added with careful strokes and leafing; Artemis cursed with trying to paint a portrait to the painful experiences to life...fighting allergies to spooky shit, out of reasons of sheer discomfort. There was only so much failure a person could manage at a time; for her...the disappointment of life’s successes had kept her anchored in insecurity, rolled in a spliff...the next of sacrifices signaling an emotional recession. Artemis couldn’t fix anything. Her life had been one big trial; a shit-show for the public to question or ridicule by uneducated and misguided citizens.

Next Chapter: *[ XLVIII ] Artemis and the Shield of Brook(e)s’*