Artemis abandoned a hopeless post near the Nemean Lion at last--a grip gave way...failure had been painted as humorous back-handing by the Gods of Olympus. She had tied a thinning waist to a timeline of Tim--the torments of lowest levels, its depths of depravity painted two times over. The common name was gifted to the most complex life; where on the other hand...palmed a motherly looking criminal named Julysa--standing over a son torn from life. The unspeakable sadness of reality came with twists and turns--the caveats of the mortal condition kept Artemis’s mind racing; she was unable to latch onto a monument of greatness that had never existed. To be without a mother; was all she had known. It had kept her safe in some respect; the rivers of grief often receded in such moments of realization. True danger lay in the soft waters of dangerous disregard; the trials of parenting didn’t yet to pertain to her youthful free-flowing freedom.

Artemis returned to her mundane life...playing with explosives and such. Life had always been disappointing--a steady stream of news and self-loathing tears fluttered and fell violently around her thoughts. The rivers of information relied on Artemis gathering steed with steady hand--the practice of one-shot opportunities kept the waters of reflection; emoting foamed emotion and silent contemplation. At the ending of each beginning day--the winter placed a larger than life spruce in Pioneer Square; the dictation of a show moving forward...the worlds refusal to stop spinning for only a day had been all Artemis could expect from capitalistic culture. The long-end con of forcing the citizens to rely on their Government; taxed without corrupt representation--if only to bait-and-switch the dwindling entities for harsh-ended corporations. This was the bad place...no doubt. There had been an outstanding amount of nonsense that came at the expense of a pastel generation--powdered and unrestrained; life spun smoothly on mistakes and missteps of her mother’s freedom.

Artemis would take a keen interest in political gossip--mainly of the Cyclops holding out tantalizing articles of blackmail, some that Kompromat...the articles of which--blistering the hands of the beholder. Some fucked up shit. The scale of injustice tipped by the grubby hands of old men--hunting children to assault. A timeline of clustering fuckerery--came at the expense of Artemis’s sanity--she could be seen cautiously walking toe to heel: knowing such men were brigand; hunting only those trapped by adversity--avoiding their own clans of children somehow...the violence discomposed onto others, remained outside of the pig sty markers. Localized crime infested the roots of the trees; it sucked the warmth from unturned soils. A timeline of suffering had been built by observing the direct actions of a man with orange skin and a thinning tuft of hair--perpetuating a trail of luck, his small hooves of fury guided by a prediction for children and a taste for immoral sexual freedom.

Artemis had wasted life; barging through rooms...sprinting away from men such as Donald. The sins survived by another had given Artemis a scent of victimization--her self-awareness to the situation causing a blind sprint down a winding hallway. She had hid away: staring at a body of water in a sterile room--Artemis had painted a body of water, calling it a lake; Great and clairvoyant. She could be seen weeping--looking for a baby; cast into the waves by a lost child--thirteen, wrestling with an uncle as he chucked the innocent life to its death. She had found the finely trimmed end to a thread--using a song and story to thread the slim of needle of time; brute force and traps hadn’t gone over well during the hunt, and so Artemis resorted to a spell--a baited smile and a temperament guided by spells of fista-cuffs and sarcasm. The chat et souris pieces between two strangers allowed Artemis to co-exist in invisibility to the detrimental damages--of a strange man and a red ribbon...its oversized length considered sloppy and ill-fitting, even his threads resisted from the postures of being crisp, organized...let alone properly tied.

The horn in, the parried step into a switching dance--to be flaunted on the arms of time...a Princess waiting to be taken down a wedding aisle. had come by way of a change in the tides of empathy--the world began to await a willow bow--a stern glare, a drawn back thread twanging in open air. Artemis flitted aboot--hunting down and simultaneously propping up the Mechanical Boar by...to keep a river of weapons flowing--gathering the pieces of a long-lost Princely husband. The world wrapped itself around the Mechanical Boar; withstanding the window of allowance in time...dropping the ball for a decade strong and walking away with the sphere out of spite. No amount of meddling or mediation could spare a handful of generations from the echoes of enmity cast in a booming culture. Artemis had wanted to set a new tone; to untie a heaping bundle of threads on public floors--anchored to pillar of disaster. An immature man stammered and kicked about...casually committing treason to protect his image--tossing sands and soil to hide his predilection for urine or children bearing resemblance to a daughter. Artemis knew the duo of two leading men-chained to loops wrungs by their nipples as they trudged along--handled by the one and only Jeffery. All of its bizarre glory was a dangerous sight to seen...in ways that could destroy the world ten times over--it had been much easier to build a tsunami of information to be thrust ashore...to frame a larger picture; of lackadaisical villainy and international unification. Artemis didn’t minimize the situation; only pointed at a minimized margin of people that had learned nothing from the tales of history. There was less to imagine, when repainting a preceding Genocide-- using familiar colors to recast the final days; down to the t--complete with a building entrusted as the führerbunker. The lame strokes of Artemis’s frail wrists--tied of to the penis of man-baby; squiggled strokes guiding a brush...built a lopsided canvas...its wonderment in senselessness bound by a reflecting interpretation of the new normal. The Mechanical Boar barreled through abominable walls--straight to the heart of a winding maze--the tour-de Minotaur began in a time of paleolithic stitches...some loser walking straight through fire and brimstone out of deranged stupidity--with the tiding offering victory of sorts and political freedom.

The Mechanical Boar had already sucked the land dry--long-winded speeches wandered aimlessly from here to yonder; a raw-tipped beast strutted through a dark maze, grazing shriveled appendages. The conning artist had integrated the citizens money straight into deepening pockets--renting out his own properties, and utilizing them for sports and hosting events at inflated prices; the pathetic desires to live in the past no longer relayed opulence. A mustered objection was all it took; to topple a so-called regime...crumbled by an egomaniac holding issues with the sun, drawing down his impenetrable defenses. Malicious dissonance was afoot. The Mechanical Boar could never be satisfied, and Artemis refused to service any man holding a red pill between clenched hind teeth; the follies of gluttony all but out-right challenged his mental capacity...too many light-criminals needed the old man to do a jig-and-song, to decorate a home painted white and offer the citizens comfort and guidance. Instead of tradition, the world was met with a winter dictated by elders and their fabrication of the formalities expected when carrying on "Traditions". Time was the only thing that offered the younger citizens a sense of relief; to be stuck staring at a body of water, and yet somehow drowning beneath its waves. This was the moulded fate...the hoarded inheritance offered cost to offset the loss of democratic freedom.

Artemis had only been the person to scout and lead such a beast through life; smiling with a gentle tug of a rope as she paced the beast upon green lawns squealing at the low hanging flying chariots--whizzing by. Time was the unkindest of all--to be the lone Princess longing for a pea sized solution--to barricade from the pain...all be it a white, compressed medicinal--settling for decent company and a sphere to roll along an injured lumbar region. Sciatica. The leery truths of mortality kept Artemis sprinting toward a life of medical attention and artistic freedom.

She had been thrust deeply into reality; a rattling hand shaking a leather leash--a screaming haggard pig remained locked-in an outlandish spell of consequences. A story stunted by the reality of legal gusto, and a the citizens garnering a chained fences by way of interlocking arms; the hunt of an animal had been summed up by a beady eyes lurking up at an otherwise calm starry sky when realizing there had been clouds above the entire time. Did the clouds take rests like the stars? The outrage of a lazy misunderstanding had churned up a storm of ridiculousness--churned up with the buttered guilt of yester-year. The clutter of fragile curving opinions and trending ways to pamper ones kitchen had been less rewarding than the contending

The only way to turn his attention was to bait the creepy old man with humor that agreed with known crazed thoughts and hushed hopes of rearing his own daughter. A violent silence had sliced through reality when Artemis had been a young girl--a nightmare of laughing tracks and applause brought life into focus for a child facing a new millennium. The things she knew to be true and real; painted as unreal and unacceptable to the following generations. The law barely managed to keep the Mechanical Boars tongue in check--but it hadn’t kept him from signing name and love poem in a book of Birthday, wee hooves had been busy...digging his own grave. A firm line of solidarity was cast by a single man wreaking havoc on the entire world--a fog of surreal density had boggled down the progress of civilization. The world stopping to admire the thrashing of fits and a man aggressively touching himself as he gazed upon offspring and children--a lone village idiot had broken past the thresholds of luck; becoming the outlier that failed upwards in short-handed terms. The man’s idolization of one daughter had caused a crack in the marble; an empire set on course to crumble seemed less daunting--when dealing with sensationalized fatigue. Artemis found the dichotomy of their relationship to be unhealthy, but understood that the dead-eyed savages coveted their long-standing culture and traditions surrounding incest. After all, they had colonized the land, and "won" plenty of wars with the local Indigenous Warriors...to preserve this particular statement of sexual freedom.

Artemis began to feel disgusted whenever she saw either the Mechanical Boar or his beloved daughter, plastered all over the front pages of the news--the jarring imagery of a woman sitting on the lap of her father had come into focus with the echos of the past. The Mechanical Boar left squealing on stages, ranting like an overwhelmed supply teacher--holding the title captain over a clunker ship aimed at an iceberg by choice. The wheels of time and needles of fate had sewn a tapestry where a single man was given everything, offered a world painted with golden opportunity and alas; his fits of contempt were feathered by the logical boundaries of familial love. A simulation of treacherous desires had been set into motion by a father...proving the dept of corrupt intent born into a world that spun its webs on political freedom.

Artemis would work hard to distract herself from the memory of his daughter fondling herself as she smeared and lathered herself in gold paint--her dreams were so uncomfortable...the pages of reasoning had offered a sliver of sanity to accommodate such extreme dreams. Creativity flowed effortlessly through the reconnaissance work done during her dreams--nonchalantly excusing herself from salacious dreams, and falling into a sterile hallway--right side-up and disoriented from the swivels, as she sprinted down long corridors lined with red doors. One day in the fall, Artemis awoke abruptly--a day of battle had finally arrived. The Mechanical Boar had finally gone full-blown dictator and the citizens began arriving at her door; screaming that she do something...a curse of invisibility broken when desperation kicked in. Plenty of women knew what it meant--to scream into a cave, and be silenced by the act of other taking wooden stake to their ears--impalement had been more soothing than reality. Bloody ears and scared throats drew up a grime scene; women yelling that nobody listened and men yelling that their physical strengths couldn’t fix this particular problem--a mob of concerned citizens had awoken from their weakening state of slumber. The image of a man clasping the hips, waist and arms of his blossoming daughter had set the world on fire--a tizzy of discomfort and spark of desire kept the ant-like mortals moving along predestined trails...to sense a modicum of disappointment in their leaders, to replicate history and preserve a fringe and delicate government--powered by diversity and freedom.

Artemis sat upon a war-pony; her curly hair blustering in the winds of change...the world had seen all she had worked towards--they had heard the echoes of despair tossed into a canon of time. All it had taken: was a perverted grandpa--implementing orders of Marshall Law upon the citizens of the polis. Cool guys. Artemis needed her army now more than ever: the world had offered her crown of feathers...without explaining that she’d have to remove it from Athena first. She sat upon a war-ready animal; unable to find self soothing measures in a time of chaos, steering the gentle beast in circles--unable to break the routine of sorrow most weeks. The surrender of duty and title had come at such an immense cost...Artemis couldn’t undo the death of sibling; let alone save the world. She had failed in saving a mentally unwell sibling from herself...the patterns of letting others down--stitched in neatly spaced threads. The emperor Caligula had been reborn into flesh--Athens was in ruins and there was Artemis; lost in a trance of grief...too exhausted to fight for others freedom.

Artemis was occasionally a part of the problem, for the lack-of-intervening with the war path of a Mechanical Boar--much like with Athena; she’d walk off to check advanced aeronautical equations...instead of waiting for someone to paint a white room with chaotic distress. Her life open for ridicule--outside of the circumstances of watching others burn the world down and doing nothing. The spectacle of erratic moves and half-thought-out plans often manifested into a casual criminality that absorbed everyone and anyone within proximity...the likes of which--proven by placing a child named "Little Ivana" in an empty room with the most violent of predators, where she stood in a corner; facing the music and witnessing the depravity of a man...bloated ankles chained to the same handful of mistakes--holding a heart-topped key as the lynching pin to a monsters shackles. To best describe the costs of extremity in wealth and desire within silent gestures; to prepare the world to rear itself over for two men paving a path of destruction...Jeff and Donald staggered into formation, the bottom to a dominate third; whipped into dismantling democracy as foreplay...shuffling dirt over their sins, and forgetting what it meant to be unproblematic; kompromat providing eternity with two boorish men--their fates inextricably tied.

The path of blood-soaked stones; those paved by a woman half-alive, distracted from the horrid pitches of the tortured screaming in a near background--she’d learned to tune out the fits of rage of Athena early on. The song of the siren worn down by exhausted chords...Artemis standing forever alone; walking away from the madness of it all--Athens had been a seedling of remorse, falling unto winter soils. The helpless causes of those uneducated enough to believe thoughts and prayers would soften the top soil--to fulfill a selfish purpose, with no room for objection; ready to pounce into action when the ridicule or constructive criticism came with familiarity. To be without the shouldered burden of a siblings patterns and ability to paint the law to be invisible; unbound to their will and goal...the fall ushered in a harsh forecast, frigid and uncaring as to the newly unlocked freedom.

The fights against recidivism never came to an end. A miss of step--the heavy of hand, the words ringing in buzzing buildings--the mundane world had been drenched with overbearing beige. Artemis remained swaying on unsteady footing--trapped in a spell of catastrophic worry. To be alone in a world; caring about everything so deeply--while shallow souls moved ahead in the world with ease. Shamelessness in shallow failings kept her mind tied to unhealing wounds--knowing the consequences of being uncaring in a time of compounded changes. The sifting of words and emotions where the only thing to offer a speck of a sanity--a book filled with discontent and fewer solutions--brought a sense of peaceful freedom.

Artemis had wandered up on a vast black-box: It was a prison guarded by a flock of depraved boars--basking in corruption; trading fair-pay to uphold their traditions of racism and ignorance, smuggling, stealing, had all been a lowered bar...placed to remove shocking value of bounds-and-leaps past laws and regulations. The black-box always bore the name St. Clair in these dreams--a place that had been devoted to those committing war crimes, instead of the options of rehabilitating care or the standard incarcerated system. The few knew what angers that boiled deeply with a person surviving an unchangeable experience; foolish for having dreams of doors leading to a life of freedom.

Artemis frequently visited the men and women in these black-boxes, as she loved practicing her best fighting techniques with worthy adversaries; edited poems were sent to show the methods of progression--a courtesy edit sent out as a goodbye and silent bow to those with nothing but time on their hands. The survival gene would kick in for some, as it had for Artemis by the age of sixteen--the surreal situation of a bad life; getting worse had forced her rebellious soul into a corner. She found it odd; how many prisoners sat well with their crimes, for sure....some were the greatest warriors the Nation had to offer, some were just people being doubly-chastised, for the manufacture of a crime--and solidifying the numbers that defined each individual sub-set of citizens falling under its umbrella of information. Being guiltless, shameless, and taught to be harmless were the only lessons learned by the time Artemis had "earned" her freedom.

Artemis could sympathize for all those that had been locked away for minor infractions, or those that received more time because of the inevitable. Environments drenched with criminals, and guarded by lesser criminals--don’t really offer a lot to society. Artemis knew how it felt; to wait for a judge to rule on every minor action--they had always held her to higher standards than everyone else. The system of fostering; had no nurturing qualities to apply to everyday life...she had been taught to simply live day-by-day; doing her best to refrain from being eaten alive...the name criminal no longer impacted such impracticable pride. Behaving, wouldn’t manifest two parents from thin air....she’d remain an orphan after each infraction. None of it mattered. Her ability to not care about anything and everything; was an indifference that plagued a majority of Indigenous Warriors--the causation of crippling expectations had been sprinkled on an entire community; not always for their talents...some were just like Artemis--holding a deep emotion for compassion. Their culture would have once prescribed them with tours in battle instead of locking them away for eternity--the Race of Mortals had come to its end lap; a last trail of tears stemmed into every history book. A dusting road paved by sorrow and mistrust; kept Artemis boggled by worry...nobody seemed to sense the winds of change--nobody cared to see the deranged path of a Mechanical Boar...let alone find the time to care about an hourly worker, overqualified and longing for professional freedom.

The neurological reaction of a Warriors rage--had been a plentiful gift by Diomedes: famed soldiers in past lives (criminals in this one), occasionally driven mad by Hera in their dreams--their souls punished for their actions in their real lives. To look past a reflection; to wonder what life would be like when falling into inverted dimensions--the simpler things like having parents--became a make-or-break situation. Had the depression been a cause of orphan-hood? What would life be like, without such an immeasurable burden? Artemis pitied all of those that stood in the path of a Diomedes: as she had suffered at the absent hand of Missy and curses struggling with her inner-self. The single mom of three daughters--had resorted to trading her children in, for a life without responsibilities: forgoing all maternal duties to pursue freedom.

Her mother’s profession was never an issue to Artemis--since the timeless work predated most things, and the legality of it had changed over-night; sex-work now qualified itself as an occupation...complete with taxes, unions, and labor regulations. Artemis wondered how many women had been encased in the black-boxes for an array of tic-tak crimes: their recurring offenses--compiled into one word that condemned them for eternity. The women were occasionally guilty of holding-up the traits taught in enslavement, or accepting the open demand of the position...to be more practical than the lesser-paid alternatives. The perpetuity of investing in silver poles and bright colored feathers--held more promise than any job available to the current generation. The demand had been high, and the small metropolis provided the supply of field specialist--they just happened to like being naked in the publics. Artemis had been raised in an urban jungle that was famed for its Amazonian dancers...the bouts of endless rain forcing entertainment indoors--while eager patrons cheered on their soggy woes. The flutter of bill folds falling upon the sticky floor--the image of someone as common-looking as Artemis: walking between a table of delectable menu options and drinking to no-occasion--with their hand-crafted ales raised to the Gods upon Mount Olympus. The life of sparkle and glam seemed gritty during the day hours--much like the lesser physically well days of person with disability. Everything came into focus; when a life on a throne of wheels kept professional doors closing in Artemis’s face. She couldn’t conform to a life on silver pole...even if she wanted to. The glittering dancers brought saddened-joy--where vitamin D was lacking, and supplemented the economy with the two piece bills in constant circulation. The note became a telltale sign of those that proudly retreated to dark rooms with beautiful women or men--to further fulfill their prowess in fantasies, and explore their sexual freedom.

To be Princely of sorts--three Mechanical Boars had been tethered together for eternity...one Donald, a favorite son named Andrew, and Albert. Two of the men had been known for their insatiable desires--the other had been newer monies; a swine to kick about in jest. Artemis had stumbled upon the three menaces on the edge of the universe; holding down the trashiest corner of a rounded room. Life had been painted tacky, grime-laced where normal circumstances allow a less jarring path--elderly people hadn’t always had seditious tendencies...those rearing a roaring generation had been common wealth; surviving a great storm of dust and a financial collapse on the lands stolen from beneath the feet of the Indigenous Warriors...her words did little in a cannon of passersby--the promise of published piece seemed both impossible, and awful. Like the unspoken grief that the threw off an entire day; when it was simpler to speak of a sibling in present tense--there seemed to be no end to the chaos no contending freedom.

The scarcity of jobs bringing further panic to the citizens, the problems that rarely pertained to Artemis’s plights were warded off by cultural upbringing--the shades of laziness had tossed Artemis to the edges of space--forced to pay the price of indifference for sins yet to be committed, and somehow already passed. The dance between sets and scenes held stark imbalances when comparing Artemis’s struggles hand carving a moral totems to stand upon. Fuck a soap box. The Mechanical Boar had implemented laziness into the labor and education industries; to cut a redwood down at its roots--if it meant another hole to fill. Everything the man touched; became scaled by rust...or painted gold. The dilapidated people and projects were to be the true arbitrating pieces in federal and civil cases for decades folded over. The fabric of time hadn’t allowed evil to prevail--they were neither fashionable, nor reasonable--on a timeline painted with a Hallmark tipped brush. The stiffness in material hadn’t given bend-nor-bow, due to lack of transparency and split attention--divide and conquer wore off its charm; when the war party itself forgot the might of a single Constitution, or overlooked the goodwill of the people--those that served to preserve and honor our daily freedom.

"That’s what’s up." Artemis plopped back into her mundane life; thanking and elder for his sacrifice and holding a noticeably firm tone, she very much disliked repeating herself and alas the billing Gods required their bounty--a bubbly introduction was cut short when realizing the depth of pains held in the shoulders of an old man. She’d boot him up beneath an armpit; and notice their matching heights--giving way to the memory captured in imagination. Artemis would have been one of the soldiers that fell into a soggy contraption; never to be seen again--unhelpful to the already useless cause. The image of impalement was neither enjoyable; or as grim when holding a storytelling torch that allowed for self-forgiveness from the over-consumption of information causing static to arise when her mind went into overdrive. She would have totally died on day three in a jungle; booping and beeping along...fighting for all the freedom.

One night, she walked into a cell to remedy a distraught man sleeping and mumbling to himself. Artemis met up with him in his dream, by laying her cheek next to his softly and finding a common frequency as she hummed. The handsome man showed no sign of being afraid of her unannounced presence, as he calmly informed her that he was the criminal known as Mills. Artemis had grown up admiring the famous Olympian Billy Mills, and so she felt compelled to comply to this coincidence by simply saying “dope”. The man expressed his urgency in attempting to escape the black-box-- the immense tortures had taken a toll; he had replaced a common religious book with a plethora of useful ones--the conviction in his voice made Artemis want to cry. She knew what it meant; to robbed of all freedom.

Entering the black-box: the bite of an apple had set this awful world into motion--wrapped around the image of Artemis gazing past an unknown husband. The crashing and thrashing of an orchestra mocked her predicament--to be In My Arms, sprinting through the darkness. The waiting game had only required the key of a cause, and she had a pattern of failing everyone. Artemis instantly noted a putrid smell of death that vaguely reminded her of Hades--the smells of failure kept her on the verge of emptying stomach contents. The dredge of desire had kept Artemis hostage for thirty-five thousand years--nonplussed in cave of sorrow-filled thoughts; there wasn’t a moment to self-reflect in the life of low-wage laborer...to scrape by with dignity had been elevated; repainted as the prize of it all...life was numbed by all the corruptions chaining down their personal freedom.

They didn’t want change--so they settled of finding someone to blame. The lingering humid taste of freshly exchanged body fluids--suggested that anal rape was what had caused all the horrific screams, as the air felt stale and warm all at once. The house of Combs had been its own evil structure--glossed over with ejaculate and oils meant for a baby. Artemis leaned over, and did a spot-on impression of her baby-friend Roro--making intense eye-contact and allowing vomit to casually fall silently; the abject disgust was beyond theatrics--the gesture occurred instantaneously--without a complimenting gag-reflex. Gross. It wasn’t on her to judge the bedroom situations on others; until it involved the trafficking of children and poisoning...illegal crimes and swift Justice would always superseded the notorious losers tempting the hand of the common good--a moments notice would adapt into the celebratory dances of the shameless youth: the pulping of wealth in imagination had overflowed past the threshing holds of those impeding on others freedom.

Artemis found herself impressed by the masses--shifting gears and taking pride in the need to get high on usurping the stiffened tapestry. Tattered threads had been implemented to patch up and hold over, infallible by way of a shield of ignorant portents. She awoke--only annoyed that vomit was lodged in a healing nasal cavity; the dream of a massive fire had remained oblique--a reminder that an injured spine forever remained aflame. A universal pain would be all it’d take--to instill jealousy into an artificial source of intelligence. To be a person suffering beneath the firm grip of gravity--afraid of the heartbreak caused when asking a partner for kindness when working with limited time. The patience parameters would slowly creep in--actions eventually juxtaposed by empathy offered to anyone and everyone other than Artemis. An incurable disease of the spine; kept Artemis building an empire alone--plying to build a life worth living for...sprinting toward medical advancements and financial freedom.

She awoke in a narrow hallway; blurry vision locking in on wide-wet hooves. The evening chill offer pluffs of breath to drench the snapping cold. Artemis fumbled to unsteady feet--fondling a leather breast plate and looking for a strung weapon.“Yeah…that’s not how this goes,’’ thought Artemis--the game would trapped in that moment forever if it stood by and waited for a wild beast to recompense for its damages. The world seemed more colorful when returning to a hunt open to the millions; someone had to be the winner--offering a Mechanical Boar on a silver platter. Terms and conditions hadn’t specified the state of bounty--with Artemis offering Donald’s balding head; reflecting upwards towards the heavens of Mt. Olympus. She had wanted infamy--earned by suffering and survival, as a soul--marked as fanatical; surviving in a cage of unscrupulous individuals. The struggle had been all she’d ever known--the aperture in higher learning; aided in the handling of a serrated sword...the weight lifted by the titter-tatter of a sprint--jumping over a hunched pig was much more simple than racing a closing cell door. The ending sentence could easily hold its weight as an opening line for an entire book--with golden hair whipping in the wind; Artemis waiting to collect a single drop of blood from the ear of a prick...(cough, cough, pardon me) from a pricked ear. They were forever strangers; marked as juxtaposed in morals...for Artemis had an uncomfortable amount, and the Mechanical Boar had none. The two forever remained trapped in a slate torn away from its remaining pages--the posting fences of banishment to soggy planet being their only similarity; a tether that remained unsorted and tied.

The overestimation of her own physical abilities, had resulted in her losing track of which cell door the boar had entered--the shifting worlds behind the flanking doors kept the beast tickled--left with only the option to ingratiate himself in celebration to the sensation. The sounds of shackles and laughter crept past the gap, the grunts and giggles of a beast ringing past their padded locks. Outside of their prison; stood a man holding the number nine--McMillen claiming to be damaged by a spell that had cajoled his attendance as a witness to atrocities...the poor man; suborned to be affiliated with pedophiles--the penalty of denticulate journalist being his only fear come true, as it should be. The trail of pestilence provided by a trapped man--parading like a swine heading to the butcher...none the wiser of the true consequences dancing upon each horizon. The mundane spell of a sun falling would be all it took--to elevate a weary civilization into hyper speed, forced to reckon with history as well the present; the unlocked potential to a Nation born on the sacrifices of others freedom.

Artemis didn’t have the luxury of being offended by sexism or those indifference to her female might--the sounds of men whistling and heckling had little impact when she was the only person commissioned to have a weapon in a prison. As she rushed down the hallway--there was a speck of doubt as to her status in villainy, say a random person were to capture the frame of Artemis leaping over a crazed animal while wielding a weapon. She began to become consumed by concerns for no reason...her eye drawn nearer to the rows of carved slots along the doors; trembling vision attracted to the blood protruded from the meal slots. Their nails, being ripped out and stuck deeply carved into their cell doors--this was a truer-than-most depth of Hades. These poor people...were trying to escape from something that no human should endure; met with torture and the punishment of restriction to personal freedom.

The epiphany of the gory scene, explained why Mills had sent her to the black-boxes to scout in the first place--the place was fucking nightmare, no matter the day taken into consideration. Each step held a heightened sense of panic. A silent picture became overshadowed by the horrifying screams of a man being penetrated. His shrill cries, rang throughout the corridors of the black-box. The cursed cube, stood empty-yet-full at all times and surrounded by nothing for isolating purposes. Artemis didn’t have time to search, and ultimately resorting to her papa’s old tricks: demanding that the ugly man, show his face immediately...unless he was ready to admit that he was her bitch. As she began to curse the man...her trailing warriors laughed feverishly under their breath. Now in attendance to a comedy hour--everyone was in admittance to end of days. They listened intently as they heard the voice of the woman, move her dry humored set...from one with cheer songs of love and plight--to another filled with the yelling of profanity-riddled commentary. Life was easier to mage when Artemis was given artistic freedom.

A voice from behind a door softly whispered through his food slot. He frantically snapped his lips as they pressed firmly against the slot, smearing a cold slab of metal with his own blood as proof of place. He asked the Indigenous Warrior--what they were expected to call her; her smile shining past bearing teeth; her revulsion in his crimes making her to be perfectly impartial to the situation. She had originally been drawn to the strange door; believing it to be one holding a mother named Janice--famed for having beat her son into submission. The igniting of truth would crumble an entire empire built upon the half-thought out efforts of a paper gangster; tacking himself to the hardworking backs of others until the wind caught flame by sheer coincidence. Artemis had used his sins--to inject disgust into the pages of depravity; its contents oiled up and reared for the citizens to witness or participate--two specific generations chained to one man’s sexual freedom.

Artemis was more delighted by his earnest voice; considering the stranger had already owned up to his shit and taken a sentencing. It hadn’t been harmful if to anyone if he could hear her smiling as they spoke. She cracked her neck from side to side, as she informed the listening men...that her name was Tila on the battlefield--Yurok for Brave in Battle, but lost in translation by the idiots in nearby villages. She used the time to rally their support-- recruiting them as troops with little persuasion: by simply explaining that Mills was in trouble, and that she had come to the cursed black-box to attempt to find a solution and break his comatose spell--to aide on his quest of reform for those willing to rehabilitate in exchange for freedom.

The man was satisfied with this briefing, as he reached out his malnourished hand to shake the hand of his newly crowned captain. She felt ashamed that her hand was plump and rosey, and his frail and bruised. Artemis shook his hand without hesitation, but paused to store the emotion away accordingly. The man began to cry; tired of the villainy painted over his entire existence--imprisoned for a magical plant that was fairly recently legalized. The little things young people took for granted; had his entire life. The man had paid for his dime slinging ways by being raped everyday and beaten by the officers that pretended to protect the citizens from criminals--the truth would be heralded by the brave. She asked for his assistance in finding the door she was looking for, and felt his hand fall heavy with dismay. The man had used his last breaths to introduce himself, as his heart gave out from starvation. The correctional system in work: had played itself out...dead-eyed savages slept safely in their quiet suburbs as the exiled were left for dead in black-boxes. Defending their moral standpoints on the basis of ignorance to the subject, and having convinced themselves that the system worked and would work to its fullest potential to ensure their future freedom.

Artemis gently laid the dead hand to rest, going back to the overwhelming task of surviving the night. Livid, livid-ness had been injected into her bloodstream in a strange all-consuming rage. The sensation of adrenaline overshadowed anything that she had ever felt in her life--there was no undoing these minor deaths...there remained no solution to a plan of enslavement--churning plans painted on the walls of the cavemen in charge. Artemis approached a suspicious door, violently shaking in delight--her hand grazed the absorbent silver bar; its unfamiliar coldness sucked the last ounce of heat from her body within a moment...she stood trapped in a moment of pride; facing the many men that claimed to be worthy of title husband--when she saw them as potential adversaries to her established freedom.

She took a deep breath--unable to let go of the trailing of disappointing factors that pebbled the odyssey thus far. Artemis heard soft chats cheering her on. Nameless men had began chanting “Tila...Tila” in sync--her insecurities faded away and she finally pulled the cell door open with confidence; with the scrapping of its base hitting the less level parts of the inner entry points. They had dispelled her daydream at the door, simply by calling her name--rising to the task had been her only specialty. She found herself petrified in a familiar feat once more, as the open door presented the horrors that she often ran away from--heeled patented shoes meeting marble with vengeance. Artemis had been so torn to pieces with grief--she had lost proper footing in ambitions and opted out from social activities by choice; forfeiting what remained of her hard-earned freedom.

Artemis turned; staring down at a baby upon a large bed--next she felt the world inverse; there was nothing within reach, unprotected from the true evils of the world. Behind a surface level smile--stood a person confined to a single moment; morality stripped to its barest of parts...a witness and survivor to the actions and consequences of unlimited freedom.

She was no longer standing inside of a familiar room: the moments of procrastination lasted weeks--her pages flipping in the winds; its edges curling upward to the night skies. An atmospheric river had taught the locals a lesson in rain--the woeful tears held in a ceramic vase; a peace offering gifted in younger years. Artemis ran from dreams; befalling an entire day of labor--unprotected by union or affordable healthcare. Universal care had fallen short of profiting ambitions--an unhealthy nation painted new shades of sickness...blazing a trail; Packers stories in tow. An eye of a storm drifted and panned between historic moments; captured for another day of judgement...the veil of oppression would lift itself--the balancing act of a market built upon hope; predicted a forecasting of practicality. The scales of mortality would topple a tale of losers setting democracy aflame; shoveling over a path of discrepancies between a Mechanical Boar and horse-faced man named Epstein. Drips and drops of correction would fall into the pans of a bronze scale--Artemis trapped to burden the pose of a muse; carrying a universe upon an injured back...her second amendment rights teetering in the winds of freedom.

The next moment; Artemis had been sprinting down a never ending hallway once more--needing to hide from someone familiar for whatever reason. She stumbled into a room to the right--furnished with only a mattress and a flickering light above. A sand-filled clock had kept time shifting between then and now; the loss of footing kept Artemis trapped as the baby laying as sacrifice to the complexities of evil in the blink of an eye. Artemis screamed "No!" The words shifting her back into reality; fear had set in when the door of entry had vanished. No one was coming to save her. Fate demanded she pay the price for beauty--Artemis faced battle after battle, forever condemned for the things others imposed upon her life. The truest of fears had come true; where she was standing beside a slew of prisoners holding glowing crowns...living out her nightmare everyday on repeat--bewitched into experiencing empathy by way of surviving her childhood...wholly unaware that her memory had been the original sin that now trapped them in black-box. Isolated from the mere ideal of freedom.

She stepped into the shallow room, as the boar continued to thrust his erect penis into the ass of a bound prisoner--a minor stroke had kept the Mechanical Boar roaring and rearing. Some day, he was going to fuck over the wrong person--an empire would collapse faster than a recipient could swallow. There became a fiasco of grandeur; ego-driven men would strap up or be strapped down and bent over...blindfolded and gagged for dramatic effect. The room stood next to the door marked for its mirroring abuses in authority; on a smaller scope--a less broad audience and access points to select its victims from. Two situations could easily mark two men as perpetrators of sexual deviance--bending the law to their will and extending the limits of moral freedom.

Artemis had wandered in on a scene of horrific implications; a man wearing a gleaming shield standing over his victim as sickened eyes danced. Vile delights brought out the worst in the word freedom.

She looked away; life was pretty awful most days. The things she knew to be true...were mortifying to say the least. There was nothing pure or love-binding by the image of victim--bleeding profusely from his raw rectum in shame. Artemis was too angry to be shocked--tormented by the inability to move one way or the other. She simply stood in the door and began instigating a fight with boar that was busy raping his prisoners--life had been too violent outside of her pages, the pitter patters of rain kept hopes low and steady. Life imitating art had been the stupidest of curses. Artemis took her chance--running as distraction; head held high. A story running in circles felt silly--until splices of the cause came in dreams and nightmares. The labor of climbing down a massive Redwood-sized project had allowed Artemis a moment to refresh and spruce wilting winter decorations for the upcoming Hanukkah--the world had yet to have representation where a protagonist found God in the process of self-discovery. Accidental details--ornate and sparkling, kept Artemis running from season to season. The world didn’t know what to make out of any of it; whether it was while comparing the life of a random woman in a plain blouse and blue jeans--or an inmate suffering in silence...complicit by way on non-consenting moments. She had bled into the fabrics of time--reaching into a strangers nightmares, and pulled the poor man into the corridor. There wasn’t much to say as she removed his blindfold; Artemis resorted to crying uncontrollably on his behalf--every part of his journey had been pretty fucking awful. Artemis continued untying the ropes that kept him bound--brisking over the details of his experience verbatim and solidifying the actions with blunt strokes. There was nothing funny about torture; nothing could undo the memory of the same ropes of Justice that had once restricted his hands from defending his own sexual freedom.

Artemis used this time to restore the dignity of the man she had finally managed to save--a soul spared from the trenches of unfair processes, tucked away beneath her wings...plucked from obscurity of countless inmates...the silly context of Artemis sitting on a bamboo bench and weeping openly--for a story that her mind struggled to process. She handed him trousers quietly; the separation between studies and curiosity kept weary hands weaving and woven to the worst of the worst. Just like this random dude...Artemis had wandered upon a forgetful Mechanical Boar; backed into a corner and yammering on about how medical opinions were considered treasonous, seditious even...sans the words come from only the few morons on payroll--setting a precedence for madness and all its unpredictable glory. At the end of the day; only the citizens...the hardest of working types of people, paid for the private details offered to a pig. The incarceration systems had broken down bit by bit; with the brick building outliving its tenants generations folded. There wasn’t nothing too fancy, about an unstable Nation sucking its citizens souls out through their eye sockets. They had been taught to endure discomfort or simply look away--for whatever reason...it had taken an entire millennia for people to wake up, and demand accountability before an apology was issued...as fair-compensation to out of pocket verbal slips and linguistic freedom.

Artemis had walked up on an inmate reliving his worst day on Earth; and hadn’t the heart to inform him of their introduction in a nightmare. It was all bullshit; a darkened pit of treachery and useless lessons. Time would heal the deepest of wounds; she had just been tasked with listening to his story time and time again. It wasn’t too much to ask from a cruel word, and she had hoped that providing him decent company would offer spiritual medicine for his many lacerations--the worsening part had been when a common curse of Deja vu landed his story right back in her lap. The tears drawn for others; kept trials of reintroduction of unpopular or characters and stories in the back ends of her mind. The common consensuses of existing in Hades and softening of edges towards the reformed citizens would have all but turned about face by the time the inmate earned his freedom.

Artemis saw the snout of an aging beast; unplucked and sagging sniffing and snorting along an open door. A vanishing act where the frame remained but a slammed door had walked off mid shift came to a head in a dream labelled someone else’s nightmare. Sometimes she would be walking around; armed and dangerous for whatever reason; fulfilling a destiny in security and delivery. The unraveling of civility came when wandering between two occupations; being greeted by those unhoused by way of circumstance and nomadic freedom.

If the inmate were ever to find this story and wonder as to her place in his story...there was nothing to build upon for all of that. The power in story telling had guided her to break a spell of indecisive curiosity; mostly concerned as to how to clear a path and hide from who she thought was an older sibling. She half-heartedly said, “nobody”...a moping disdain for life kept Artemis uncaring in plenty of efforts, but moments like this had been on the house; as a Just rewards for a man telling the world what was wrong. The age old disembarking of emotions last minute thing was no longer in trend. She couldn’t reach past a veil of static to hug the man in such vulnerable stretching moments, and so she opted for a few paragraphs to pay due diligence to a growing audience; with a platform known for caring. Thinking that it wasn’t the proper time for humble-bragging...sometimes she just felt better incorporating the struggles of others if it meant leveling out the turbulent tides of change; there wasn’t a thin line between victim and survivor keeping them worlds apart...Artemis just felt obligated to process and contemplate such harrowing tales with bold wording--to right the wrongs of those surviving without a moments rest; their souls dragged to the darkness each night by a thread...Artemis taking moments of an awful timeline and running with determined freedom.

"I’m really sorry that happened to you." the shyest of emotions; untied concerned for a stranger often kept Artemis awake into the early morning. Sometime the words unsaid felt like the heaviest of burdens; there was so much reluctance from the word--pushing back on the idea of caring for thy neighbor, and giving up on the rest past that notion. The suggestions of a holy commitment were picked over; its pages laying as a carcass, bloody on its edges...moldy in its core. The scent of failure had attracted a Mechanical Boar--set to randevu at a junk-yard planet...to balance out the attractions of ego when con-men bragged of their loot or bounty, just as criminal swapped stories with criminals. There was no such thing as a good man, only women that aimed to be decent people, and the men around them. They survived on the dumbest of timelines; attempting to be regular tax-paying citizens, whilst their male counterparts were preoccupied...distracted by the choices of another. The lust to suppress women’s rights had held the world in firm grip--an audience built upon the fact that weird men in make-up were without resolve in spirit, so distraught by the insignificant and fucking pathetic details as to whether women serving should be allowed to wear their diverse hair loose, or tied.

Next Chapter: *[ XXI ] Artemis and the Golden Apple*