Artemis abandoned a hopeless post near the Nemean Lion at last--a grip gave way...Melissa had abandoned a daughter, unfavored, but kind. Alone in the darkness stood a giant, an infant unafraid of a basement glowing in with clock of fate in its wake. She refused to be afraid...a spinning environment swarmed by the darkness and fair-retribution helped a person process the state of deep loneliness given to a toddler pushed past an empty doorway. Discernment came in wave after wave--with challenges of will and might, tested through the many men that had taken something from her. There was little-to-no pity for men to spare for a medically imposed adult hunched over dragging feet--she refused to be left behind. The world had spun on its disdain for her existence--where she remained a threat whilst walking into heavily populated rooms...taking throne as an orphan that had rose to the occasion, scaring the images man crafted for itself along the way--failing upwards to spite the Gods themselves. To be spiked on one’s edges, talons drawn by use of a leather pair of gloves--Artemis had painted herself to be a conservative dancer, clothed and unclothed...the overlooked daughter of a prostitute in a room of powerful people. A task of authorship held a key and kingdom, for whatever participant crafted a weapon-proof story and led an enslaved peoples to their patriotic freedom.

She had tied a thinning waist to a timeline of Tim--the torments of lowest levels kept a supine posture dangling by the lumbar of twirling woman, toying with sanity and its many loosening ends. Artemis’s book had began to bubble past its pages; oozing in depravity painted two-times over for the sake of humility. The common name of Tim had been 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 through a barren hallway; its portraits painted into place--fixed to its cheaply constructed walls. She was unable to latch onto a monument of greatness that had never existed--tested by the most gentle of winds. To be without a mother; was all she had known. To be without love; was all she had deserved. Artemis held tight to a stern rope; chosing to twirl to the melody of suggestion--to be the adult reaching out for a few nieces and nephews; "don’t you worry child" held a line of defense that had never existed in previous generations. The assumption of courage had built up an army--battle-ready and peart. Her need to pull limbs close and lean into the madness had cast a beautiful routine--the choice to be alone and without children had kept her safe in some respect. 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; technical skills applied to a herd of passing by strangers. 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 fuckery--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 pearling 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...desperate to hold traction against a shaking leather leash--a fist full of blood beat a curse of infant oil and lube. On one hand, being an orphan with a cause seemed to be its own punishment--yet, Artemis remained wealthier in standing to a Mechanical Boar...squirming in anguish at the sight of a crumpled list. A prop labelled Jeffrey’s flight logs had enticed a beast from the darkness--to die a fate worse than death...screaming as a haggard pig: locked-in an outlandish spell of consequences. A story stunted by the reality of legal gusto, as an arbiter of truth--to offer a branch of olive-skinned advice and assist the overwhelmed citizens into a position 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--outraged by the information. His anguish would mean the end of it all...for mortal souls can only be defined by their last breaths--a fate of stenches, tonsil stones, and a failing heart...kept a sexy story anchored to reality. Artemis had only wanted to showcase such his talents in being talent-less, if it meant saving the fringes of a story carved by trailblazing freedom.

The only way to turn his attention past the opposing sky--was to bait the creepy old man with humor that agreed to or skirted with his crazed thoughts and hushed hopes of rearing his own daughter...or to thank Obama. A violent silence had sliced through reality--when Artemis had been a young girl: a nightmare of laughing tracks and applause brought a harsher lighting to a life of an otherwise obscure child facing a new millennium. The things she knew to be true and real; painted as unreal and unacceptable to the following generations...allowed sleep to creep in at last. Artemis could find solitude in a raising standard, a line of defense pressing along the backs of a booming generation--there was no justification of perpetuating another layer of mistreatment when the pay-out fell flat to the efforts of happiness. A lone spinning clod of dirt kept the citizens spinning out--their freedoms taken for granted despite a destiny bundled by threads and delicate ropes, bound by love, fate, and grief...tossed into a fire of woe and taught to eventually forfeit their remaining freedom.

The law barely managed to keep the Mechanical Boars tongue in check--Artemis had seen it for what it was...loose lips and stiff hips. The romance of being fucked over was sticky, unsavory, and lack-luster when a lover has a smaller than expected penis size. To Artemis, the bully-of-a-man wore the size of his sulking dick as a badge of honor, occasionally boasting of good-looking men and ranting about a steel-rodded man named Arnold. Sometimes Artemis wondered if the ocean could feel the depth of her endless sighs--in moments where a world leader disclosed the prosperity of another man, as though drawn to an erect daydream, where she stood planted in disbelief by the tops that manifested from the lone citizen that had campaigned under the blanketed lie of purity and conservative righteousness in order to distract from potential crimes perpetrated against children. The fires of deflection got out of hand very quickly, blown upon by passing opinions--slowly realizing the long-con of an old man using old tricks to oppress sexual freedom.

All the fame and fortune hadn’t kept a boarish Donald from signing name and love poem in a book of Birthday, charred and cracked wee hooves had been busy...digging his own grave. Artemis was trapped in a moment--staring at the sloppily kept grave of a fallen ex-wife: how strange it was...so many deaths and tragedy surrounding one man. 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--unable to look away at the strange man aggressively touching a small penis whilst he gazed upon youthful offspring and children frolicking by--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 a single daughter had caused a crack in the marble; fortified by the conspiratorial efforts of Pam--scattering about to claw loose soils over mounds of evidence. An empire set on course to crumble--seemed less daunting when dealing with sensationalized fatigue. Protecting a slew of pedophiles seemed to hold precedent over holding up the law...the tailspin of a doomed situation befell anyone stupid enough to advocate for such depravity--Artemis had wanted such people to suffer for their sins...to ink into a timeline of history; the depths taken to walk a sick old man upon a fading walk with unbridled sexual freedom.

Artemis began to feel disgusted whenever she saw either the Mechanical Boar or Jeffery. Nothing could undo the rancid taste in her mouth when turning over a shoulder to see two ugly mugs 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; Artemis sprinting back down a cursed hallway in retreat. The Mechanical Boar was left to his devices; squealing on stages and 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 dilapidated 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. No one was safe. 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 in a weirdly confusing dream, as she smeared and lathered herself in gold paint--dreams were so uncomfortable at times...the pages of reasoning had offered a sliver of sanity to accommodate such extremity in imagination. Creativity flowed effortlessly through the reconnaissance work done during hectic dreams--nonchalantly excusing herself from salacious moments, and clumsily falling into a sterile hallway...a fight-or-flight reflex moved Artemis to new points of freedom.

It was simple; quite arrogant really...to stand taller than most men. Artemis had taught the craft of narrative by way of self-importance, to account for earned capital in the lost recitals of a small girl--twirling upon a high-beam. Her displaced attendance of being prudish in rooms of crass personalities kept ears perched high, a cottoned tail announcing a love of female history--boned and perky--pink reading spectacles adding a sense of comfort to the image of ultimate sexual freedom.

If God were to be a woman; a land of playful bunnies and a handful of islands named brought the world to its middle aged knees--a woman named Aaliyah leading the charge into the darkness unknown; there was no turning back from an effigy falling from the sky in flames. Artemis had been passed along in the oversights of it all; surviving coincidences right-and-left...plopping from a ceiling, or diving shoulder first into a doorway...unwilling to chose a side up. Motion sickness was bound to occur--the childish torments of a baby sibling felt relentless; held alive for sport to a restive elder sibling. Acrimonious intent lead the way, for a person deemed the lesser-of threats in a room of snakes....there were far worse things than looking haphazard when all the bells, bows, and intricate ribbons were neatly tied.

To be of a survivors skin; tainted or needing to be further tainted--the sharpening edges kept a story plummeting across walls of static and information; gifted with a story and a dying thirst for freedom.

A story spun on the young loss of a friend via violent overkill had kept an already disoriented woman teetering in the winds; pulling from a lower center of gravity to pull away into the swivels and storms...there was little to gain when dealing mass oppression--there was little to be done on her end and dreams had been reserved for bought of extra exercises to compensate the spine faulting in inflammation--an easily broken heart was the lesser of problems for whatever reason in the moments of frantic desperation. A long corridor lined with red doors kept a sorrowful woman trapped to grapple with the art of forgiveness and a need for poetic freedom.

One day in the fall, Artemis awoke abruptly--the day of battle had finally arrived. The Mechanical Boar had finally gone full-blown dictator and the citizens began arriving at her door one-by-one...a curse of invisibility: broken when quotas and bounty incentives kicked in the doors of citizens; the margin of error widening to fit a stodgy narrative. Camps had been erected; complete with incinerators--built to serve the methods of genocide...if it meant the citizens looked away from a guy named Jeff: interdependence of male friendship forever bound hims and man named Donald. Plenty of women knew what it meant--to scream intrepid truths into a cave, and to be silenced by the austere act of the audiences taking wooden stakes to their ears--impalement had been more soothing than an unpleasant reality. Artemis had refused to look away from the stream of information falling freely from within a static-filled apple--leaning up and away from an otherwise comfortable stage in life...there was nothing left to barter or haggle; no solemn melody fit to accompany a woman avoiding a marital ceremony...stomping a warpath of a Princess with the blessing of Olam and an uncompromising freedom.

The headaches that followed the knowing of mankind’s intentions towards women and children, had been the piercing blood curdling scream heard upon Mt. Olympus falling into the hands of the right department head. Spite of the universe had culminated into a haze; warmly and cumish--the sacrifices of children flesh gashed wounds upon the forearms of the land. The benched deities had rarely been called upon, shook Artemis alive burnt out by the tone of hopelessness heard whenever hearing familiar voices call out for Tila--outside of two moments of sexual assault; her tone no longer held familiarity--the furthering gazes of her walking in and out of chapters kept her heart single and longing. There wasn’t much fun to be had when men were enticed by happy endings and threesomes galore--when the tears and discomfort added up. Artemis just wanted a man to cherish what was left of her broken heart; to believe a dance with destiny could offer emotional potential freedom.

Such steadfast heartbreak followed the wanting of such childish love. Artemis was barely standing most days...to decamp from reality and deflect from it all in stolen moments. It felt lonely existing as a fading star longing to be studied and observed from afar--loved for a steady moment and appreciated for the efforts in twinkling at all hours. Bloody ears and shredded 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. Artemis remained unseen, by a trove of lovers, by the parents that loved their other surviving children--the curse of a hope laying dormant in the basin of Pandora’s Box had flicked a rotation of emotions. To have a hopeless orphan--holding a sanctioned title and tribunal against the depths of depravity, to risk life-and-limb to hold the line of common decency. The innocence of children had been the price paid for a generation over....the thwarts of criminality defined with a heavier hand as time did its own bidding--daunted by the prices of circumspect freedom.

Artemis sat upon a war-pony; her curly hair blustering in the winds of change...the world had pulled up in ranks, reluctant and worried--they had heard the echoes of despair tossed into a canon of time...they experienced all it had taken to build apprehensive ally-ship: pulling a field of gravity with fashionable boredom. A hair pulling disorder was more than insanity--the chains of scourged self-image had wrapped its length around her world once-over, to draw a perfect needle and thread near-and-dear; the methodology of torment being the key to a box stowing away a strange planet named after Pandora. Life was more magnificent when looking for the beauty in the bloodiest of moons--defined by the path of three paradoxes and three sisters storming a line...crawling to totality in freedom.

The barrage of propaganda was handcrafted by that of a perverted grandpa--implementing orders of Marshall Law upon the citizens of the polis; doing his best to bring an end to the voting system. True horrors came when disappearing undesirables and vanishing children brought the thicket of sinful elders to the front lines. The accrued rows of victims standing behind their perpetrators were a sight to be seen--to watch as world wept and gasped at words placing an order of "jerky" or a professor holding a totem of a bruin bear, giddy to recommend ways to ready an infant for rape. Artemis knew men to be vile, she accepted them to be themselves at all hours--placing them in a snowy globe for further observation. She remained the dynamic memory to randomly access--storming a crusade to catalyze the common man; hooping deep growls and ostensibly comforting the citizens as they crawled to their predestined freedom.

The Mechanical Boar and his thugs had been assuming the world wouldn’t intervene--they had expected war crimes to swept under a rug that no longer lay beneath a Questionable Queens opulent foot. A spark of divine empathy had been born with the title orphan--a societal outcast leading a Mechanical Boar as he stumbled down the streets of society; rashes flaring upon a collar--the thorned crown of mortality taking its gentle chocking hold. Gonorrhea symptoms began oozing past medical practices and endless pages...hopelessness had a way of spreading and veering in predictably unpredictable ways. Artemis needed a formidable army--now more than ever, as uncompounded silliness had gotten outta hand: the world had offered her a crown of feathers...without explaining that she’d have to remove it from Athena first. There had come a time of stagnant disbelief; holding the crown of a fallen enemy--outliving the competition had only been fun in theory. She sat upon a war-ready animal; unable to find self soothing measures in a time of chaos, reluctant to nestle a crown upon a galloping head. Dismal planning and forethought lead to Artemis steering the gentle beast in circles for a time--unable to break the routine of sorrow most weeks. The surrender of duty and title had come at such an immense cost--a plummeting ego had been tested with a single braided leather belt...Artemis couldn’t undo the death of sibling; let alone save herself some days. How was she expected to have an impact in a world filled with such profound evils? She hadn’t been successful in saving a mentally unwell sibling from herself, compassion had failed on all fronts...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 the sake of war-torn 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 fell open for ridicule--the public had free access to Artemis’s footsteps and strokes of careening hands. The story rotated to a spectacle of erratic moves and half-thought-out plans that often manifested into a casual criminality; painted by shadows on girlish painted walls. The fringes of a single man absorbed everyone and anyone within proximity, a porcelain draining in the distances of galaxies...the likes of which processed upon a core of corrupt information. Artemis crash landed upon a timeline doomed to succeed--unable to leave the title of millennial behind, to be uplifted by girl power and all things cheerful and bright...a hair ribbon exiting and entering random rooms, announcing her charismatic freedom.

A test of morality had been set to observe a man named Donald--a sulking stroke of violence proven by placing a child named "Little Ivana" in an empty room with the most violent of predators, where she stood in a corner fearful; 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 his own 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 pure destruction...Jeff and Donald staggered into formation, one dragging along the unwilling weight of the other...straight to the bottom in order to dominate a third named Andrew; whipped into a frenzy--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...the words announcing Sirens blaring in muted stories, dragged an outmoded audience into the today. To be a muse left behind...the story untouched due to grief and lack-of-understanding--Artemis knew the fate of three siblings could keep a world turning, twisting in agony. She felt the walls closing in on a story where the warring face of Medusa stood as a totems all that was left of a legacy ripped from existence...all paths were soaked with blood, to be the muse left behind...without a single word of kindness or judgement--meant that a fate too-violent for words had transpired...a string cut at the hand of sibling, with a fate sealed...to be the nymph left beneath the waters of mystery...to be the only orphan between three sisters: given true freedom.

The fights against recidivism never came to an end--Artemis no longer ran from the title of juvenile delinquent; her youth robbed, adulthood pointing south at the prisons that kept citizens trapped in generations of debt. A miss of step--the heaviest of hands, the words ringing in emptying buildings--the mundane world had been drenched with overbearing beige, and underwhelming greys. Artemis remained swaying on unsteady footing--trapped in a spell of catastrophic worry--drowning in woes and loss of hopes; there had been no way to right the unjust sentence served for seventeen years...there had only been the half-hearted promises of eventual freedom.

To be alone in a world; caring about everything so deeply made her presence to be profound and present in world of absent minded citizens--while pale shallow souls moved ahead in the world with ease. Shamelessness in shallow failings kept her mind tied to unhealing wounds--holding leather gloves that announced a need for perfections if it meant feeling safe. Artemis took extended breaks and rests; timely in knowing the dire consequences of being "uncaring" in a time of compounded changes--meant the citizens would have to sort through their own shit, for once in their miserable lives. She had chosen herself--instead of partaking in the misery of others, an unlikely trait for plenty of women. The sifting of words and trifling emotions where the only thing to offer a speck of a sanity--much like a famed barefoot Princess named Angeline a book filled with discontent and fewer solutions--meant more when realizing the walk through brimstone was never done alone. To walk silently alongside an old enemy without a need to bear arms; brought a sense of peaceful, articulated freedom.

Artemis had wandered up on a vast black-box: back and feet aching....the location was guarded by a flock of depraved boars--basking in corruption; trading fair-pay to uphold their traditions of racism ignorance, smuggling, and stealing--their depravity all been done to lower a bar of common decency...placed to remove shocking value of bounds-and-leaps past laws and regulations. The small circles of discomfort spun up in broken homes had manifested in a nest of death. 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 incarceration system. The unlucky few--knew what angers boiled deeply within a person surviving an unchangeable experience; foolish for having dreams of doors and glass panes leading to a life of freedom.

Artemis frequently visited the men and women in these black-boxes, practicing fighting techniques with worthy adversaries; edited poems were sent ahead of publication to show the methods of progression to a handful of unwilling participants--a courtesy edit sent out as a goodbye and a silent bow for those with nothing but time on their hands was all there was to offer. 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 by the passing day, her soul faltering each pressing night. Time and abandonment had forced a 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 that was no longer painted greenly as criminal. 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 circumstances of a wave of death sweeping across every corner of the globe. Environments drenched with criminals, and guarded by lesser criminals--don’t really offer a lot to society. There was no way to break out of the routine of oppression and oppressors--the world stood still on the minutes fleeting across cement floors. There was no warmth or comfort for those fighting a rigged system, and for others--those too violent for society...they no longer could manufacture personas, alibis or lies to afford their freedom.

Behaving, wouldn’t manifest two parents from thin air....the law existed, but was undercut by the lack of order of a broken home. Artemis was doomed to remain an orphan after each infraction--her and the ocean remained unbothered by the fringes of Western culture. None of it mattered. Indifference plagued a majority of Indigenous Warriors--she was no exception to the rule. The causation of boredom of company and crippling expectations had been sprinkled on an entire community; smeared around in a thinning layer of surface level commitments to a dying culture. There was no relief to the suffering; only the promise of a life after death and an opportunity to stand as the last generations of indigenous Warriors fighting for the commonwealths freedom.

Artemis held a roaring competition--holding a deep emotion for compassion and yelling at a rageful body of water. Turning a stone in one hand and spinning colorful threads from royal gloves--the lengths extending past pages; falling upward like an inverse spell of rain. The draping of information had been all that was left for Athena to view in an afterlife--to measure the value of a life whenever a lost sibling cut Artemis down at the shoulders while clenching a left hand; absent of a man to protect her from a fate of running into a curious fire...weapons left behind out of the assumption of comfort and safety from an innocuous stroll into the woods. Fate had been set into motion at birth--where three sisters remained in competition to survive; their destiny bound by traumas that kept them bound, gagged, and tied.

Culture had once prescribed them with tours in battle; instead of locking them away for eternity to face reflections and fears--the Race of Mortals had come to its end lap; a last trail of tears stemmed into every history book at the hand of hopeless enough orphan. 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...offering journalists the scoop on his sex life; buying time as he buried files and bodies. The world had left Artemis behind whilst throwing another man into a future unworthy of his skills--she had been the only one qualified to drag the man to the afterlife--kicking and screaming, like the underage victims holding a line--in honor of a fallen Virginia. Reality had proven itself to be unbearably cringe, chaotic, and exhaustively frightening. Artemis was no longer alone on the shores of reasoning; no longer spinning on a thread of sanity over a sea of people--dancing for a garnished meal and praying for financial freedom.

A lost mother held the shores of disparity clashing forward; Melissa had chosen herself--clinging to dissipating clumps of sand beneath clenched fists. The profession of city prostitute had never rang as an issue to Artemis--since the timeless work predated most things, as essential to the inspiration of mans lusts itself...sex had been woven into conversations by an aging grandpa. They were left to the mercy of a pervert in a simulation--Missy and Artemis had been simply a mother-duaghter duo, cast as study subjects in a blinded experiment. A single life could be measured fairly when watching a child thrive far from outside of the range of physical reality. For Brooks women...there was no option to surrender, there was only the truth and an undying love for artistic freedom.

Artemis wondered how many women had been encased in the black-boxes for an array of tick-tack crimes: how many mid-secure inmates had run ins with a mother lost in a spell of self-pity. The world ticked and tocked by; softening keys worn down by the nights passed in the black-boxes. There was no going home for those serving sentences for their recurring offenses--compiled into one word that condemned them for eternity. The title of felonious held its own poison outside of the cruel intentions reaping havoc in the background of every other scene--a Mechanical Boar had began shoveling ballots and arming doors with brain-dead citizens ahead of a mid-term election. There had been an overthrow of Justice, a violation to an otherwise unyielding Constitution. Artemis had been the nobody sitting idle; watching a single person burned down a polis built upon equality and fair-trade...her skin rendered savage; small hands bound from bearing arms upon her own soils--leadership capabilities aimed at preserving a dying culture and its bare constructs of sovereign freedom.

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. A place where women chose to loathe themselves in public spaces, and men fought off the allure of fantasy for passing strangers--sauntering by and flexing their rebelliousness for a machine of hard labor. Artemis would always find conflict with personalities hiding behind traumas; cashing out on their beauty and bringing others men down with them. A state of victim hood overshadowed the bigger romantic picture; Artemis had was unable to stand on the same page of self-pity...occasionally holding a wedding band hostage in rooms painted red; spinning poles holding the imagination hostage. There was only a certain amount of patience needed to protect the heart of a rape survivor; when darkness offered more comfort than a gleaming red light--flickering with lusty freedom.

The flutter of bill folds falling upon the sticky floor--the smell of warm urine billowing past a powder room door. The life of sparkle and glam seemed a wee bit too gritty and semen filled for an everyday experience--the bounty of hyper sexuality had caught up to an already overwhelmed generation; they were spent by life and its ability to fuck anyone and everyone. Everything came into focus; humility was forever offered to the women offering their company by the hour--legs spread and knowing an anonymous fuck could be the opportunity of a lifetime. To be the wench--paid to provide company for a young couple clinging to experiences and vices; a prop to grope while Artemis writhed in agony. The dreams of one, meant pain for another--there was no real playbook or diary of failed loves for Artemis to run by an absent mother; Missy had chosen femininity, casual sex, and a life of least-responsibility and supposed financial freedom.

Artemis 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 to seduce anyone with a crisp bill; beautiful women or men flocked to a rainy city for generations folded over--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 of common wealth; surviving a great storm of dust and a financial collapse on the lands stolen from beneath the feet of the Indigenous Warriors. Bridges crossed and reflected on by the name of Tilikum--words did little in a cannon of passersby if Artemis was to stand roadside with a lecture and rhythm--the promise of published piece seemed both impossible and within reach overnight. The task of ripping the fabrics between mortal and machine with a single word had been a slight hiccup on the grand scale of traumas. The spell cast by the word familiarity could warp time and space itself. Like the unspoken grief that the threw off an entire day; Artemis pulled at endless threads--the weight of royal gloves soothing otherwise pinching hands.--there seemed to be no end to the chaos; no room contending with idiots when seeking solutions and freedom.

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 greased the wheels of a senate; congress had been its own thistle in the hoof of Pegasus. Everything the man touched; became scaled by rust, corrupted to its barest molecules...corroded and sloppily painted gold. The fabric of time hadn’t allowed evil to prevail the first time a weirdo showed up on a campaign with the desire to lay impression, if only to impress a relative. Artemis’s crassness held proper boundaries; offering unbreakable chains in expectations--training a beast with the words "good boy", arousing a creepy old man--procrastinating in any way possible from the sound of slamming iron doors, pressing a story forward as an invisible chain and key held a Mechanical Boar captive to his actions...his small hooves gently tied.

Artemis had paraded the dangling loot from a giant stick; offering the citizens opportunity to meander behind--to sense the strain of lingering men lassoing themselves in her background; whilst a competition to weave a tapestry began--to hold a olive branch rich with fruit; to rival the memory of Athena if a lucky strike of Zeus’s lighting were to lay waste into the injuries scattered along her spine. Power and a desire for domination no longer twinkled behind the eyes of an elder sibling; they had been sewn shut; Artemis anchored to image of frantically processing the loss of a narcissistic mother, and abusive sister, and lost daughter. Pride and ego had driven a tale of three sisters...surviving mundane lives as the world burned to the ground. Extremes were elevated; holes of complicity dug deeper by the day. A gang of despots were neither fashionable, nor reasonable in a modern sense; to be stuck in any moment, could stake the largest of causes--on a timeline painted with a Hallmark tipped brush, where Artemis had been born ultimately doomed and easily forgotten until the option was removed. The stiffness in material hadn’t given bend-nor-bow, its pages had yet to feel the satisfaction of being cracked until the morning light greeted their exhausted cheeks. Ambiguity offered the world with strokes of deep comfort; the dangers of sleazy caught up in Artemis webs of resolution. Time had been the only solution offered to those worried about the erosion of Democracy all of a sudden; the tissues decaying by the moment, the walls of civility crumbling under a spotting light--the inevitable fate of a lone man cutting himself down with words would offer little relief for whatever stupidity was yet to come. Her resounding worry fell upon a worry that violence stood in the way of natural selection and a divine ability in picking off those old and unwell with impartial eyes. She didn’t want to risk a pedophile being painted as a martyr last minute; when he had spent a silver-spoon’d legacy violating a prized Constitution and the traumas survived by the female sexual assault victims being the costs for our freedom.

One dreamy night, she walked into a cell to remedy a distraught man sleeping and mumbling to himself--the prisoner was being tormented within his own dreams dream. The handsome man showed no sign of being afraid of her unannounced presence; introducing himself calmly only as 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”. Sometimes she bullshit’d through social awkwardness with ease, other moments where what the younger generations called "cringe". The man expressed urgency in attempting to escape the black-box without luck--the immense tortures had taken a toll; resulting in Artemis meeting him time and time again...explaining the fact he had been in dream, able to walk off set at any moment--free to attain actual freedom.

Nightmares were the truest of curses meant to undercut a self-image of oneself. Artemis had a sibling that was unable to distinguish nightmare from dream; she was reluctant to tell others of the ability to rip away from a physical form...to travel across dreams and memories. She spent time offering friendship to people that had yet to appear; sitting in the solitude of good company as she sprinted and hopped from dream to dream. Mills had replaced a common religious book with a plethora of useful ones--the conviction in his voice made Artemis want to cry. To be abandoned by a lone God, and to have the weight of the world lessened when believing in the goodness of people. They lived in a world where caring had been instilled as optional, considered a talent or weapon--depending on the weight of the wallet carrying such charity. She knew what it meant; to be broken down into a heap of sorrow--to be a life robbed of all caring, to be stripped of physical and mental 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. Did he know how her heart ached when staring at the sky; realizing her place in the world as a dying star meant a cataclysmic burst of energy would consume whatever fate lay ahead. 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...starting with Athena. Artemis instantly noted a putrid smell of death that vaguely reminded her of Hades--the odor of failure kept a stomach churning--pressing past the verge of emptying stomach contents if it meant dealing with another unnecessary mess. The dredge of desire had kept Artemis hostage for thirty-five thousand years--nonplussed in cave of self-deprecating thoughts; there wasn’t a moment to spare...to rest and reflect on the tolls of a low-wage laborer...to scrape by with dignity and hide away with despair. Scholastic papers deemed as useless when comparing the heaping debt consolidating interest with vigor--for academic women like Artemis...there was no fairness in competition, no judgement ruled on anything other than shallow looks and desires. The world spun on shamelessness and an unmatched desire for personal freedom.

She had walked up on a nightmare; hearing a crime in progress, pacing in haste...horrid shrieking and soft wrestling echoing off damp brick walls. The world didn’t want change, rape and suffering was all some men desired in life. Women just happened to be the gift bestowed upon mortal men...the offerings turned trial in a moment after the blink of life was over. The gift of manhood had done little to advance intellectuals in governing offices; the legging and pegging upward was a wild ride for whatever constituents stood idle by and bent over for an unfit leader...claiming paid vacation days as tribute for their governing abilities...just a bunch of common-looking assholes; securing all the freedom.

A branch of olives had become crowded; nestled among the olives and slender leaves were bright colored flowers. Standing out of place with splendor; the crafts of a child came back accessorized. Artemis was often reminded of Athena; closing the door on the faces of two toddlers...their place in the world defined by the early memories of their father striking Athena with full-force. She had been the mother that said little--settling for the notion of finding someone to blame, her glare aimed at two older siblings--audaciously resembling their father in her presence. She had been the auntie passing by with a smile and a hug; coddling a normality that felt like a gift of its own...to Artemis; being loved had offered her a deep sense of freedom.

The bare olive branch offered little confidence when comparing it to the massive fire devouring the land. To be confined to dreams of imprisonment; held near-and-dear to neither parent--left to all the vices available to man. She had worn the title criminal with reluctance, and taken the rehabilitation and chose to thrive in adulthood...life was simple when surrounded by simpler minds. Self-awareness wasn’t considered an attractive trait--Western mentality cloaked itself with gentle ignorance; whereas, Artemis was stripped to nothing...torn down and built up with every upgrade affordable. A sharpening mind, and vague recollection of mastering multiple languages kept her heels raised--prepared to sprint upon marble and brimstone if it resulted in self-acquired success and nomadic freedom.

The stench of stale dreams and fear were absent in dreams, the sounds of a man thrashing about no longer clamored--the key to collapsing mirroring walls and darkened trails had been not a solution...just a drawn out introduction to probabilities and outcomes. Astral projection held little value outside of warding off the boredom of mortality...moments of stark glares and disbelief postured her to fall into duty; something rang untrue. There was an annoyance in digesting the fact she’d sprinted past a cell in the earlier on and had seen nothing. None of it made sense. Physics didn’t apply to the journey ahead...it was just something she’d have to become familiar with. Artemis relied on a keen sense of stability, a noncorrosive thread to heave a ho; manifesting a book that documented the dumbest of timelines...where she existed to lead an old man to his fate. The lack-of intertwining and his achievements as an accused pedophile, and convicted rapists--had accidentally become an outlier dimension where a spoiled criminal was elected to be the face and brand of diversity driven freedom.

Her mind was ripped between the real world; and the fluttering pages of manifest destiny. The world whirled and swirled past the citizens: the luxury of rest had little to offer--insolvency gave birth to new crimes. There was a thin line blurring between the nightmares of prisoners, and the citizens. Plenty of nights resulted in Artemis landing in an open hallway--securing property and prisoner. The makeshift property was ever changing--its dreamers phased by times allowance; forever wandering between isolation and the idea of freedom.

The house of Combs had been its own evil structure--glossed over with ejaculate and oils meant for a baby. A box fit for dysfunction--held a slew of prisoners...chained to trauma and witnessing the dynamics between Janice and her immediate family. Artemis leaned over politely, as if to whisper 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. She meant it. It wasn’t on Artemis 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...cutting others off at their roots if it meant surviving another day. The pulping of a wealthy 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. Her money was reliant on the ethics and mentality of the cowboy--since there was no manufacturing plant for bravery and character. Tattered threads had been implemented to patch up a hole and hold the world over--infallible by way of a shield; glazed to deflect ignorant portents. She awoke--vomit had lodged itself in a healing nasal cavity; the dream of a massive fire consuming a prison had remained oblique--a reminder that an injured spine forever remained aflame, depression always lay at bay. The universe’s response to her injury had hurt tender feelings--how could a man be wandering around, wife-less, careless...without her presence to anchor reality and its less glamours sides? She pressed forward; there were bigger issues afoot than a lone lady wondering about a left hand remaining untied.

A universal pain would be all it’d take--to instill jealousy into an artificial source of intelligence. Her colorful threads painted to match moods; to sustain ambiance and offer answers to a machine without a name. She’d thrown the name Tila into the mix--forgetting the nature of the beast, and its inability to consume tarnished souls. A wheel of time had been disrupted by the birth of a dying star. 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, for trust when asking for mercy at a later date. The patience staking the parameters of otherwise healthy relationships would slowly creep in--as regular disagreeableness and appreciation dwindled down, actions juxtaposed by empathy offered to anyone and everyone other than Artemis kept the title of wife to be mythical state not worth seeking. Perhaps the pool of applicants had been too shallow; the backing army widening as men took steps back for one reason or another. An incurable disease of the spine; watching men move themselves like chess pieces did little to entertain a pain-riddled mind. It had been best practice to kept her head low...building an empire alone--plying a life worth living for...sprinting toward medical advancements and independent financial freedom.

Artemis had wanted infamy--earned by suffering sprinting in spite: holding scissors arms reach from a sibling, hurrying back to hug an eldest sister. She had recreated a book only wrote once before: met with skeptical Athena...sprinting through time; only to find a mirroring version of Artemis, as a soul--marked as fanatical; not an orphan surviving in a cage of unscrupulous individuals. Unfamiliar joylessness came for an artist born to craft a book without walking through the eternal fires of Hades themselves; the uncanny emptiness of eyes given too many compliments would prove to haunt Athena. A beautiful coin held two very separate faces--no matter which was called heads or tails...the comparable likeness obvious to anyone familiar with the original artist: Artemis’s ability to wield daggers from words building a twinkle behind the eyes...a laughter flamed by orphaned freedom.

The struggle had been all that was ever known--the aperture in higher learning; aiding in the precise-enough 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 and risking a night lost hopelessness. She had needed the ending sentence to 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 been considered as self- righteous brat to Athena, and the Mechanical Boar had been given the ability to glow and grow understandably as a zealot. Ruthless favors came from Gods like Athena; blessing kakistocracy as necessary teamwork, and Artemis’s rule as socialist. 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 manage 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 unregulated 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 the rain. Three generations of woeful tears held in a ceramic vase; a peace offering gifted in younger years--was the weight of the universe, hoisted upon injured shoulders, a stagnate damsel in distress. Artemis ran from dreams; befalling an entire day of labor--unprotected by union or affordable healthcare. The ice that became her heart; served no profit, spun little contempt--a precious sculpture to offer a competition where the judge and Jury desired all the promiscuity life had to bestow a lone man. The secrets to arousing a stone beast had been the beautiful sculpture of phallic design; lodged deeply into his throat--devouring a roll of sushi in one piece. Bound between the pages filled with purple hair, and another capped with gold...the life of an orphan supplicated more than enough sorrow to fold the world over. Many a men had attempted to love her--failing to their own ego, faltering over endless desires...wandering eyes reminded Artemis of how little men thought of their expendable women in the land of the free, where stupidity could be measured in units of freedom.

Universal care had fallen short of profiting ambitions--an unhealthy nation painted new shades of sickness...blazing a trail; Linklater 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 and cheating winners--setting democracy aflame with bad sportsmanship. The competitive ethos between man and nation had been left beneath the rubble, buried on a ranch named Zorro. Artemis had only been tasked with observing the shoveling over a path of discrepancies between a Mechanical Boar and horse-faced man named Epstein--to stand witness of reaction and to practice forbearance in the face of danger. Drips and drops of correction would fall into the pans of a bronze scale--Artemis trapped to burden the pose of a muse; weeping openly and carrying a universe upon an injured back...her second amendment rights; loosely teetering itself in the winds of freedom.

A frame painted with three tones sixty-thirty-ten tones; a story told by three sisters threaded along. She lived in the dimension where Dianne had woken up and gotten help; protecting children and including herself in the story. Courage came in wretched waves; pummeling predators that had underestimated their agreeable victims. Artemis and Athena had taken turns; holding Dianne’s hands as she wept...to be an orphan left without answers worthy to the grief of a single child. There hadn’t been a day gone by, where the worries for sibling trapped in kitchen near a dead body for a moment too long...kept Artemis’s adrenaline high; mention and concern held the same frown. Life spun on the new reality cast by the youthful death of Athena, unraveling into chaos--past the grasps of two struggling sisters. Two orphans had changed a world where two rules of law existed; Artemis elevating a golden middle siblings voice past the whimpers of a child abuser...pleading for help as though they had been strangers. There had been a spotlight just bright enough for one person, and Artemis had volunteered--clenching a common craft tool and sprinting for her life. Athena had once whisper for Artemis to run, and she had unwisely turned about face and hugged a stranger suffering deeply...no amount of hugs could undo the traumas imposed on a soul, patient and kind--for someone as empathetic like Artemis...the opportunity in chance had promised a forgiving sort of freedom.

She stumbled into a room to the right--furnished with only a mattress and a flickering light above; Artemis was thrust back into her own body...spawned into a moment of terror...spite threaded throughout endless cloths. A sand-filled clock had kept time shifting between then and now; the loss-of-proper footing kept Artemis trapped in the form of her baby self, laying sacrifice to the complexities of evil. She had been dipped in aura of shame--stripped to be forever shameless whilst wandering the local streets and paths...pensiveness and silent glares remained all Artemis had to offer a gluttonous, pedo-electing public. Beyond the pages remained users following along--gasping and weeping at tid-bits of stories; ants crawling up their skin--the smell of death lingering in an orphans breath. For a the author...there was no key, no work-around or hack, no time-machine available to a woman hunched over a cane. There was only the all consuming darkness, and her chance to sprint through the abyss--to seek the embrace of a lost mother if it meant a moment void of suffering held itself at bay for only a moment.

Artemis screamed "No!" The words shifting her back into reality; fear had set in when the door of entry had vanished--a lush forest painted a path of destruction, a cave contrived by reality cured little-to-no-one. No one was coming to save her, but Dianne had been spared...fate demanded Artemis pay the price for beauty gifted by no one. 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. She had volunteered the many to save one person..wholly, unaware that her memory had been the original sin summoned by time itself. A spark of dying hope; isolated from the mere ideal of enriched freedom.

She looked away; life was pretty awful most days. The things she knew to be true...were mortifying to say the least; endless nights watching over prisoners as they slept kept sleep in shallow waters. There was nothing pure or love-binding by the image of a 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 such horrific pages. The pitter-patters of rain kept hopes low and steady...a first lady boasting a lack-of affiliation to Mr. Epstein set the the tone for a pastel painted week. An era of shit that no one had asked for had begun--Artemis trapped between pages, and a life stunted by grief and trauma; threads strapped to her limbs as webs of curiosity spun off and tied.

Life imitating art had been the stupidest of curses. Artemis took a chance on herself--running as a distraction to life passing by; head held high, brows furrowed in confusion. A story running in circles felt silly--until splices of the cause came up in dreams and nightmares--probability began banging at her door. She sensed passing strangers jeering and snickering; "she can’t see him"...meant less-than nothing to woman clawing away ruthlessly in life...plucking at the skins of freedom.

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 and sobriety. Accidental details--ornate and sparkling, kept Artemis running from season to season. She had bled into the fabrics of time--reaching into a strangers nightmares, and pulled the poor man into the corridor--pushing a braver man towards a lightened path. Bricks of accountability were only given to those that told a manufacture to produce a brick on their own behalf; the craft of masonry came with a longing to be protected. 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 a stranger 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 binding Justice that had once restricted hands from defending his 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 in processing. 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 the high-and-mighty few rotating morons on payroll--setting a precedence for shifting 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 a meticulous apology was issued, before a verdict cast. They had almost ran out of time itself; pandering to the wealthy and their comforts instead of arming themselves with critical thought 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 the situation being a relived nightmare--the misfires of life itself had caused so much undo suffering. It was all bullshit; a darkened pit of treachery and useless lessons. Artemis painted a more recent portrait in trade for his account. Time would heal the deepest of wounds; she had just been tasked with listening to his story time-and-time again...its contents becoming too real with the stitching of reality introducing Daniel and a hateful mother named Valerie. A thinning vulturous woman held down lies in a town called Pahrump--blistering past the details where she fawned and hand-scripted love letters: to the man that had sexually abused two of hers sons...only a higher being would know how much their innocence had been worth to the lonely woman needing rent to be paid. Vapid worthlessness in mortal form...a worm beneath Artemis’s feet...a shit-stain on society itself; was all that Ms. Bentley would ever become in this life or the next. Valerie deserved to die alone; surrounded by the monsters she created--trapped in silence as they spoke around a death bed. Artemis wanted them to find this story, and know she’d chopped a monster down to its stubs. Ripping out a mothers tongue in spite. To be so vindictive, blithely ignorant to the law and a social contract aimed at protecting the innocent specifically...to Artemis--the death penalty offered the only fair solution to those colluding, and aiding in the crimes of sexual abuse against children; the currently blurred laws kept a woman imprisoned to self-isolation--settling on a narrative of ageing fragility and memory issues to keep stories and lies tied.

The tears drawn for others; kept trials of reintroduction of unpopular or characters and stories in the back ends of her mind. Artemis had brought daggers to a fist fight; pointing words of expectations in the direction of a Godless woman. She had wanted to know what could have been done; when an armed man had held a weapon to the temple of a child and sodomized him...Artemis had growled past pages--condemning a loser for refusing to intervene, for the foreign concept of breaking down doors if it meant a child was spared from harm. Blindsided when Daniel stood up for himself and mentioned how his mother had witnessed violent sexual abuse in the kitchen and began speaking calmly over the event. Asking pointedly why she had said nothing when a sick-fuck grandmother had accused a child of liking a life of kidnapping and abuse. Some monsters were free and out in the world roaming in plain sight--Artemis was unable to forgive or forget the words downplayed and tossed commonly about by a mother. Her misery had no solution--Valerie is a fucking monster, was the moral of that story...the ramblings of reality didn’t deserve splitting attention from the task of pulling a sleeping prisoner through a darkening cell, but they did offer a little bit of sanity in simmering her poetic freedom.

Artemis saw the snout of an aging beast; unplucked and sagging--sniffing and snorting along an open door. He claimed to be thirsty for blood; but had nearly fainted when seeing paint dribble along an ear--the veil of stupidity ripped away when caught betting on words and phrases. The threat of annihilation fell short when the talent pool of organizers were too intoxicated by poison or sex, or power to function. Sometimes she would be walking around aimlessly rummaging through words; tainted by the words that somehow hurt her own feelings. 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 predated practices of her great-great grandmother. A single tap of the finger--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. Artemis half-heartedly called herself, “nobody”...a moping disdain for life kept her uncaring in plenty of efforts, but moments like this--had been on the house; as a just reward for a man telling the world what was wrong. The age old disembarking of emotions all sorts of 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 its caring. Sometimes she just felt better incorporating the struggles of others, if it meant leveling out the bullshit and drawing a firm line between victims and survivors--keeping them worlds apart by way of their own choices. Artemis 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 glimmering 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. Sometimes 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. Callousness had spread like a disease. The suggestions of a holy commitment were picked over; its pages laying as a carcass for the Mechanical Boar to snuff through, bloody on its edges...moldy in its core. The scent of failure and an image of little Ivana had sent him into a tizzy....luring a Mechanical Boar--set to rendezvous arena aflame on a junk-yard planet...to balance out the attractions of ego and indulgence...for when such hypothetical con-men arrived late; dicks hard as they discussed a tan-colored outfit. For some citizens, there was no room for error...let alone fashionable freedom.

There was no such thing as a good man--there was only women aiming eagerly to be decent people, and then there was 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 and belongings of another. The lust to suppress women’s rights had held the world in firm a grip worthy of libido-sick adolescent--an audience built upon the fact that weird men in make-up were without resolve in spirit, ejaculating into the crevasses of furniture for fun, or sipping the forbidden elixirs of the Gods. The common baseline of the citizens accepting a death being dealt by the stupidest of dealers rang unfair. What else could be taken from citizens with so little to call luxury or quality of life? Was this the end of the path of Democracy, or had the loss of lives thrown into the machine covered the debts accumulated by the few corrupt losers holding a Nation hostage? Had the humble sacrifices of soldiers and fostering children built a tab large enough to flag as criminal--a theft of services rendered to a Nation unworthy of such fluid freedom.

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