Artemis returned from the black-box depleted of energy, and annoyed and riddled by guilt, wandering back to a life filled with laughter and freedom. The melody of Forgotten Odes followed each step beneath the warm sun, a bowed head and adverted eye contact came from the upbringing by an adult reminding her that pale people were uncomfortable sharing a street, a sip of water, or even the same voting rights as those that were born into such privilege. Out of habit, Artemis would just fall in line with routines meant for anyone but her. Life was chaotic enough without forcing her hand at luck. She had no reason to add a layer of bullshit to her life by being in the way, and there was no predictability in outcome for testing the theory of pale pleasures--the protected treasures, unattainable to all those with melanin and aimless wonder.

She’d walk down the streets armed with only a daydream and a subtle glare, wasting away the day...lost in a fantasy provided only by the curses of depression. Artemis had accidentally wrote a morbid necromancy to fight the unpleasant mist that lingered around over her home. The mist of Forlorn Hope had eventually engulfed the land. Artemis would crusade the land alone, observing the lurid mistreatment of a colorful democracy, crying at the carnality to its misuse. The world was ablaze, thrashing and spinning with the bodies that had been ushered out of sight of the citizens by those in charge. The smell of death had changed the air. She’d edit and destroy entries tirelessly, de-tangling knots and straightening out lines of thought as her reality and fiction began to collide.

Artemis felt such matching anxiety to be omnipresent with the citizens. Few had began to grumble and yawn--attempting to shake off puffy, pink eyelids that resembled the contemn of a militant Boar that stirred and mumbled to himself. He would walk into a scene and squander opportunistic falsehoods left to only that of man...to those destined to live a story of only a middle and an end. The gilded age of politics was held in contempt: burdened to the lack of oversight of a childish dictator that held a waif mentality upon the death of his father. Such poems were priceless in a hypothetical, where her words were visible to those in the recent past. Time would be the true judge of ones sins. The art of Elicit Trade spoke to her soul, enhancing her commitment to the dark arts by locks bound to scripts and languages. There was a small sliver forming into a massive canyon within her heart. No comfort in mara would, or could mend the ripped soul of a woman raged by the facts of life--as truth would never allow her to reposes a seed of hope. A handful of seeds would bring warmth to her day, but the missing seed of understanding and forgiveness had been clawed out her heart mid-breath. An untimely homicide had left her spiraling to make sense of a world where reality and the truth were unable to collide.

With hands out, begging for a seed to be replaced in a trembling hand--no amount of offering would ever be enough. Artemis felt twisted relief whenever readers felt even an ounce of her paralyzing fear, and accepting that few understood the depth of despair in seeing an empty palm. The sensation of wielding her humor and smile outside of home was a craft that many left behind...tucked away in a drawer and guarded by parents and family members. Her smile began to travel across the faces of overwhelmed citizens. Artemis was hopeless and sunken deep within herself... like a stone cast in the shoreline of the ocean, forever drowning on land and chained to stand strong beneath the pummeling waves. Her essence was the antithesis of rage: foreboding and unforgiving to no fault. Artemis had wrote a novel to budge herself to action, and thank her Argonauts for their kindness. Her life lay in tatters, as she curled up in a fetal position and faced a forgotten past. It had only been Chandler and a sacred plant, that reminded Artemis of her gifts in wielding a silver sword. She would return to heal her battle wounds with a therapist, and fall to her knees once more as the week restarted--clamoring at the soil to try and mend a non-existing seed. Artemis would be forced to continue on her journey as a common peasant, daydreaming in a constant state of wonder.

Her dreams were riddled with the tempting reality of the ability to engineer languages, and the stark abilities to man-handle complex mathematics. She’d awake each sunrise....sighing in boredom at her own limitations and declaring her world to be utter bullshit. Artemis had left herself a demoralizing note: displaying two candles that represented the ill-fates of two people with histrionics she had survived. A poem of her existence being the catalyst of mirroring individuals that took turns in being violent. Artemis’s life was somewhat unprotected without Buckles looking out for her trysts with negligibly--as he had been the only one to question someones place in her life, measure their authenticity, and allow for those expectations to collide.

People would stand in line to witness the rage triggered somehow by Artemis’s attachment disorder. An archive of reference titles had kept her afloat thus far in life, but she had began to avoid a nagging thought that a moody man were standing impatiently outside her door. An embarrassing quality, that she often hid whenever working at the Blue Shield of Hope. Artemis had no intention of allowing a handsome man to be the cornerstone that tore down the meticulous construction of her life thus far, or giving a stranger the allotment to wreck havoc over the many stages she had set. There would be no untenable individual powerful enough to force her office and home to collide.

Artemis had decided to back-track on her journey...if only to travel back in time and give a message to kind stranger. She bowed her head and said quietly aloud...."everything will work out for Dan." Such words were gifts for a mom, holding fast to a seed of the dead with both hands. The world would worry beside Dan’s mom, as his lost soul was tearing the world apart thread by thread. Artemis had wanted Dan to know that his fear was palpable, and that his murderous wife and in-laws had finally paid strangers to get the job done. A family had unraveled in unison, leaving Wendy sitting at a table covered in her own vomit. Artemis had crossed her arms in amusement, as there was no real reason to fabricate such truths, and the truth seemed to paint a more defined picture without as much room to speculate or wonder.

Wendy was finally ready to have her wings clipped, she built up a wall to deter the attacks and blameable words of a mother, scorned by the lack of sibling caring between an ungrateful daughter and a dutiful son. One son had walked from a nest--ready to protect the world from the reign of terror of a cursed family name and a narcissistic mother. The traitor in the family had reached his limit when they mocked his traits in honesty. Like Artemis, he saw that man was defined by his actions, accessorized by ones words. Intent was built upon cruel jokes, nestled under twigs of truth, and underlying permission with details and wicked grins. Silence was fatal--their shared hatred was palpable to everyone but Dan. Artemis recalled a stolen childhood: left as live prey in a den of predators--spared little as a mere afterthought for reasons of disagreeing, and setting ripples of disagreement in otherwise calm waters. She had set foot on lands unknown; with every intention to wipe a slate clean, and to hold a life precious and dear for the sake of an odyssey crafted around mortal wonder.

Artemis had been raised in a "home" mirroring Dans situation, where she was the point of fixation--the topic worth shitting on, day-in-and-day-out. The art of hating her existence had been a hobby shared by a slew of strangers in a campaign led by a child abusing woman. The strange game of survival had landed Artemis in an office where she expected doubt, criticism and insubordinate reasoning. The world had an absurd way of proving her right. The sensation of being disliked would become a mountain of awkwardness that she stood upon with pride, knowing that the world couldn’t threaten a woman without husband, without child--out of worry in holding a fair fight with a person set out on becoming a better person each day. Her inability to stand down or move aside; would draw out a vile anger from those dedicated on making their bleak reality and her colorful world to collide.

She had only wanted to secure the doubt in the hearts and minds of those long-gone, but remained openly mortified by the idea of a crazed mistress wandering across the land with a new name. The world whispered and gossiped about a mistress rubbing her cheap ass all over Shannon’s kitchen surfaces. The lies of a crass mistress were the brown stains building up over the surfaces of tiles, those strewn with intent of a slut "leaving her mark". Artemis shrugged and said "seems unsanitary", knowing that Cindy would be drooling at a vivid scene she wished to cast in. Artemis had known many weak-minded people that had seeded "jokes" of homicide as a valid solution to problems with reasonable fixings, and wondered what types of wording the Watts clan had used to excuse a daughter-in-law from their lives. Artemis had delicately woven a tale filled with warnings and precursors for a world where utopia and Hades often threatened to collide.

Artemis had thought to herself a famous quote by a slain Goddess... "Truth is a good place to start..." Realizing her rose-colored glasses had imprisoned her thoughts until the secrets oozed heavily from the worn down pages beneath her hands. She had wanted to draft a poem that laid presentation to the maturity that had befallen her guile, and replaced the childish notion that she were without perverted injury. She had extracted memories of a man that claimed to protect her since infant-hood...fond memories of a smiling man with a twinkle in his eye, making spectacle in the grand announcing that trouble were arriving, as he had called Artemis "chaos in a wig". The man resorted to convincing strangers that her name was Chaka Khan, and declaring her to be his "better half". The words meant for a wife, not a six-year old struggling to decipher the actions of a grown man grooming a child. There had been so many things she’d forgotten, or misplaced in her mind in order to keep life simple. Her brain had worked overtime to keep those types of tragic tales under unbreakable seals, needing to keep life organized until the past and present would inevitably collide.

After the man with a conflicting legacy had passed away, Artemis had been left with the aftermath of his jokes...now turned ridicule by his widow. He had offered her to pay off the debt of his sins, and his surviving wife demanded more than a pound of her flesh. His jokes were now open-range for anyone that claimed to be friends with the man that had died sick in body and mind. She missed him so often, and wondered if they’d meet again...finally realizing that there was no place in such a beautiful universe, meant to reward those that held pedophile traits and crimes. The rational of a victim and their relationship with their captor was rounded and built around seeds of evil, sewn into reality at every curve and stemmed off by the actions of secrets blossoming into a presentable front. Artemis had cut off the poisoned branch, observing an apple built up of a the pragmatic static she’d harnessed to cope with facts that continued to meet at its core. The existence of an apple made of sin left little questions to ferment, and the succession of a book would be evidence of how a person allowed such vile circumstances to collide.

She walked into a room filled with praise and admiration: a rain to cover fresh soils. The memory of a memorial for a man she barely knew. Forgiveness would never come to the pedophile that never apologized. His crimes would be unearthed, shared in experience with another--their sacrifices deserved the smallest corner of her heart. Nightmares replaced all memories of normalcy. She spent countless dreams, fleeing to a cold cave; longing to wail in the embarrassing humiliation left solely for victims that forgot their upbringings through sexual abuse. Artemis violently slashed away at words and compliments reserved for heroes, and began to hang a portrait meant to remind herself that there were no place in her life...where her horrific childhood and present-self could co-exist. She had needed time to distinguish ways where the two portraits held harsh lines that refused to combine in their morbid narrative, or for their darkened colors and blithe expressions to collide.

Instead of recalling his words of encouragement and expectations in her abusers greatness...she painted him a single memory. Hera had barked at an eleven-year-old...that her husband was “coming home to die”. Artemis had spent half a decade paying for the single doe-eyed expression at that exact moment. The New Year fell and no bug swept the land, as had been the fear of citizens for some weird reason. The threat of malware was subsided overnight and the world kept spinning, despite the loss of a life that held up an entire family. Artemis had used the empty-worded poem as a room meant to house the memories and emotions that had been compounded and unearthed over time. Such a beautiful and non-judgemental room, was meant to preserve her sanity and provide opportunity for her mind to allow the waves self-forgiveness and experienced trauma to peacefully collide.

Artemis recalled the foolishness of begging the world for an exit-strategy from the stars each night: asking that she could be swept away from the abuse...if only for a day. Such a pathetic individual, longing to be part of the world instead of laying down and weeping for the things unchangeable. There in an empty room...she reflected on the hopelessness endured...sitting alone with her back to sea of people before a judge, as they moved her from place to place like an unwanted piece of furniture. Artemis had bowed her head and eyes in worry of the potential pain that followed her ability to bring burden to all those met along her path. She felt nothing during that time. The world had hated her since birth, and even then...it had despised her for having the audacity for having been born to a lazy prostitute. There was no room for her overwhelming empathy, and the worlds love of apathy to converge...let alone collide.

Their incompatibility was displayed by her smile and malnourished body, as a tax-paid Siren had once hid Artemis away from the world in chains. The stranger had believed her opinion triumphed that of a Judge, and so she called Artemis a criminal in jest, and convinced all those around that such a broad smile were unfit for society, due to her "criminal face". Artemis bowed her head and devoured the words written in pages trapped in bound leather. She had been surrounded by ignorant losers for an entire childhood, whereas book were filled with brave and honorable characters--those willing to seek redemption for the many ways that truths collide.

Artemis had wanted to cast life into unending dreams of repressed memories of a red-cap wearing weirdo, and her eugenic-laced thoughts of her spin on what society should be. Entitlement ran through her veins, a acidic poison with no antidote. It was the same roll of the personality dice cast to a woman that would later become Artemis’s legal "guardian. Artemis called the woman a horror-show, after being given the ultimatum of a series of mental evaluations over the chances of remaining incarcerated past the standard age of eighteen. She treated Artemis like a creature, left to be prod and poked out of boredom--a scientific wonder.

Why had the citizens done this to her? They had taken a perfectly normal human, and abused them intentionally...if only to call her a freak for surviving their unyielding torture. Artemis had won, and suspended her right to call herself a human as she left the system. The uncanny ability to seem human-like was her only valuable trade worth saving after the whole experience. Artemis hid the scars on her legs, but their damage seemed to reopen each time a male companion made the assumption that she’d done the mutilation to herself. Expectations of a damaged woman would keep life simple, without reasons for her tragic infancy and womanhood to collide.

She owed it to no man, to apologize for her seasonal state of depression, or lack of effort to care...her life stayed rainin. She had been abused Senseless. Artemis had been cursed to live her life with extra limbs, with elbows assisted her in standing on her worst days. Only a true monster could hold smiles and laughter past a bowed head and a step that clicked and clacked. Nothing needed to be said as to what Artemis deserved out of life--the world had beaten her to a second away from death. The physical abuse by strangers and self-bodily harm had finally took its toll. Artemis knew that she deserved the title hunchback, as a final price for having been raised as an orphan in Merica’. Her spine was indicative of where the patriotic expectations of success and a heavy dose of reality would collide.

She’d find ways to beam through the pain, and began surrounding herself with scientist eager to build her an exoskeleton fit for a person with royal blood. She now lived with the curses where everyone avoided a diagnosis of seizures and comas, because the notion was too painful to fathom. Life began offering people that praised her for surviving an abusive childhood, and lived in denial that she awoke inside a room that wreaked of death and decay. Nothing would keep death at bay, or prepare the world for the day...when her story was front-and-center...where a fanciful telling of abuse and neglect, and a premature death were given as reasonable solution to a fantastical issue--of a woman with eyes that danced with wicked wonder.

She’d lay upon the ground and feel her bum facing the wind in all directions, no tone of aggression could deride the sheer amount of bullshit that could be expressed in a single complaint. Only Shannon would understand such soiled humiliation. She wished for such enthusiastic company, taking into consideration the untimely and inconsiderate actions in temporary paralytic activities and the strange echo of a wife hastily buried. Artemis couldn’t wish this fate upon her worst enemy: which had come first? The depression, or the spine defect? The same went for the overbearing wife, what had come first...the spine issue or the the lupus? The overwhelming tiredness of ailments and unhelpful households was where Artemis and the slain bride could silently agree. It was always a strange realization to accept that their polar opposite personalities would never cross paths. Her tree had been cut down, causing friction to another’s world of resistance. Artemis had been the conductor to a current of change, that left readers with more than enough room to paint a mural of unstipulated wonder.

The waste of potential found with the overachievers, the overbearing with worry...the miserable. Artemis was a fallen star, forever stuck learning how-to-not defecate herself, or stand without the aid of wheels and sticks. The words on hypothetical paper were enough for her to fight tears, they were enough to make her flee the editorial duties of manufacturing a book. Editing was a real bitch. It had been a simple enough story, one that could be paraphrased with the whimsical troupe of a medical misdiagnosis of personality disorder overshadowing a violent disease with no cure. The lack of communication in the error allowed her to shrug in boredom, knowing she held an idiosyncratic method for managing pain...accepting fully that the show must go on. Living among the living was a strange burden to carry, but someone would have to provide evidence of the might of humanism. The sensational tale of the fate a lonely dirt clod drifting aimlessly through the abyss--documented by a woman famed for her pessimism and grinning shield, inlay with meticulous "pearls of wonder".

Her life consisted of only a middle, and an end. There was a time before her presence...and then there deafening silence...a suffocating "lack-of", left lingering as evidence that she were no pirate of attention. Artemis had only borrowed the air, preoccupying the air if you must--it wasn’t without blame that she’d seized the world with shitty stories and laughter. Life could enervate the greatest and the worsts upon mankind, she had just been a vessel of this example in theory. Artemis was unapologetic with a lacing desultory sarcasm that wasn’t always for everyone: she found irony on every corner. She was spite in its essence...to its very core, a woman cursed to prioritize time and experiences. The laziest of Indigenous Warriors, as she occasionally rolled out of bed and held up a mirror to defend herself. Leaving was always the last thought to cross her mind, it’d been felt as a violent act within itself. Few had come back into her orbit upon discarding, and the few were exceptional in their reasons--some unworthy, and carrying the unspoken title in replacement to the worlds wonder.

Orion had been that person for Artemis. He could do no wrong, until he did. Artemis had left him by the ocean, holding the weight of his actions and barreling through the bedrooms of whatever the fuck he felt like bangin. They had returned to a point in time where Artemis had taken a niece back in time...wandering through the past and observing histories great mysteries, carving out a world where a life pre-Orion and post-Orion had yet to collide.

The two women stood by a hole in the back end of breakfast house. Artemis pointed at the floor, gesturing at a pothole whispering violent curses, complete with static brims growing with a pulse that matched its entranced onlooker. Tentacles began protruding from the darkness. "What is it?" Artemis said nothing, finally answering her niece with a scientific conclusion that came with a shrug and mumbling of a "fear hole". Her eyes washed over with a blinding static, and a jarring gaze that cloaked over reality and whatever world was being bent around their adventure. The idea of a simulation within a simulation left Artemis smirking with a sense of wonder.

The bizarre silence could drive the bravest of men mad. "Don’t say hole." Her niece was forever the mayor of words and sarcastic unhelpfulness. The nothingness of her muted laughter became the pinnacle of a short story...a timeless tale of a lady that retired her sparkling bound confetti and pleated skirts. Just a sparkling auntie and her sparkling niece, attempting to make sense of an ominous hole. One holding a grin plastered, and the other trying to week out a strategy for an overly enthusiastic team led by a woman in charge of teamwork, and the thankless task of providing cheer and wonder.

Artemis climbed out of a hole, only to see her niece standing hole-side. There wasn’t enough time to explain all she’d seen in the past, present and future. She’d convinced her with a cursed Hook, and a race meant only for those vying for immortality. The hole turned itself into the site of a Grave, guarded by a sexy beast and a strange man in white regalia. The Hydra was forever the concocted lore, dipping an evolving world in hedonistic sins for generations upon generations. More often than not, Artemis would catch herself looking aimlessly around, pondering on the probability that they were forever standing in hole of despair. Artemis was forever standing with a sway and a wave, accepting the fear-driven free-fall of surviving with great woe, and the curses of hopeless wonder.

Nobody could wrap their heads around the idea of citizens abusing a defenseless infant to the brink of death. Yet, the unconstitutional pain was all she could recall...the tantalizing and taboo nightmares were all Artemis had ever known. She’d work endlessly to be victorious in reclaiming her legs...just to give way to seizures--and to do it all over again. She lived a lowly existence, free from false premises of friendship...forewarning them with her plans to dip and attend events in observing seven men argue in another language. Artemis would hum and murmurer sparse lyrics and sway...believing in her abilities to manifest a life where their chaotic worlds would collide.

She wasn’t afraid to beg those with whom she cared for: "Don’t Leave Me Alone." Artemis didn’t have the luxury of keeping company of people that’d call her a friend one day...somehow, making excuses to cast her to be a burden the next. There was only a certain amount of room for able-bodied and disabled individuals to co-exist, and the inevitability of the luck-of-the-draw was randomized to create an algorithm of probability. An overlooked script and scenario where a forth wall was masked, but visible in a lenses of paranoia crafted by those that stood upon a stage voluntarily...if only to entertain a world being darkened by an overcast of expanding miasma contrived from apathy and pain. Artemis was just grateful to exist in a world where BamBam offered cheerful and sophisticated wonder.

In the confines of her own home: there was the stark reality that Tylee had died an orphan, and was buried next to her best friend in the yard of her new step-father...Chad. Boy wonder.

Artemis had been gifted with craft of translating the future, with the added risk of exposing her childhood trauma, and the extent in which a widow relied on administrative evils to take blame for her violent actions. Artemis existed in an almost-beautiful world, listening to live trials where a respected defender of the law would break the ground they stood upon with a handful of questions. Most citizens were unable to remain composed under such stress, and the rarity of a trial often crafted an environment where the truth and indifference would be forced to collide.

Artemis raised her hand to obstruct the buzzing of questions and refusals, holding a strange grin in response to the fleeting questions whizzing around a cold room, needing clarification as to why the girlish woman named Amber--had casually "shit the bed." A dream team of individuals stood behind a feminine icon named Camille: an educated individual that was followed by the sun and bore a kind smile. The sharply dressed lady had gifted young women all over the land, with raised bars in their selection of suitable idols. Artemis had marveled at the woman, bowing her head in agreement that she too was tasked for greatness in representing female leaders in fields of higher education. There was so much work to be done yet, in order for those expectations and her life to gracefully collide.

The respectful clout Artemis chased was hidden deep behind a screen, extraditable by her own words, and the keen ability to paint portraits in an accurate and "true-enough" format. Her writing was distinguishable in its forms of self-efficacy and interwoven poems. The craft in accidentally writing a book would avalanche into a wave of productivity that swept the land, for an impoverished woman held the ability to formulate the patriotic dream...woman-splaining that anyone could "finesse the fuck outta some words". She looked forward to laying down her excuse of stating "I already did it."--if only for a day. Her need to respect the value of others time, meant her words were overthought to the same extent of that in her daily wardrobe. Her linens expressed moods, ambitions, and the acceptance of ones place in the world--as a piece of walking art. The unquenchable thirst of needing such attention from a handful of poems had meant that Artemis was often dressed to impress...if only to serve as practice for when her finalized book and now would eventually collide.

Artemis prized the nobility found in her talent to isolate pain from everyday life. She were a monster. For whatever reason...it had only bothered her to know that her niece and nephew would see her final form of broken-ness, and aim their anger at their mother for having dared raised fist as children and young-adults. Artemis appreciated that they couldn’t imagine her crawling upon the floor, pleading for the pain to stop. Such a waste of anger would be found in the blank stares of Athena, for such day of judgement would mean that her questionable past was on full-display, and her actions were up for ridicule. There was no room in the universe for her children to cast judgement or despair meant for another, and such a day would mean that their house was built upon the most fragile of foundations, and upheld by the might of Artemis alone. She had only longed for Peace in Silence. Athena was forever without blame, permissively left at the mercy of the consequences reserved for her love of violence: meaning there was never to be place in a conversation for her actions and her violent reality to collide.

Artemis could no longer guarantee that her heart would survive her next seizure. She owed the world nothing. She had grown frustrated with the fact that she was “not allowed” to be injured, as the world had loved all of her stories...“her antics”, in a way that made her untouchable and remarkable--even in death. The world was partially accountable for this shit she thought. The world had laughed, and gifted a treacherous woman named Lena with awards and appraisals. Artemis had began looking around at her readers...the dead-eyed savages...their grandparents and parents had willingly participated in Genocide. They had abused Artemis and her family to the brim of insanity, and then mocked the fringes of culture that were spared. They avoided accountability and toasted to another year of oppressing the Indigenous Warriors. Their beady eyes laughing with raised wine glasses as they "gave thanks" for their slaughter and harvest each fall. The facts of recent history would mark the citizens as expendable in their hatred, where their actions were held separate from their words...the two conflicting stories were forever unable to to collide.

Artemis crafted a poem worth all that the world had to offer, by placating the premise of a game taken place in house of horrors. She situated a jeweled man in the room, and his future wife in one to the right--watching as the woman Heard filled the chamber with screeches, calling forth a promised fortune. The vulture-like human drifted from one unlocked room to the next...scratching and picking at the carcass of her very-much-alive lover. The famed Captain remained stationary, fearing the calls of the Siren and the wailing of her thin gangling fists. Artemis had known a love as such, and wished the sacrifice of truth upon the man...if only to stand in solidarity to his shame. There were not enough washrooms to hide, that could halt the fire-brimmed anger of a lover mid-episode. Artemis had most-likely been destined to die alone, drowning on land, and surrounded by a room of men that believed that her existence was meant to round out their lives, where the Famous Captain Jack Sparrow, had lost a partial finger and vast fortune in purchasing exotic wines for his toxic young wife. They were under the impression that such grand forms of love and admiration could keep away death just long enough for her to bring forth an heir to their kingdom(s), and provide their future with a brighter future. She was without worry of such expectation, as her flat was without a guard or suitor...let alone expected pregnancy...in the present tense. There had been no reason for her allow such overwhelming woes and worry to casually collide.

Artemis remained unbroken at the hand of Queen Báthory once more, understanding that her ability to survive meant that the "broken" aspect of her mind was hidden away in the depths of an expanding galaxy. The woman named Hera had been reborn with a new face, and Artemis had been sent to relive the horrors left to such predatory person. Now she prepared a note of death, meant to lay out the truths of abuse in a way that vacated any room for argument and excuses. The woman with sharp eyes could be seen in every story, in every account of abuse...clawing away at the pages, and seeking an end to the public ridicule. Artemis had only been the one to unveil the suggestion that such wickedness existed. Children were not exempt from such wickedness; those stemmed from the account where Diane put Downs weaponry, and hid away the intentions of slaughter for another night...a world where Timmy was left with only the choice to give up his children without a fight or plans of annihilation. This was not the story where such wishful thinking existed. It was only a selfish scenario--where the idea occurred, and life was gifted with a non-realistic answer, as to why such evil existed in reality. This was the world where the Hart family woke up one morning, and decided to fucking be complicit.

Such anger allowed Artemis to "mean it", whenever she expelled aimless burst of "ahhh!" or grunts of disapproval. This was the world where Artemis sat upon a stool in royal-colored robes and tied a ribbon responsible for tucking away her golden hair, as she hummed to herself "Nanana"...with a head bob-and weave that soothed an aching spine. Her simulation of isolation wasn’t meant to detract herself from rooms of men that adored her--but to protect her from a woman with red hair and "Amber-like" eyes; sharpened talons and deemed shifty in ethical standards. Artemis knew that the separation was pertinent in defending her choices in self-righteousness, and further distancing herself from even appearing as a willing participant in victimization. She had no intentions on being painted as a child lost in the means of blurring morals, and knew that allowing herself to trade words with such a irresponsible and ugly person such as Hera, would mean aligning oneself to whatever self-aggrandizing bullshit Hera was ready to pluck at. Artemis had no intention on being painted with a fleck or speck of whatever blood-strewn paint was painted by a verbal artist that was more than willing to make anyone, and everyone complicit.

Artemis had awoken in an empty room, told to complete one task...to remain present in attendance to a woman with straggly hair and a creepy affect as she sang a jolly hymn. Artemis began shaking her head violently, hoping to "nope" out of the situation. To be a prisoner to a fucking loser named Jodi would mean the chances of Abu Ghraib being recreated and the roles reversed. "Why would I ever be in a room with Jodi?"---Artemis stuck up her nose at the mere thought of such violent atrocities racing through the mind of a monster, and began to crawl upon the floor in pain to exit the nightmare room. She had no intention on spotlighting a person with aberrant stray thought, as proximity to a murderous predator voluntarily would be considered permission to be slaughtered and consent in being complicit.

There were no flying bearded dead-eyed savage meant to save the world, no forgotten stranger coming back to claim his throne and guide his people...only the citizens and their questionable actions. Just the lists of endless wars and rants, of the religious terrorists that decimated all that was left of her culture. This conquest had taken everything from Artemis: minus one apple. She loved this item so--and stared at it all day, mesmerized by the speck of light that seemed to call her from deep within. The idea of parting from her charmed device and the reoccurring question of bestowing the static-filled apple, as offering for a husband seemed to be omnipresent in endless dreams filled with normalized aspirations and wonder.

Artemis had nightmares of passing an apple between two men in her dedicated indecisiveness...one refusing to be near her, and the other refusing to leave...their love of combat was scripted into each baseline personality, bringing them into the world--in search of her unforgiving smile, and forgetting the trials that lay as a hemline to a cursed golden tapestry. They were the forgotten heroes of Olympus, vexed to be reborn into the same scrambling of potentialities--directed by their flawed personalities and bound by haunting memories. The worries of her smile being aimed in the wrong direction became a nightmare for the ages...she’d seek out each of the two men across their dreams, always laying efforts in admiring one man, and loving the other. The comedic nature of a Princess hiding away from two Princes--cast melodramatic circumstances painted by hubris and cliche staunchness. Artemis was the first to admit that the portrait was bold and sloppy in it’s gouache use of primary colors. Her true nightmare became the day in which two stubborn men appeared before her in the same world, the same scene, the same plane of existence--because there be no predictable explanation, as to the consequences of such a rare occurrence and other-worldly chance that the two men in her heart would be destined to collide.

Artemis suffered the curses of madness, a melancholic stare and blunt longing for validation in her blind belief in Orion. A door whispered hisses of the words she longed to hear from a man with few words and blank stares. He must hate her, was all a reader could observe--the true loathing of marriage and hopelessness in romanticized expectations of another person. The moments before a shipwreck lingered in the air, the looping and overlapping timelines could be stemmed through a moment of a man standing along the shore...staring past the horizon at something that was there and not there in a moment of interruption. An Indigenous Warrior stood behind his warnings in one dimension of history, warning neighboring Tribes and defending a massive canoe filled with refuges seeking a rock along the Plymouth. The choice in decision of one man, unprepared to defend his truth in moments of the unimaginable. Forever drowning in guilt, worried of the trail soiled by lies and deep rooted truths. An enemy to the reflection of his personality, and fear of judgement by others--moments of cowardly decisions that potentially left him detained with label: complicit.

Artemis had began avoiding the craft of mending words--slashing away at paragraphs with an enduring vengeance for life...without tether of worries that two randoms felt obliged to walk into her life and contend as to her colorful personality. The skills gathered from a rusty sword was one Artemis could lug around with pride: prepared to spend hella winter seasons--if it meant Junko had a hand to hold. Artemis wanted the world to judge the shameless enabling of Orgura’s parents. Bystander apathy had it’s boundaries, and Junko the kind and diligent daughter--deserved to be known. Two citizens on an island, had allowed the rage of their son to terrorize a house with murderous desires: painting an entire building as complicit.

Maybe Artemis had begged to return to a time where loneliness, and lack-of-drama had been the pinnacle of her woes. She were just another nobody, standing in a crowd of swaying strangers. Her choice of swaying had been through a girlish crush on a Prince, campaigning allegiance with a charming spell of admiration. Artemis dazzled grins at a distant stranger with a memorable laugh, and panned ears. Her choice in green ruffled-robes and ambassador role as "Ahgase Princess" held its title and prize. The daydream of such a Prince standing outside her door in pressed linens, would illustrate, compliment and complete an aesthetic wonder.

She’d brag of a gangling young Prince being a candidate as a Best Friend to a party in the future. Anything to divert the attention of the other five, throwing around crass jokes as to how she may require the key to a hostel reserved for love. The Bias held in one man’s hands, was filled with emptiness and the nagging sensation of a red thread, tugging away to remind him that he had forgotten something. Maybe Artemis had wanted to bask in the time--a life where to men never crossed paths, or at least to a time before jealousy of a taller-than-life "circumstance", became reasons for petty arguments. She had a giant past. There could be no fair equivocation to the disaster that could follow such an event where Artemis would have to deal with her Ex’s presence. The proof of their confrontation would be evidence that she potentially missed the nights where they were unapologetic and blatantly romantically complicit.

She’d take pride in the routine of putting on her favorite kitten heel, washing her mouth, and drafting images in ink or static threads. The relief of partaking in smoking cannabis and admiring an engineered waterfall could be a daydream sought-out as a forbidden oasis, by any overwhelmed wife or mother. The guarantee of iced cream flavored by mint and mixed with cubes of semi-sweet cocoa could be the bare minimum of expectations willingly forgotten by women distracted by their need to manufacture their overwhelming versions of the truth. Artemis had "lack-of-responsibilities", a schedule focused solely on a retrieving a certificate that legally changed her name to Doctor. The presence of two men hiding from their own emotions were playful an outmoded antic used by a wise-assed, starving artist...a childish game meant to better contribute in local economic growth, and buy her time to prepare for an unnamed storm. She’d sip away at her fermented tea and sleep well, exhausted by the innocence found only with a woman before a night a wedding celebration. There was no worry as to how her near future held arguments and accusations that implied that she were complicit.

Artemis had wanted to admire the stillness of a place in time...in a world where she were cast as a nobody. Both men would be reanimated by a single word, cursed with tones of disgruntled disappointment: "wife". A spell that was cast by anyone but herself, by loose jokes and reminders to anyone ready to shift accountability. She couldn’t explain what the warmth of the apple provided her, its core was barren and determined to sprout into a prop meat to inspire an entire simulation on mortal wonder.

Artemis knew handing a decision to either men, meant an absence in the others warming gaze or caring presence. The choice of inviting either into a bedroom meant reserved only for newly-weds...would mean she were responsible for the actions of the rejected, a woman afraid her heart couldn’t handle the responsibility of committing to life--let alone the title of wife. The warmth of cherishing the static-filled apple without a direct choice in partner kept her safe from crippling expectations, and unknowingly holding the power of their absence in silence and peaceful bliss. The art of admiring a stranger from afar, and adoring an ever-present memory in servitude allowed her to live without shame or potential guilt, in the successful chances she could expand her heart to be large enough to hold two men within it. Her doleful words were truthful and honest in their ability to allow her to remain outside of the realm of reasonable crimes in being complicit.

The beautiful artifact was the most expensive thing she owned outside of her white-elk leather regalia. That outfit was priceless…as she had survived the Genocide, as an anomaly; the outlier to a bleak ancestor code. Her Princess threads were now more valuable than any cache’ of gold, the crafting of such a cultural artifact had once been declared illegal, but now served as proof to efforts in holding steadfast with ones primitive culture. Both the sacred items required a vast consumption of her efforts, but only one could offer an insight of her deepest of hopes and desires. Artemis had only wanted to be loved and supported, unable to decide which man offered a better balance for the position open in her life. Artemis had placed herself on the trajectory of success--often walking away from situations that made her uncomfortable to find a better use of time elsewhere. Her quiet life was filled with never ending chores, soft melodies and love of decorations. A life of sobriety came with a new layer of peace, one where finances contributed to travel and a life of wonder.

Day dreams of two suitors stood at her door without reason kept her attention to be aimed in their direction. Each man seemed petty enough to wake up--with the lone purpose of arguing about something. Problems worth caring about seemed to sprout up at the nearing proximity of each. The good intentions and hopeful desire to succeed was sewn into a dress--intricate beadwork filled with girlish crushes, heartbreak, and devistation was tacked down by her hand. Artemis had learned to keep her head low, stitching away and protecting a dress without invite. It was meant to be an option whilst strolling down a marital aisle, and a matching book was meant to serve as supplemental income in reward for her juggling efforts. One item bringing her respect--the lowered gaze of those that found her story of humble beginnings, and the other supporting her patience. The value of each were faceted in their technological abilities to make the two worlds she wandered between agree to collide.

Artemis often hid her prized apple in a trim of Golden Fleece, polishing details and combing the grains in search of one that provided comfort: the world could care less about a Chimera salivating at the idea of invading a territory that was neither liberated or conquered. A black star lingered over another land destined to implode at any moment. They were insensitive to commonality of a man killing sixteen children and educators like they were beasts cornered in steel cages, and without plan to end a war while leaders argued amongst themselves. Nobody cared. Artemis walked around with lunch-box size head wear on, as she listened to endless music--hoping to find any hints as to what she was supposed to be doing with her life and groaning. Self-hatred lingered as she felt so unaccomplished, and discouraged by being financially indebted to the Boar and his Minions. He had a small army for sure: but it had been the desperation to stand in a storm of victimization and demand respect in their formation of culture: defined by arrogance. Artemis was beyond confused as to how the citizens slept soundly knowing that their relatives were willingly enabling domestic terrorism: straight-up complicit.

The Boar had a million helping hands, and yet they still managed to break more than they fixed. The strange army flounced stuck up snouts as they tucked away bowed ribbons crowning their necks and bragging that they could afford to break the law--no longer men-of-the-people through fortune and nepotism. Artemis stood aside, marveling as they began working the citizens with their cons: they painted themselves with red paint and bewitched followers into paying for the Boars perverse past, and his many, many financial misdealing. Hatred was easily supplementing his never-ending campaign. Their republic was no longer in the framework of the original constitution. The man known as Tucker, yelled from a street corner...demanding that they should be “OUTRAGED BY THE ELITE!”, and mislead his audience into a darkened hole of a theory where they were held at high-risk of being replaced. The man insisted that anyone with the physical attributes that matched his own...were being edged out of society: their genetic beauty had now made them undesirable outcasts of society, suffering from social leprosy...evidently. His gaping slobber-hole had carved a path, where all directions favored him--with his chance-filled birthright as an heir to a Swan...some loser brat, forever complicit.

The man barfed verbal other-isms daily--despite the fact he were elite in social and economical status from birth. He refused to grow old--pretending to be polished and boyish with clown ties that meant he wasn’t like the other girls. A trait he had began in prep school. The competitive woman with Con in her name, would scream what women wanted--an advocate that nobody asked for. Her square mouth encouraged the citizens to accept the perverted Boar who lied through his clamped teeth, because--why not? Artemis would laugh, observing the woman’s own husband make public statement(s) as the professional opposition. The wise man would always denounce the idiocy of the want-to-be throne and true threat of the Boar. The sloppy bashing of political opinions made for uneasy conversation, as to how such a marriage worked--or how a house operated normally when such stark beliefs were forced under one roof and forced to collide.

Artemis watched as a woman called Hucks, began spitting over the crowds, and flashing polished fangs at all those she disagreed with. Mental was the image that came to mind watching Hucks--shaking out of stress and yelling at the taxpayers over a cherry-wood podium. The woman continued on her fueled campaign of misinformation, snarling at all those standing at attention. Added reward for a right to fair journalism and press--meant offerings to inform the citizens and test the patience of sketchy officials. The woman named Hucks; hid behind the grinning shield of a woman named--"Hopey", and the two women took turns in relinquishing the fought the citizens held for themselves in preserving the fringes of integrity of those that could risk everything to report the world in black and white. The two spoiled women hissed and slashed their questions with snickers and blank stares: rebuttal for those daring to ask what the Boar had meant--when he told citizens that he was entitled to the art of “grabbing women by the pussy”. The women chained themselves to a golden ring that roughly slid along the shaft of a wild Boar: representing the two types of women that a megalomaniac would use and discard with pleasure. Two "intellectual women"--went out of their way to be awful representation to a world of educated and dedicated women: forever tarnishing their family names--politically complicit.

The woman named Hucks informed the citizens that it was his right to do so, as though her words weren’t setting precedence for all men taking pride in the firm grips of hooking a stranger by the vaginal cavity. Artemis used a simulation: meant to cheaply concatenate the actions that proved Hucks selfish intentions in pleasing a specific Chief in Command, were as itchy and uncomfortable to the actions provided of a visual of Hukey-Hucks...grasping at her own vagina. Artemis had crafted vulgar rules--simply to prove her point in might, and to interlude the skill of playing judge and jury to a story with too much seriousness. You can’t do that on the twenty-fifth, or sixth. Either way, there was no reason in which chagrined romantic stories...couldn’t be meshed into the threads of an awful story where both environments collide.

Artemis began batting heavy lashes, laughing to herself; surrounded by idiots--and the notion that the patriarchy was supported, by the woeful acceptance that she were surrounded by authoritative idiots. The light thoughts that swirled on a day of rest. The winter mellowed her heart, gifting the fear of bridges and a cure to such unreasonable architecture. The bridge had once been used as a weapon, laid down while shit talking flew in each direction. Each brick had its place in a battle meant to end all battles. There was forever a-lack-of-winning in a garden of thorny talent. Citizens flocked in droves, cheering for a better tomorrow, a season filled with luck. Artemis knew the polis was wholly unprepared for an event to prove such a championship in teamwork, and settled for the victorious stones paving the way to a coliseum. Artemis had yet to witness a team ready to defend the ruins of a metropolis painted with beige and Boarish gold. The outdated community lacked spirit, and livable wages; but threw their finances into fanciful footwear, and spectating athletic events as expensive hobbies. Artemis was a dedicated fashionista, and a fan of talented big-booty hoes: complicit.

The Boar had already spent and wasted so much of their tax money: cheating at a lazy sport and promoting his gangs of thugs and religious terrorist. He had dug himself out of a financial trench: forcing his fleet of protectors to hold post in his near-abandoned real estate on the tax-paying tabs, of course. He had diverted economic stability to attend to dying profit yieldings, forcing his army of protectors to serve a chief that willingly threw their ethics under a chariot reserved for blame and scapegoating. The men tasked with holding secrets and serving the public: sighed in the professionalism lost to to preserve democracy. The smallest of offenses committed by a crazed leader with a deplorable talent in painting everyone within his proximity with a golden paint. The cheap and easily-to-replicate curses, spilled over all those that were witness, on the benches, or defending the Polis: nobody was spared from the wrath of a Boar-ish man that rendered strangers complicit.

She admired a tall stern man who looked off into the future Artemis had once dreamed of. The strange man was always gazing off--mulling over ways to preserve the integrity of the Nation, and properly weigh the scales of justice. The Boar now in charge: squirmed and squealed whenever questioned under a direct spotlight. The world laughed at the nakedness of an emperor, and commended the judges that had stepped forward and took turns laying down the law. They had no way to disagree in the fact that the Boar was perpetually complicit.

The extortion and financial chaos the Boar had invoked: left little to the imagination of the taxpayers. Artemis raised an eyebrow here and there as she indulged in stories of a Steele Dossier. One article that led to all the others. Artemis began to read the papers aloud, causing the Boar to flush a bashful red, and throw tantrum to depreciate the urine-filled blackmail. He had agreed to a quid pro quo, to bury a sexually elicit past that criminally tethered him indefinitely to a balding Cyclops. Artemis watched in silence, as the world laughed at the Boar and his citizens: unsure of what could be said in such a truthful instance of shared history. The citizens had finally shown the entire world their true colors, and she was there to translate their hatred for all those called “other”. Their threats were no longer secret or confidential, but yelled in showers of spit by boys claiming to be proud: leaving the citizens dumbfounded and unprotected from their feelings of indifference on the matter, there was only on proper answer--with little room for wonder.

Artemis had yet to her taxes, and openly expressed worry in mangling the filing process, and requiring correction and follow-up questions by a stranger. Procrastination was virtue. It seemed quite unfair that Artemis was obligated to pay taxes on her own land--when the Boar did not. She began wondering aloud, what the legality of avoiding tax-payments would be--unsure of the mandate limits under the constitution. A loophole that the Boar had stumbled upon and forgot to report. He ground his teeth and hawked endless excuses at the citizens- reprimanding those demanding that he show receipt of return. Simple evidence; providing his fair share in declarations and filings...as a tax-paying citizen. Such a simple request would crash an entire empire: and leave handfuls of civil servants to appear with gold paint permanently dousing over their hands--shamelessly complicit.

The Boar was forever defensive of his claims and return documents, and the corpse of his late wife. He had used his litters of bastard children to commit tax-fraud, and disbursed the crimes evenly among them as tokens of his affection. He would make randoms paint his picture--turning only to instantly donate the ghastly portrait. The collection was held for auction to a bounty of wealthy suckers: writing off the sloppy portraits, as timeless art. Bending over for wealthy men looking to pull favors was what the Boar was best at--like a whore on a Friday night, gurgling on the offering that dribbled down a gluttonous face. Artemis occasionally slackened her reigns of polite banter: for her contemn of a particularly corrupt politician occasionally. Her boredom outweighed her pity in his passe’ methods pf slaying crowds with the wielding of words. Such paragraphs proved that Artemis was childish in her perverse ideas of displaying observations without much risk of tarnishing her feminine charms. She was just another person in the world, somehow annoyed by a complete stranger--that just happened to be a politician. Anger in abuse in power occasionally painted her complicit.

Artemis found it difficult to look away from the slob of a man. He openly fantasizing of ways he’d like to defile his own daughter, and the crowds roared with laughter. Artemis was unsure of how many more ways the Boar could break the law, but she looked forward to the lasso of Justice tightening around his many chins. The man was equally outraged by the inaction of the defense in one scenario, and disappointing by the crowds that attempted to let him down softly; dismantling his pursuit to bed his own daughter with nodding heads and playful rapport. The man looked down at his hooves- unsure of himself whenever sitting without assured compliance, unable to properly react to both forms of boundaries. He seemed perplexed by the citizens that refused to begin impeachment processes, but also had refused to let him sack his own family. No meant the same thing in each context. The world was not allowing him to have his way, and it was counterintuitive to the world he knew. The citizens had proved her wrong--choosing to do nothing at the perfect time, and later joining hands to smother the harsh flames of their fragile system built for the people. Artemis was occasionally breathless in admiration for the citizens: unable to vote herself, rendered unarmed, unable to form militia, and forever complicit.

Forgetfulness was a scary curse. It drove her absolutely nuts, feeling like she was forgetting something. The clenching of her fists in rotation was all she had as hints to the two men hidden away in her heart. She’d resort to perching next to her Golden Apple, back-tracking on time-lost; walking alongside a man with a remarkable laughter and bowed hearts. She longed for a chance to pick at his thoughts, to tuck away a closed fist in his hand and stride. Such immature daydreams would dismantle her productivity: a woman famed for "K-poppin" and dressing as a fashionable portrait of a wife with wide-eyes, and a flair for ruffles. A girl famed for her wild hair and slender frame: perpetuating an idea of a woman ready to commit to a direction in life where her bias and unremarkable fortune made for a story-tale ending where Princesses and Princes found one another by almost accident. A poem crafted to remind her of a goal in which she decided to open a door to invite in a talented, disciplined man. She couldn’t even imagine entry into a world where their attraction for one another held chances in avoid clashing- Artemis took great pride in being considered enduring by way of female arrogance. She found nothing wrong with wishful thinking, and proper itineraries that served as a blueprint of expectations and thrilling intrigue. Passion-filled dreams were very committed to the concept embedded in the story or dimension where their winding paths would collide.

Artemis defended the shores of a port reserved for trade and racial radicalization. As one often does. The life of a nobody with a famous smile and love of laughter hadn’t gotten her very far. She enjoyed the occupation of helping elders and disabled randoms strolling through a transportation building in a hurry, items all in disarray and emotions easily ruffled in a flurry. Her smile was warm with gratitude, enjoying the art of being helpful and garnishing karma by assisting those in need of guidance, a helpful hand, or even the companionship of non-direct complaints. Her hospitality was rewarded...in a broken building that praised minor improvements and street-priced food and travel products. The building was it’s own entity in the travel stories of countless souls, an obstacle that hindered or confused the most seasoned of travelers--forever being renovated, leaving workers to speak as though they were secondaries on a digital quest, throwing out directions and plans of attack--professionally complicit.

The cursed building was where expectations of returning ones property in a timely manner, and transporting mortals and small furry beasts from the position A...to B with minimal turbulence and disruption was an indicator of where the bar was set. She watched as the citizens returned home, or took off for new adventures on the daily. The same bland people that glamorized serial killers, abusive partners and pedophiles: enabling bad behavior and drafting love poems to those that harm the vulnerable. Artemis was forever in distrust of such citizens that partook in the fantasization of such skewed romance, and went out of her way to advocate for the victims instead of being downright gross, crass, and complicit.

She was a man of action and strong moral integrity, an anathema to the Boar and his slew of blinded antagonist. A citizen living with culture shock to the horror show around her. Artemis simply observed the citizens and how they approached the Boar with laughable caution to his feelings...for whatever fucking reason. What if this all could have been avoided if a Chief hadn’t dropped lyrical truths over dinner? The citizens would learn from the consequences of their indifference...or maybe they wouldn’t. The world knew they often overlooked the power of freedom that they had willingly surrendered. It was an unspoken byproduct of their inability to communicate with one another. The citizens were now helpless, beyond the scope of saving...modern day Rome set to crumble at dawn. Their congress had already erupted into flames and began burning in the background of their patriotic dreams. Homies were forever stranded in set scope of time-historically complicit.

Next Chapter: [ XXII ] Artemis and the Cattle of Geryon