A cold damp wall greeted a tired soul--the collapse of a spine...the divine miracle to tend a cursed loom; prickling at the task of explaining the true horrors of The Crash in a palpable way. To go full petrol, no breaks--pressing incisiveness with prim toes; past a sign and into a brick wall. Artemis had attained the hide of Meleager; from a niobe...sputtering nonsensical contrapuntal half-truths and begging upon all fours for the mercy of the Gods. A favorited daughter possibly suffering from ennui and anti-social disorder; didn’t require the stanzaic management of Olympus. The mentality of Moses and his form of outsourcing reform...kept Artemis tasked to stand witness to the same story; reset to the note of a timeless canto. A lyre, fructifying and gasping in the hands of bored auditor while silent weeping wept. Artemis had waved away the request for youthful beauty...unable to comply with all that was left of a homicidal ex-lover--sickened only by way of pseudologia fantastica and two given guardians; ill-stricken with idolatrous, plagued by licentiousness. There had been such a short; dull plucky thread--unspooled when the citizen felt intolerable of reality...flung from the scene of the crime...straight into the cage built for facing consequences aka preventing Mackenzie’s freedom.

The world had been flopped over with a single murderous brush stroke; a egg-shell colored bonnet of the past--reshaped into colorful claws and furs galore, subtilties shed away into an era of exuberance...in a timeline where a grieving survivor; snickered in rooms surrounded by glasses of warm dairy--selling her body to whatever passerby had complimented slender feet: to soothe the anxieties stitched at the hands of external forces. The walls of accountability were being constructed in the background: Artemis had crash landed in the steps of a dream...confident when approaching a Judges seat in a court of marble--fascinated to be staring at the same face...A gaunt woman; holding invective tongue; spited to be left behind...learning about the core strength of the legal system as disaster unraveled, and claiming there had been no ill-will towards new friends. Artemis would laugh to herself...the spoiled cunt had a mean misanthrope heart--the seedling of evil had been the one on trial, but germination became prevalent within recorded minutes. Two men had just been slaughtered for refusing to take a knee; votary in sword and alliance thrown aside. To leave the woman to be forever unwed; unfriended by time itself...dancing alone in a cell: all because a lover had gently whispered no, and demanded his freedom.

Artemis lifted delicate nets; laced glass beads met a gentle step--a dignified beginning to an inevitable tragic end awaited an orphan...the credo of surviving painted with the word: everyone. The externality of intent driven by the distancing of anyone; being outside of one’s home, and everyone; hoisted upon a boulder of contempt...molded into the shape of a home and a bewitched Artemis eulogizing a fate dreamt and tied.

The epigrammatic drama: of a anxious author...stretching the threads of time; ripping away at a wired veil...static disrupted by grace and rehabilitation--externalization extending a cool hand past pages. "First freedom and then Gloria--when such, all moral is corroded to dust; will man be faced with the totality of such barbarism." Artemis had been born with language lost between thought and tongue, incongruous to the artistic devotions that offered space for reasoning when observing implications and efforts to be shred to threads--where all or nothing remained tied.

A spotted fur nearby--reminded Artemis of a story, where a woman carried the senseless guilt of a man affiliated with her mother--murdering almost a dozen people...tempered after losing his footing in a wagon fashioned for death. His entitlement in being owed comfort--had left a violent individual unprepared for a fight. She whispered famed words of self forgiveness--"It was just another fight, and you won!", the endless pain searing along a collapsed spine had been the reward for swinging away--cortisol ruling the colosseum on wheels. How would anyone have guessed what Lonnie was capable of...outside of times grasps? Doubt had no place in dangerous moments, and so Artemis trained to become the most dangerous woman in the world. She’d reenact under cuts and jab steps--prancing through pages with a fighting stance; expiatory, prepared to face minimalization. She fought shadows clawing their way from childhood--dodging the sighs cast by a nameless figure nearby. Artemis wore the smile and ribbon of a darling; holding prideful salutary in earned victory, twirling and twisting in the form of a trophy--waving past receptive-enough audiences with playful clouds and plumes of drowsy sparkles announcing her joyful freedom.

Waves of emotions came with a glaring smile--the silence poured in; the clashes between reality and an unpolished work came from moments of discomfort, displacing emotions for another day. Artemis was back in a stone-tabled laboratory--directing a lecture hall to muffle the ears of the innocent; resisting the male siren call of arrogance wrapped in pale skin. The barreling odd and inappropriate things people placed upon royal ears--had come to a jarring halt. "Sometimes, men don’t think with their heads, whereas, sometimes women don’t think..." Artemis was jerked awake with the sheer incorrectness of witnessing a professor of higher learning, lambasting students and an infant Roro with patriarchal bullshit with all the mighty of his lecturing freedom.

Nope. Not gonna boom along with all that out of check...there had been a slew of interviews knocking upon victorious doors. The little homie was literally incapable of correcting Mr. Brandt herself, just as she was in reaching baby ears with pudgy hands. Rounded cheeks and content scans of a tense environment--met a distraught woman without a care; unfearful of a correcting tone. Artemis had flipped a script in a single moment--cracking the illusion of a respectable elder in a simplified battle of intellect and timing. To ask a stranger what they meant, what pointed words had been so essential...that they dare judge a goose-stepping toddler wandering aimlessly. The environment shifted--a tone of thoughtfulness and understanding had squandered a railroading of genders in a careless ego driven moment. Baby girl was just learning how to walk and talk, and nobody had asked the instructors opinions of the opposing sexes--who was it for? Artemis refused to stand aside in an already awkward moment; it meant more to stand up and fight...to press further, and pull away at the substrata in persona and ego--and leave bundled threads of words to guide her through the darkening ages. To wait out the storms, and offer fewer apologies as she outlived the booming era--eager to see what would come of her fight for Democratic freedom.

Little moments had been documented, dated, "blown out of proportion"--sealed with a polite sigh; Artemis took no delight in submission when facing frigid winds. Survival had been optional to uncontacted elders of three generations ago. They had chosen death over a world where slavery had stitched into the fabric of society. There was no reason behind such practices--free will would be demoted in stories; drafted by bitter empty-handed traders. What had always been...would always be. A dizzying image of subtle violence spun out in the image of a man; decorated and adored--booming in laughter...a pointed hair style battle-ready...dragging along Artemis as a child. The legacy of Chump--toiled a tragedy; marred by the collateral damages caused by a small character...standing in dead tracks--the thirty year old woman sprinted along woven lies and "protective truths". For some victims; there was no rest. Life hemmed itself off with the curses of mortality--with time sealing away its truths, and the characters buried within nightmarish stories...entombed for eternity; unwilling to pluck away at the seams of freedom.

An overbearing instructor had toppled over without Artemis to provided questions and concerns. The projections aimed at on person--fell into a shower of chaos within a year of her absence. Without repercussions--a pale man would slowly step upon the backs of others out of habit; unchained by checks and balances. When all the silly words had been said and done, the implications lain out for adoyen des étudiants--nothing could brace the willfully ignorant, for whatever liable moments hailed upon their future. Artemis’s hand clawed warnings of sexual harassment and misconduct in professionalism glowing red in the hands of a stranger. "Hey girl, Gery is a creep...I tried to tell them, and I hope you get a settlement for whatever discomfort you endured: because of the management of an accredited institution." The subtext of a papered trail hadn’t been for her peace of mind--the hopes to raise a standard of expectations; when paying for the experience of a good education...remained to be a revolutionary concept. For Artemis; there was only the memories of walking one foot over a chair--needing to create distance from the experience of crippling depression. A striking decision was made in a single step; life’s thread cut with dull scissors: granted a single moment to claim her freedom.

To retreat in a hopeless situation; less surrender armed words in an offensive manner--to offer personal earning for the experiences gathered along the Salish Sea...felt like a loss to the soul, when her technical feats and rise to aeronautic greatness came with the cost of being affiliated with an immoral presence; Artemis fleeing at the speed of sound--a pin dropping in the shrill awkwardness could shatter it all in a second. No one had cared when a child had been abused ten times over, and nobody cared that a woman had achieved excellence as a hobby. It had made more sense to retreat in such thwarted assiduousness--starting anew and covering the trail where such discomforts remained, a hollowed cocoon...abandoned by an exuvia; her mature wings seemingly forever bound and lazily tied.

Artemis would catch herself tapping blunted nails--impatient in love and war; unwilling to commit to one man; barely able to love herself most days. A smoking session to ease into the day had come with the boo’s of a thousand suns: "New Amsterdam...hates you!" (clap, clap---clap, clap,clap) the land had painted itself orange and blue--the lazy geodesic paths clashing past one another... a vast army: united by an undefined hatred of a pale jinx...the threats to victory came with a complete set of fandom, whirling and swirling around a chaotic elder sleeping court-side. The celebration of diversity; an homage to a golden age of inclusion had been struck above its knee caps--hashed out in the last moments of a marathon spanning half a century. The insanity of the East had once bleed to the West--pulling a trailblazing team in tow...two statues, naturally oxidized: one praised like Athena’s temple of war...the other forgotten along the river of Multinomah near Artemis’s temple of artistic freedom.

Life had come full-circle to the listless teenage daydreams once cast in dire hopelessness; she had wasted a decade--caring about the wrong people; loving men that were unable to see Artemis stand tall--waiting to be admired, longing to be prioritized; desperate to feel enough to the plethora of randoms passing through her life with carelessness. Her androgynous appearances making Artemis an unwilling target for questionably straight women to practice upon--an unstoppable smile giving way to the casting of lady number one or two...to the fantasies of sharing a bed. Love had not been kind to Artemis, and she had come to expect less from the people that lay claim in romance--if it meant a way out...of the dreading that came peering past a broken-down person in a steamy reflection. For orphans and Indigenous Warriors everywhere...there was no such thing as true freedom.

The Khantrast between expectations and today--a slow and steady decent; kept capsules of sonnets and songs gliding along a handful of months. This wasn’t the timeline where humility had been earned early on--there was no vying For All Mankind. A timeline built around the race for space--bricked upon winning, wanting, and unquestioned assumptions of a slew of men; painted by their own misogyny or racial prejudices. How many men had felt guaranteed the love of the stars? Much like Artemis’s heart--the depreciation of a twinkling soul surrounded by the abyss; had been cast aside to admire the glowing halo of a moon standing nearer and readily available. To be geared for success...leery by the image of old men groping at the easily captured, conquered, and groomed individuals; she painted the haunting image of yellow tabbed folder sitting idle over a looming lunar surface. Artemis had wanted to ensure that the best friendship of two pedophiles named Donald and Jeffrey, and their collection of foreign Princes were rung together for now until eternity--concatenating the intricate legacy casting a darkening shadow, hands gorily dripping with blood as they attempted to reign in or deflect from the horrific crimes that kept them joined together at the hip. To be seen ejaculating over an aging soon-to-be wife; aged past perfection--their sexual conquests keeping them trapped a devils triangle; towering over the future first lady...her complacency in using an intellectual visa forever discrediting the possibly trafficked victim; an aura of apathy stitched into a trenched coat; orthonormalized into context with each passing moment...her mouth gagged with an enticing request--unwilling to relinquish upon the threat of testimonial freedom.

She’d come so far; the consequences of inconvenience now stitched into stories folded over...when narrowing a scope to be of three steps away from a bounding leaps length to victory. The distance was forever tied to fate--where the imbalances between beauty and power kept a dishonorable Princess bowing a head in misery--trapped to reflect on the tortures survived in a broken home. She had blossomed well--carried by a handful of peers; inspired by tight and bright uniforms. A generation X and all the millennials that followed--dancing the time away and building community out of a desire to survive. A coddling and caring generation had sought answers, and fed instantiable machines--dragging along hyperactive cousins; filling the roles of service when a great collapse of civilization had already dismantled the true potentials of inherited freedom.

The change in tides had crept a handful of gleeful, innovative brothers and sisters--those that had gathered the helpless in their arms as clashes and clamors struck a discord throughout the safer havens of academic institutions. Artemis had an elder sister Athena, catch a moment of anguish as it passed by with teary eyes--pressing past deflections and lies; softly nudging a three pronged harpoon aside to hug a stranger. The turmoil of witnessing in the silence had cast a heavy veil over a heartbroken woman--holding onto the unsureness of an emptied womb, unable to find proper footing in the world whilst physically recovering. It had been the first time in Artemis’s orphaned life--that regret meant something profoundly disturbing; the selfishness to claim depression and the disproportionate luxury of self-preservation over a relationship overflowing with domestic violence. Threats loomed on either side of the door--there was no escaping the costs of failure, and therefore Artemis remained shameless; hardened by freedom.

Contemporaneous ambitions were seen as “manly” or “unladylike” to all the elders that inappropriately wished for Artemis to casually pump out a slew of children--her rotation of fashionable hats didn’t impress men with introverting motion, or the elderly women--ready to curse youthful women with their own experienced misery. Artemis had been trapped in the background of a veil of static--waiting for an imprecise moment to make a public entry. She had dragged a veil and jagged blade--eventually being called to the front lines by a deteriorating leader--pointing in her direction and claiming emergency services had swooped in and heroically carried him from the dangerous zones of a collapsing infrastructure standing along Greenwich street. Nothing was sacred to such a prolific and uncontested liar--not even September the eleventh, evidently. All and all--the whole of a story, spun on a lie dictated by the convicted rapist, and accused pedophile--the fat ass loser that held a Nation hostage with his outmoded brand of freedom.

Artemis riffled through brims and mesh; her many toques couldn’t distract from the horrors etched deeply into the Epstein files. An entire generation would be examined; dissected in all its glory--deciphering the patterns of apathy needed for such a large margin of strangers; to impose their sick and twisted statistics upon the children--unable to flock their prey without the brave and fud-up citizens intervening. Their leader was busy reminiscing about luxury travel, his unspoken "weaknesses". Artemis looked stupid, standing shorter than most eleven-year old...attempting to flee from a helpless cloud made of dust and rubble. She had been tasked with hunting a beastly man, and chose to save his furry behind instead...if only to prove how far one twisted old man would take his crime-riddled past and attempt to paint it golden. Artemis had said nothing; offering a thin wrists and a walk to a man--leashed by the sins spun upon a spool of yesterday. She had wanted to remove any and all obstacles--to show the world the true nature of a simulation ran on destruction...even if it meant fate kept her own hands tied.

Artemis knew something of true peace: of freedom given by those outside of ones’ own poisonous family tree. She had survived a childhood in a nest of Sirens, and had been forced to address the benevolent implications for surviving past the address of eight-twenty-six--Reddy Avenue. There had been no pleasure in deeming a "pleasant-enough" middle sibling to be sickened with the blood-thirst of Sekhmet. Artemis had wanted to believe that motherhood had healed a girlish woman, pretending that lies of childhood could no longer impact a baby sister. To be a scaping goat; a witness of mortal intent--forced to say nothing as the lie of theft had been hoisted upon starved shoulders. Artemis was always seen as a promising target; because trouble had a way of following her around. When asked why in earnest, an elder sister was trapped with knowing the promised abuses would be the only way to correct "stolen food". The title of protector had been stripped in a single conversation--when Dianne stated a lie had been spun off the divine excuse, "because I wanted to." Two starved children had been painted as enemies, built-up to tear one another down at any cost by an abusive crimson-haired feen. A children’s game, filled with catharsis, swirling with artificial blood and the lone rule of walking across an enchanted room to face the hymns of free will...to be the last man standing in a room built off of choices and actions...to be offered peace, joy, and a loving family and, or, the opportunity to destroy the values and offerings of such unbridled freedom.

Artemis stood alone; clenching a metal sheet holding a clip upon its end--she had grown fond of an otherwise overlooked career--delegating tasks between engineers and a few scientist. Life had been unkind to Artemis; until life had come to such a tipping point...surpassing roles and titles many citizens could even dream of. The swift steps and clicking writing utensils kept bench marked projects aimed at the night sky...Artemis was finally home. Attempting to find comfort in sterile rooms, to see the beauty of agreeable gears and soft humming machinery--no longer labeled as a mortal computer by her pale colleagues...the tides had turned in her favor--Artemis and her olive-kissed skin no longer keeled to the proximity protocol that prescribed a walk of shame from a rickety desk to a "colors only" powder room. To Artemis; history correcting itself--was the closest thing to justice an orphan could ask for...it had meant a path had been paved with her in mind, at the hands of strangers unwilling to project violence upon others. A striking orchestra kept her polished pointed heels facing West--with a qualifying glare and smirk guiding each week...she had infiltrated the posts of an old enemy, an unmemorable face forgotten to time--to experience their hesitation and bureaucratic weaknesses as a spectator. She had been painted as an intellectual weapon in a time where the threat of caring--stifled a majority of intellectual freedom.

Within the blink of an eye--Artemis stood stationary...peering past an injured shoulder and sensing that there was only the one opportunity to perform a physical maneuver. It was all or nothing at this point. A room holding three miserable sisters kept the world spinning on a wobble. Someone unpleasant stood nearby. A melody pleading with the crowd to Enjoy the Silence--hopelessness crept up from the depths of Hades; its melancholy too staunch to ignore. Three small children were pinned against one another--taught to push aside arts, passion, and fun for unpaid child labor; conditioned to forgo any and all thoughts of individual freedom.

A warm right hand wrapped itself around a stone-cold hand--she seemed to be tethered by a delicate blue string...anchored to beautiful spots of melanin-less tissues. A beautiful dream had shaken Artemis awake. Danger loomed--someone or something had seen her awestruck smile: a female intuition kicking into high-gear--yanking a capped intellectual into frame by accident. The stranger turned lover kept her breath held with anticipation--unable to consume his worries faster than they were explained in fine detail. He had chosen to borrow her heart--if only to report a monster among men as a public service announcement. Artemis had wept, vomited, and promised to love the buttered baby as friend, protector, and potential spouse for however long he permitted...for some women--the admittance of evil residing in one’s own mother came with immense guilt, self-loathing, and the burden of knowing flesh had once kept two people forever affiliated. Outside of genomes--trauma between a victim and a perpetrator kept two lived legacies tied.

Artemis had let go of a faceless man standing at her left for only a moment--there was no ring on a heavy left hand to build reactive guilt upon. She was free to prod and pester Daniel’s mother into the unknown backseats of chaos. She had wanted him to drive into the unknown and to know that she’d barrel past any and all doors...if it meant one less child was abused at the hand of an adult citizen. A judgmental glare and prying questions had rolled up onto a dead garden in Pahrump. A chaining clasp soldered by a stranger--solidifying the fears of Valerie...snarling upon barren yard; plagued by her ill-intent. The door to Hades--remained guarded by a frail female monster: famed for her colluding evil and participation--trafficking two of three sons to a lover named Charles. She had thrown two single-digit aged children into a den of violence--counting earnings and boasting of Charles and his charitable contributions paying her rent. Valarie saw no issue chaining a child to fate for fanfare, just as she saw it fit to say nothing--when her mother accused the surviving victims of "wanting it", as though a loaded weapon hadn’t been held to the head of a small skull in moments of true terror. Artemis had wanted to expose the citizen--vicious and cruel, and to water a poisoned family tree; if it meant a sexual assault survivor could be offer a single night of proper rest. Artemis held onto Daniels hand as though both of their lives depended on it; the facade of stoicism building a persona of authority--with her at the helm...dragging a lover through the darkness and knowing there was no solution to such mental torment. She promised answers in leu of broken statutes of limitation; knowing full-and-well the craft of questioning people with personality disorders with precision. To interrogate a criminal and to keep a personal temper dampened--her woeful tongue tied.

"Away we go, Valarie"...Artemis had turned to dump the trash off at its proper facility; only to be spun off into a separate room. There was no point in making plans in a world spinning upon the curses of fate; Artemis had worked her entire life to provide a comfortable-enough life for a handful of nieces and nephews...the tides of parenting had yet to wash ashore in reality. Her ability to "Pump Up The Jam" with an unserious face--kept a house moving toward change. She had no maternal passion to compare with Valarie’s thought-out choices to send only one son into the den of pedophile...which was why a random aunties opinion mattered. Artemis had done the opposite; reporting to child protective services that a daughter had been subject to sexual abuses at the hand of a substance-distributing father. The lack-of-empathy for the family unit had kept two children safe in the long-run. Small hands manhandled a squirming beast--Artemis reflected on the decisions that kept her awake at night; blank-eyed and shushing hisses and snarls with smiles and silence...attention requested had be granted with diplomatic tones. Artemis had no interest in the blame placated upon children--she had wanted Valarie to squirm; deceitfulness pressing past tightly clenched teeth--her large rounded eyes bulging with anxiety. Artemis erected a poem just for a childhood-version of a giant man; knowing that Daniel had been brave in instances of unspeakable terror...sprinting into her arms and explaining the moments of fear that kept his ambitions linked a shrill and lazy woman. His worst qualities defined by his genetics and a family history being the only places in his life where failure thrived--to be a bird with wings broken by a vile mother; managing to survive the fall and mustering the strength to crawl meaningfully towards emotional freedom.

She began to click and lock harnesses; stubborn to prove the depth of violence found in a single, forever single women--painted with Western culture...the dice of chance had brought up a snake-eyes of Valarie to spite the world...to usher in the end times. A nobody monster held the reigns to a story--chained to the Meres of Diomedes; where Artemis was seen as the hero on a hopeless journey...sprinting past a frail looking woman--disoriented by the mere concept of accountability; striking Valarie down with verbal lashes upon an aging spine--seeking specifications of dates and her particular location in times where her biological children were being savagely attacked and ravaged by one of her many lovers. Valarie had been busy--carelessly dancing the night away in the arms of Daniels paternal grandfather...the established implications of her infidelity didn’t need to be said--Daniel often made "jokes" about his grandfather possibly being his biological father....they mysteries of the universe spun upon the decisions placed by a shallow mother that desired to be picked--at any cost, by whatever lustful eyes darted in her direction. To Artemis and Daniel--the choice to submit blood and seek the truth in good time; offered a toe-in into murky waters, where the truth both harmed the truth seeker whilst simultaneously offering a minicom of spiritual freedom.

Artemis remained trapped within a moment of sheer rage--attempting to make sense of the senseless and glaring towards a glowing device for all eternity. There was no pity to be offered a handler of children--no anonymity to contend with. Valarie served as an evil pawn in life’s game--to offer the ringing bells of truth; all while condemning a metropolis named for sin. Observation and silent judgement was the only non-lethal maneuver that could subdue such an ugly soul...Artemis had dove headfirst into the unknown; reaching intuitively into the abyss of static for the caring hand of Daniel. Two outlier survivors had sprinted past the darkness of it all--colliding in a rare moment; both fighting campaigns for change--refusing to leave anyone behind and dragging an entire population into an age of empathic freedom.

To some--trauma and endurance could change the world; by folding expectations over and coming out the other side okay enough to care about others. Unlike Valarie--Daniel had an endless chain of friends to dive all in. He would never have to ask for friends to care; they just did--he was surrounded by peers and friends that openly thanked the Gods his role in their lives. For a vindictive loser like Valarie; the notion of friendship remained illusive, to be a practice that churned along in fairytales. Much like a defunct mathematician--no amount of time or space could inspire time-travelers to attend a party in twenty-eight nine. Predators hiding in plain sight--kept Artemis sprinting through chapters; crashing through locked doors as a hobby. Harrowing tales of survival remained fluttering away along a warping hallway--the regretful pages trying desperately to rip themselves out from poison-drenched binding glue. The cursed story refused to move past Valarie’s desperation to be loved, specifically. The rarity of such a bird-like woman wandering free kept sins regurgitating her crimes against children to pass along to other households--because "only God could judge her", and the normalization of chaos made her somehow at ease. Artemis had escaped with as minimal contact to the female child sex-trafficker possible--rushing a calm goodbye when the alarm of discomfort had been set blaring off in an awkward silence; Valarie had summoned two violent brothers and a belittling father to her aide, because speech in Valarie’s house remained to be without punishment or freedom.

Dust kicked up on a near empty road--Artemis and Daniel had overstayed their welcome, holding firm tones or concise questioning. The protector side of Artemis had been triggered...she refused to let a loser diminish the a decade of Daniel’s hard work. She held his hand--reading as his possible father claimed that a missed visit hadn’t meant to come across as an ambush, lambasting the sexual assault survivor for throwing off Valerie’s calm vibe and claiming there had been a completely "normal family visit" following unfair conversation. Why bring up the past? Charles had been set free from incarceration during the tail end of the wave of red death--to save the tax-payers money and offset overcrowding. Valarie had been sending the prisoner love letters throughout his stay--all while punishing one son, stripping away his humanity one chore at a time, believing that his might would be challenged or discouraged in the least. The wise man had ducked out of sight--crawling to success...holding in tears until it was safe to address the choices of Valarie and her pathetic war-path...a blood-soaked thread dragging along the land--announcing the direct orders placed upon a small child; with a simulation to express the traumas that kept near-strangers tied.

Artemis had been either the beauty or and beat for plenty of men; but never both. By chance: an orphan had landed in a nest, warm and inspirational--holding the hands of few musicians (pleading with a attitude-driven teenager to with gentle words) "Talk to Me"...allowing a forgotten victim to practice conversations around unexplainable torment and building the courage to assist storming stags as they went along. Artistic profundity was knighted by heavy hands--marked only by the small piping of an orphan and a unmanageable Mechanical Boar chanting to himself...about himself; casually delusional and shitting himself on any given weekday. To some; the irrational minds and choices of others were a burden--obligated to logical consequences with due-punishment distributed by none. Free will had been the ultimate test for society to achieve moral driven freedom.

A lone shot in the dark--backed by a friendly neighbor; painting herself with curses of Gwendolyne if it meant fate reducing her words into matching truths. Artemis had done her best to love a nearly-unreachable man, and he had chosen isolation for centuries over. Instead of waiting for a cue to care; a practiced skill of bravery and endurance had set her athletic wheels in motion--assuming her future husband had been too wounded to be on time; she sprinted back to the beginning...needing to ensure all friends and allies were pointed towards the exit of a hexed cave. Artemis had been the millennial piper; pleading readers to hear her oral poems and to Take Me to Heart...a small army of ever-present names slowly began standing up in protest--calmly rejecting the swirling of misinformation as they pulled away from a polished marble tabletop with abrupt resolve. The reigns of approval--squelched or abandoned--with the future leaders severing relationships and offering zero contact with personalities that hung pretext over the heads of others--holding us against them, until the fractures to a timeline manifest a society where citizens and none-citizens were kidnapped in broad daylight. There was no grey area to deflect unactionable options into; to hurl self-gouged bulbus oculi into the furnaces of colonizing freedom.

The same citizens that had once proudly jaunted down public roads--alchemizing a random day into a Fry Day; no longer cared for the general safety of women and children wandering around as targets for monstrous people. If such a verdict rang truer--the burning of witches would have been a past time, and less of a growing statistic. The crossing of ruby horizons had been a drearily fated timeline; detailed, geodesic with the star-crossed passing of notorious names and locations--with disenfranchised children dragging spiteful elders to the courts of public opinion, to stand trial for their sloppily crafted portrait of earned freedom.

Artemis yanked at holster straps is softened edges bound by two strangers walking blindly past one another; their suffering viewed as past time in the homes of citizens. There was an intrigue in a vast maze; where the younger generations spread their unseriousness--swaying as they hummed It don’t Move Me in exhaustion. Plenty of homes extended the lives of their in-laws; giggling as they waxed each others ears and backs--teaching dance routines as the treads passed overhead. Those that kept up; had sparks of ambition that kept their words unmovable--the feeble mumbles of long lost Bund members no longer held their weight in silver. Belated wardrobe changes and stumbling leaders--kept Artemis bloody fist clenching tightly over the reigns of storming beast; she had no intention of giving up on the citizens--worn down, raped, and robbed. To be without judgement of thy neighbor in their shittiest of weathers--had been a sobering grip over reality. There was no solution for an orphan; born homesick and told to be grateful for such shameless and untethered freedom.

Artemis awoke on the ground--life had caught up to her spine. The bespoken game hadn’t calculated for the physical toll of a lone player sprinting enough for two people. She spun off; a wide button-nose softly greeting a door that felt warm to the touch. Athena gently held a heaving shoulder--"none of it is real", meant whatever lay past the cursed barrier was less than ideal when attempting to help a bored middle sibling. She remained the smallest of consideration in a set of three glimmering rings--the spare empathy Artemis kept hidden was gifted on the behalf of others more often than not. The image of an infinity symbol had been miscrafted to focus upon two joining loops--when there had always been three; with the tiniest one folded away for safety or comfort. The Gods had spared her for reasons of gruesome death; tucked away with two sisters in a closet at the end of a long, long hallway. Their helpless embraces were all that had provided comfort in times where adults had taken it upon themselves to abuse children; to paint instances as God’s will--to diminish survival as a bode of courage in prevailing to test one’s faith in God, if it meant overlooking the lack of free will needed to burst past locked doors without fear of retaliation for attaining such sweetly forbidden and destructive freedom.

Artemis paused; the traumas of a childhood shed light upon the darkest of people. An ability to rub insincere personalities with a grated smile; to chip away at meticulously soldered personas--tiled together by lies, persuasion and over lapping tales meant no grounds were sacred; blood thirst diseases had infiltrated every corner of the land. Artemis had only found the time to declare her love for Daniel in warm sheets--taking success and failures to be one of the same. True torments came with the task in choosing to learn about the inhumane treatment cast by Charles Smith--plucking away at the crimes children were forced to survive and wondering how the law managed to protect the woman that had hand-selected one son over and over, physically abusing a child for disagreeing in absolute silence. For warriors of publication and marketing...Artemis found it bitter-sweet; knowing a book holding the case number ninety-seven-C-one-four-two-nine-one-five and the super-secret password of nineteen ninety seven would bring a monstrous person to her knees; to some...the booming truth was all that remained of a man torn down by the decisions of Valarie. Evil in its thinnest form; counter acted the weight of Hera’s hefty handling of delicate children--Artemis and Daniel forever bonded by trauma and the female criminals controlling and ruthlessly dictating their childhood freedom.

Artemis missed her civil-servant bosses: the bossiest of bosses...Warmbrodt, and Young; occasionally swirling a soft creme into the harsh granulates of cane sugar--the ritual of standing guard over a thinning snow-trodden bear. She had been the cream-of-the-crop; denounced by a Mechanical Boar actively deleting the legacies of both scientists and women of color...chopped down at the roots, if it meant losers like James Donald were handed the world on a silver platter. Artemis chose to thread a golden string through and back two chapters--to pull reigns tighter than the loose lies of an entertainer-turned politician and or, tighter than the lips giddily loosened by Valarie; sans the romantic moments when a husbands father took an overworked mother out dancing. The contrast between Artemis’s distant engineering leaders and an overbearing licentious elderly man...avoiding retirement and his seething expected widow had placed the entire world in danger and reared an unsexy threat that now eroded at centuries of freedom.

Artemis stood around with an impatient sigh belting past winded lungs--there was an air of subordinate concern for the missing man in her life. There came a day when a stranger walked up with bravery; asking a beaming woman for a mode of contact...claiming to see her for the accomplishments that had been smudged out of existence. The tall man towered over a weary woman--unable to complain whilst being a man seeming to hold the weight of societies violent proclivities as scars. The withering of tissues and joints had been Artemis’s unbeatable enemy, Ehlers-Danlos painting life to be worrisome and caring--the mortal wounds to genomes began to sand away at fiber mesh; polishing a weapon capable of mach speeds with precision and grace. A heart turned to ice; began melting in his hands--Artemis weeping at the idea of racing and having to aim deep caring toward a man, tortured by a past long gone...all whilst recovering from tireless nonsensical self-poisoning battles.

The notion of disbelief caused failures in launching most days; the clouds above couldn’t mend the fragile tissues with whispers of encouragement. She couldn’t fix this and her mortal body had began to fade--a pixelated heart began pulling itself apart by the age of eighteen. The trek up a steep mountain had been devalued by the citizens that had the audacity to glare her way--abandoned Spartan babies had no true place to call home in this world. What ever was left of an orphan heart had shrunk down to the size of a bead--shaped by the contextualized romance given by another; for now, Artemis felt victorious--clasping the spotted hand of a giant...content as two people suffering from physical disabilities holding hands and moseyed along. Untouchable by their enemies and unbound by their unspeakable traumas--forever friends...so life could be enjoyed over laughter and lecture, or fought fairly at the bare minimum with gentle kisses. The anti-horizon held its own mysteries and perilous battles.

Disagreement transversely kept a crumbling heart slipping past a man born-- too kind to be real...Artemis kept reminding her suitor of the state of their hearts material--one glass and his pumping along as his body tore to shreds. Artemis had wanted to be everything for him--a glimmering apple to his eye, and instead; he had painted her out to be frigid. There was a stark comparison to the parented and entitled flocks of women fluttering by--lasso-ing all dem fans and attempting to catch the attention of a preoccupied man. The desperation oozing along trails along a forests edge--the rustling in the peaceful trellises, disrupting lazily and slumping back into the darkness when realizing how easily Artemis dropped his hand. There was no reason to slather embarrassment and potential health risks upon a tapestry that was barely holding itself together as it is, and Artemis had no intention to fight such dangerously unpredictable battles.

Futile efforts of a lover kept a cursed apple caving to the whims of gravity--complimented with a thud; even a fake apple felt disappointment in his intentions. Artemis had given him endless tries to hold the precious fruit: out of worry for delicate tissues--the shining apple shattering daily and the man left rebuilding a house and home from nothing; unsure in his wants, evidently. To a woman such as Artemis; time and space would find humorous ways to keep a handsome pair from meeting at the end of wedding aisle--the burdens of his past romances being the less-chaotic representation of the clanging cans trailing behind Daniel and a stranger. To be without peace--without the claws of yesterdays lovers scraping away at painted doors; the rattling of glutton kept their honeymoon suite, with Artemis refusing to put her heart at risk for a slew of estranged women--teetering between their resentment and fighting an array of mental health battles.

Daniel didn’t seem to see Artemis most days; standing athwart in tattered linens, taunted and confused beneath a shredded lace veil...no one saw the orphan weeping in plain sight--the things seen to be true would always be true. A simulation of probabilities and proper tea-time attire--would became an otiose parody within itself; where compatible couples bowed out with grace when providing a rule of mercy for women like Lindsey--dangling outside a darkened window; unable to skirt the ideas of her husband Patrick held hands with a Dr. facing the East any longer. To be the filler wife; the fluffer if you will--the placeholder for a fate considered stolen to another; there was no happy ending when the fates of children lives were exchanged for dirty sex and marathon medals. Patrick stood alone near the victory ribbon of life’s race; participation medals dangling from a free-er than most domesticated life. He was finally free. His mistress Rachel didn’t count when comparing the couples sins to the treachery of it all; the listless father was in sheer denial--that someone had slaughtered his three children. He remained cold, and calculable: unable to move from a stuffed lounge when a surviving child reached for its last breaths. According to Patrick; life saving practices weren’t needed in the unprecedented instance of surviving strangulation. The oddity in reluctance kept his seat warm in the courts of public opinion. The modernized trial set aflame by a woman with the surname Yates--where a man painted his wife as witch; crusading a tale marred with holes and explanations; tied off with the death of children and the dissection of any and all marital battles.

Artemis didn’t need the endless wealth, the hapless misfortune told through the tale of Fred Jr; kept the shores of reality pulling away with caution. She readied a sty for the predictable attacks of a conman contractor--shuffling through a chapter codenamed: steeplechase. "This place is--a dump!" The rabbles of yesterday kept the fires of sibling rivalry stoked and ablaze. Artemis had known the wiser--refusing to step into a ring, where an abuser pitted blood siblings against one another for the sake of entertainment and blood thirst. She had bowed a head in humility--a thorned crown held up by ego clattering upon a marble tiled chamber floors; the role of sobriety had healed fading grin. A keen sense of smell bore the signature warnings of premeditated failure and rigged competitions weren’t of interest to Artemis; the beautiful pinks and purples of the morning skies had called her to embrace the soft linen of the Salish clouds. A foreboding tale of Icarus, its tapestry tied off and burned off upon poison-drenched threads; no longer fell upon the shoulders of the next generations--a wave of carelessness and sexual exploration had mended expectations to be of higher quality. The silk words of concerned citizens lay agreeably over the world--the few and mighty would become famous for holding the line of sanity against the dwindling tranches of all those that idolized an aging Mechanical Boar. A shield of invisibility had kept her safe--creating deserved distance from a bin set on fire; when nightmares unwillingly remained swirling with such unscrupulous characters to offer endless torment to nightly battles.

The garish gore of an image; a lost child weeping alongside a wild animal bleeding a trail of gold. Life had passed Artemis by. The regular issues of a catastrophic romantic life smooshed and smashed; rejection building a bubbling rage that made for a spectacular production--there in the fine details--floated away a cargo ship. A payload lost among spoiled children had slipped between the cracks of the pages; Artemis had resorted to hunting down a Mechanical Boar--to sniff out the scent of Pete’s catastrophic failures and tack a colorful net of accountability over a timeline of stupid and avoidable battles.

The life of glittering indulgences held a relatable tone; when a story jumped from the linage of Artemis’s birthmother. Life had been so unkind to the Indigenous population; the longstanding joke held in the dull blurring outline of a shadowed female form...signing over three separate forms, if it meant even one daughter had survived the trials of an orphan. Glitter and glam spurted past fluttering book edges--Artemis had set a drab world aflame; her endless tears matched by the rains washing down the Pioneer Square. Artemis would rather face the volatility of the fates; than to deal with whatever storm of reckoning was heading in the direction of the crazed Mechanical Boar when any and either political party realized the folly of arming one’s enemies. Three sisters had been set forth to play a children’s game; and only would understand the intentionality of such lewd battles.

The pages hid the wunderkind; wandering aimlessly with an obese fiery-haired elder on a loose leash--saying nothing to one another as his acuity crumbled under the weight of mortality. Pure rage filled white hallways trimmed with gold molding, lopsided from staffers hurriedly moving onto the next decal before the snout of a dictator snuffed out the the obscure error. She could be seen yelling at the Mechanical Boar; prodding its rear and pointing at opulent signage--the need to label each room had been the only cure for his poor eyesight. Turns out the vast efforts had been for naught--illiteracy was seemingly overlooked with an initial diagnosis and now her entire hypothetical career in the field of psychology was over. Artemis giggled to herself; the silliness of carelessness found in the graduate levels kept a bay of worries out to meet the sunrise. The low-stakes of authorship and existing as a mere pion had gifted Artemis the option of clocking out of the tireless meetings and lectures of an elderly leader; suffering with worry over deaths looming battles.

Artemis had established a path of inequality; a glam motif bricked by greed, sorrow, virtue signaling and the monetized desires...the materials made for tales of raunchy delight--to guide a monster through the dark with the sound of sexual climax and the casual sound of children screaming. The sauntering of romantic disasters weaving away in the background of burning republic; her dancing toes fell gracefully when forced to be partnered with a pig--the task of marking a beast had been accomplished with rouged lips and the feat of remaining unviolated by the hands of a convicted rapist. A single song could out bid the mightiest of soldier, just as Dianne’s stories wandered off into eternity. Artemis’s silly task of holding up a solar disk with each dawn; painted with a warrior named Hercules--remaining as the more obscure and pointless of the many historic battles.

"Hold On!" There wasn’t much a leader could do when the nose of a sky boat touched down with a thud--hopelessness had landed Artemis in a nightmare predicament; where all she could recall was the sound of blaring alarms and the flashing of hazardous lights and the moments broken away in a single frame--the sensation of hopelessness began to deteriorate what was left of her mortal bones. No one was coming to save them. The evacuation of all passengers seemed like a priority as she sprinted down a corridor--white knee high boots met gleaming tiles. There was no need to update the silent audience; their insubordination had placed her efforts of peace talks and negotiation in a bin and set it aflame out of petty spite. Artemis knew better than to point out that we all make mistakes--the fumbling hands of a Captain working alone; made for a tense scene...it had been the ill-prepared world that had called on a lush woman, to shamelessly serve the pubs and to take the reigns over an already failing mission.

The wreckage had been captured in the moments where a crew woke up--one at a time: displacing accountability on whoever had been nominated to the honorifics. Elders had been the first to gripe; to throw a wounded woman upon unsettled dusts...demanding answers for the collision of fate; laying belts and shoes upon grown crew members, as if more abuse would undo the damages caused by Artemis running the show into the ground. A lone pilot had lugged around sleepy corpses--her tomb of commercial cargo were less scare when asleep. A list buried upon the property of Saint Jeffrey; hatched over monsters and their less-fortunate counterparts. The tale of a lost prison star cast horrific implications over an already tired moon. Artemis hid between pages and naps--hiding away from her nightmares in loud Ports, patrolling the streets armed with only her wits and a beaming light. It was best to bolster words and volume in such nerve wrecking moments of confrontation with the general public. She held woke up enthusiastic to drag a crazed want-to-be emperor through paths of ink; to admit piousness today and to find contemptuous delight in understanding yesterdays rigged battles.

She had awoken in the rubble; forgetful of name, title, and trade. A blanked slate fell--Artemis had been consumed by anguish, ravished by pain itself shocked by the amount of pain coursing through every millimeter of tissue. It was all about to be over. Suffering slipped away with shallow breath; the aching of a broken heart no longer hurt. The lost love of two illusive parents would no longer be her mystery to solve--the world would no longer have to be burdened by the faces of her confusion in misery. A lulling head swayed back and forth--the half mounted posture; leaning heavily upon an alley wall as heavy shoes clomped and clicked over rain-kissed pavement. A long night out with an elder sister; had resulted in a walk of shame--her blouse lost in the moments of fleeing...a supple body greeting the dark morning. A common story of intoxication and the lack-of-consent on the grounds of a University kept the relatable enough, its imagery violent, tacky and trashy...trashaicious to be exact. Artemis recalled memories of other lifetimes in a single sigh, the honorable duties of preparing a rusting battleship--the fear spun whilst sprinting feverishly down veering corridors in pristine threads...something done at the hands of a sibling remained aching deeply below the surface of Artemis’s hands. The knotting of accidents and occurrences had obstructed all paths but one on a futile pre-destined mission.

Artemis awoke facing a wall--pandering to a stubborn mechanism and pleading with it to accept hand prints and retina information in a danger-filled rush. Even in the far, far future--government equipment remained barely functioning. Anxious hands and endless grumbling: implied that she was attempting to move past the moments of dread and exhausted hesitation; the result of her body locking up when someone nearby had mentioned a specific prisoner. The charitable label of an inmate number had turned back into a familiar name. Athena and Artemis had been known to weave and wander; stopping dead in their tracks when a middle sibling broke her character of guile--the world stood on its ear. Something was beyond wrong: a silent moment, the unwanted sensation of feeling hunted-- manifested into Athena calmly turning to Artemis and suggesting sternly that she run. Two sisters--knew better than to go toe-to-toe, with a middle sibling scorned by life itself; there was no way to win in such a holy war without subjugating the world to undress such wretched battles.

No name needed to be said. Artemis’s life hid behind the bare number of whatever choices lay at the hands of a woman with an indecisive tongue and foggy memory. Artemis no longer dwelled on a stolen childhood alongside the woman--gifted with the role of being number one to a bright son, and number two in a loving marriage: titles and accomplishments had been considered participation trophies when observing a true psychopaths at work. An aura of entitlement had been inherited from Hera, who had buried herself under community accomplishments; a dung beetle settling contently among the dung--the eager accomplices piling up soils and lies to heap over the obvious accusations and implications of a person working with children: being capable of undeniable brutality behind closed doors, or upon woody trails (in her hypothetical case). The sins of glutton would forever be the harshest of punishments for a younger sibling--unable to live up to the expectations of a person enmeshed by decades of trauma. Artemis had worked tirelessly; carving out the identity of a hero to escape a den of monsters--only to be met with more monsters. The steps to success had been a cake walk for Artemis...rooms of arrogant engineers were frontline soldiers compared to the fighting cage she had grown up in. She recalled endless lectures; where three sisters had been taught the protocol of life’s balances--in a twisted home built off of resentment and competition. There could only be one winner--to survive a broken nest of three. Artemis had chosen the overlooked and less travelled path: of minding her own business, and imposing the least amount of harm upon other two surviving children of Hera’s home as a daily mission.

An ankle hurt; she’d rolled it funny while turning a sharp corner. Artemis was racing back for Colby--needing to comfort a grieving sibling before the anniversary of a slain sister. Time had been so cruel--ripping Artemis away from poems to cope with reality for years folded over. An endless dream continued to pan out; with a sorrowful Captain openly weeping as she sprinted down veering hallways; worried that her finite dream time would run out, while the horizons of a blackhole swirled and sloshed nearby. She felt the weight of the universe in such hopeless filled moments...a skill of grammatical accoutrements remained less useful than her rusted sword. The misery plastered upon her face: implied Artemis’s comfort in failing an already-doomed mission.

A speck of darkness had grown in a moment--there had been no time to fire up engines or medical bays, no way to substantiate an agenda to press; the syphoning of smooth sailing came to an abrupt halt. A spinning building began to hold its breathe; immobilized by lack of care to its duplicative operations. The threat of locks systematically screaming: (ca-chunk, ca-thunk, ca-chunk...)came at the expense of a privatized crew--tasked with moving live cargo labelled as an Arc. The bag of mixed-fruit in mental disorders seemed substantially scarier when it was an isolated prison breaking open. Each inmate had been plucked from farms overrun by homegrown fascism--reincarnated into their cells after mortal sentences had gifted them the chance to run feral across a vast timeline. Artemis couldn’t give up now--there was so much at stake whilst sprinting past metal slabs rolling along well-greased tracks. A moment of familiar disbelief was all that her mind could muster. She didn’t have the patience to deal with the cautionary rebuff--Dianne was exactly as her actions spoke; there had been nothing else to do, but to dock a neighboring galaxy with a series of brains to better study the mortal desire for end-all-be-all battles.

A task of broken up episodes and uncontrollable circumstances had kept Artemis busy--splashing pages with harsh words and combating stupidity on the fringes of free time. The imposing of silence came at a cost: the need to announce a depletion of ammunition--the desire to press forward alongside the masses remained too violent for her weakened body, all she could do--was to invest into the systems stretching a single thread of sanity; to paint it gold with minute font...engraved with a call for Bivens Action. A lone thread was all she could offer the settlers; squatting upon an abandoned kingdom--the trend for gold mining finally over. Soldiers abroad risked life and limb everyday--sworn to secrecy; held at weapon point, as they signed waivers and stitched loose lips sealed. Artemis didn’t have much to say; a personal run in with a vile man named Justin J. Governale had deterred what little patriotism to serve was left. Artemis was grossed out by the soldier, giggling maniacally as he attempted to enlist strangers: by boasting of fellow service member sucking the dicks of sleeping soldiers without consent as the biggest perk of the job. He seemed more excited--than worried; about a chain-of-command offering up information during orientation. Men started to blush or sneer; it became obvious which citizens prized depravity. Artemis wondered why she seemed to be the only person concerned about a serial sex offender being left unchecked. Justin was busy recruiting--informing the public about his personal experience: getting his sleepy, wrinkled up tip licked by a stranger in the dead of night. Artemis was in disbelief; kind of assuming the man that announced a rapist and did nothing about it...was probably the rapist. To play with one’s food before dinner-type of psychopathy. She said little; the man seemed annoyed by her turn in verbiage; swirling up words and questions and casting his prized cup of wine into debris-filled urban water. She was surrounded by waves of all-consuming fire and sensitive idiots for eternity--safe from the "blow-job phantom" that Justin still lusted after. The option of self-exploration and personal aeronautical accomplishments; meant an introduction to the less pulchritudinous parts of life’s battle.

A small device--less than one hundred and fifty-two centimeters had plopped into Artemis’s lap; the craft of sanding away the rough edges had only been helpful in pages aplenty. The Machness held unlimited potential to inspire, to adhere a raising expectations for an archaic culture--alas, Artemis had changed the world, only to be spun around for the polarizing state of caring. The task of retrieval of a supersonic item; polished and scuffed upon its nose for luck--all systems in tact and qualifying for a secondary launch. When government agencies had asked for unorthodox solutions to old problems--Artemis had taken them up on the competition shaped mission.

Artemis had looked mad; slathering paint along white walls--stumbling around with a lone glass bottle attached to one hand, and vast sword in the other. Crazed hair and an unapologetic grins had broke down dozens of locked doors--Artemis had been responsible for piercing a barrier made of sound; to thread an invisible needle and offer a modern portrait...where she was crafted to be the face of the future. The rejection felt of a broken promise had caused her to fall ill with great woe--the Smithsonian Museum of American Indian had retracted a contest prize where her skills in breaking sound barriers where to be praised and acknowledged...the article remained contented with existing, poised with a sharpened nose cone; the only evidence that an orphan had achieved immortality--without bloodshed or battle.

The Indian Givers had spit upon the graves of slaughtered ancestors--claiming the museum no longer had the room to house the historic artifact. Her people would remain in the past; oppressed by those that called themselves curators of history. Artemis offered a name for print, and a scene for public display in modified expectations--hoping to carve a legacy with world-wide publications or in-house portraits...the museum throwing up a face of disgust..."clarifying" that they were no longer interested in showcasing artifacts of such nature. To pale people and indentured people of colour; an aeronautical piece of history wasn’t nearly as enticing for an exhibit--than the leather linens... robbed from the corpses of Artemis’s direct linage. She had been the loudest advocate in a small herd of people; representing an even smaller educational institution--yet, once more; a Yurok Princess was offered only the solution of surrender. A gesture of falling upon both knees and accepting defeat in the throws of a careless battle.

Artemis had been deeply discouraged by the dehumanizing nature of it all--walking away without much more than statistical evidence; that life had contorted itself to be played at the most difficult of levels...where she had been painted as the least professional when dealing with a wholly avoidable issue. The affinity of the moment--partnered with her love of justice; would mean disaster on any dimension; had the resources been available in such prominent minutes. History had been changed; Artemis had brought on the end of the world out of spiteful procurement for the truth being told. The mistreatment of the Indigenous population ran through the veins of the land--her skills in surviving the bullshit had just been a small part of the overall mission.

Artemis found herself distraught beyond all understanding; dangling from a leather belt...a sudden desire to live, had proven that an orphan remained the strongest of men--there was no offers of backdoor communications or twisting of circumstances for a woman with empty pockets. Life would never bend itself to reflect true reality. There was only rejection, and the appreciation for growth. A museum had handed Artemis a braided device--reminding a drowning student that no one cared--pointing in the direction of a banister. There was no due-diligence for ensuring her accomplishments matched the contracts signed...she couldn’t force faceless cowards to pursue personal commitments. The whispering notion of defeat came in the form of a peaceful sigh; with Artemis awaking to foreign hands clasping around a swelling neckline. The implications of a hung adult orphan meant that the social experiment that is America had failed her since year one; she had been a ghostly spirit--once, objecting to a very accurate depiction of modern freedom.

She dangled by a thread of reasoning; Athena needed her...Jasmin, Jerman, and Damian needed Artemis. The fear of what she had done fought a ticking clock in rear of her thoughts. She kicked and thrashed; screaming silently in a dormitory...declaring a need to care. A longing for someone to care had been replaced by a voice of reasoning. I care. A Trident of insight had levied between struggling fingers and an engorged throat. She came out of the moment alive--realizing the power held in the fact that the word help had never slipped past depressed lips. No one was coming to save the world from Operation Kushner--there was no playing field to level, no allies or truth hoarders could unspin the dreaded thread of unreality. They had all chosen to survive this particular timeline--as arbiters, specators, and aggressors to a simulation of disillusioned freedom.

A land plagued by pedophiles and apathy provided to be a minefield of ugliness to navigate...the colonized turf serving as a grotesque checkered board, where death was gamified and love was sparse. There was no depth of fairness to a world painted upon blood-drenched soils...a goblin-like man wandered by wet lands gleaming, shimmering with ruby sacrifices and the intoxicated choices of a man claiming to be chief over an entire department of war. He fell in front of Artemis; ass up--his lame German American Bund symbols scattered along a shallow chest and thin arms. He had come a long way from hiding his passion for fascism in the professional rooms filled with reasonably skeptic anchors and journalists--now laying booty-ready in a tawdry office with lopsided accessories slumping from its walls. All votes of confidence had been thrown out a nearby window with the wobbly entry of a stumbling moron came to a head--yeeted out an unsealed window in broad daylight. Standard procedure and safety precautions meant nothing to a drunk. Artemis tipped and tapped heeled shoes as lingering threat...the alternate leader forgotten and stripped of title and rank held the fate of the world in a folder. The witching words Include Bulletin: she stood by and observed a machine begin to devour itself alive--remaining out of frame and watching as incompetent men failed in managing and securing victory of a non-existent Democratic battle.

An orbiting wife stood at all directions--needing to outlive the Mechanical Boar at any cost...she wasn’t paid enough to care; only to appear in background. The escorting ally of Jeffery had been offered protections from the many, many conflated attempted assassinations...the longest of cons came with a cursed wedding band. A stern expression painted by thin lilies--a scared, upset face cemented in place...marriage had ruined her life and placed a son in harms way. The scorned muse glared into the masses...watching her balmy husband having to denounce a hoof-worth of accusations in criminality before sluggishly rising to the throne of an aging dictator. "I’m not a pedophile"--confabulation whisked and whirled around an elaborate dinner; doors flew wide open, the approaching of danger loomed nearby. Magic was in the air--dark and dreary wrapped around the strings of a dimension painted lame and outdated by every preceding generation; all based off a disclosed account of victim number four.

The flurrying oddities of a lack-luster husband attending a formal event on his own volition and tripping over water-logged limbs; pummeling to ground with an abrupt thud--didn’t cast the fairytale Amalija had hoped for her star-kissed daughter. A world stage was shooketh; by a leader being incapable of walking across a stage in a rehearsed hurry. The suggestions of failing health didn’t sit well with a woman; known publicly for her ambitions of widow-ship. Disgraced flames of freedom diminished to whispers of color--the dead planet glowing from depths of a universe labelled as rubbish. Artemis remained untouched by the chaos; the skill of self-preservation and a need for isolation whenever flanked by bad company--the woman standing in the corner watching the ickyness of it all panning out. Artemis and the citizens remained the unwilling cuckholds--ego in hand, knowing a demented old man had every intention of throwing their lives and legacy into a drafted service decree--to fight a creeps legacy in an completely avoidable battle.

She figured they were simply echoes of past lives, as the fragments of dreams--memories flushed through the drains of reincarnation...landing Artemis on a path ran in the recent past. An ungodly fate of a weeping woman--beaching herself as a whale and suffering from the loss of loved ones were openly mentioned by her Yurok elders in forms of Traditional stories. These were the same grandparents that had once been called the lost generation, as they passed along stories of their parents...but read only one book out of fear of religious persecution...they had never let go of such fear--because it offered a speck of peace when reflecting on childhood trauma; its pages fluttering in the winds of todays freedom.

Few elders seemed to remember the truth behind their legends--many Tribes had lost hope in the return of the battle angel altogether. The Yurok word for whale being….Sür, the Western equivalent of word Sir--with Artemis being named Tila in ordinance with the vote for a figurehead to be born under a sky of cancer. Artemis recalled how Papa Jim had once walked up on a local woman, introducing Tila to her two kids with the formality of small nod. The kids looked at her in excitement, as though she were dressed fantastic cosplay; the colorful rags worn by boys were transformed into a glittering gown through imagination. The lady had heard Papa Jim calling her name in the store, and observed that Artemis were in fact: strangely small with wiry hair...just as the legend had said. She remained unaware of a name casting ceremony that many had witnessed--unsure of what it meant when hearing people had offered public prayers for her birth and safe arrival; long before the time a token character named Yonantan had died in battle.

The easiest reality to swallow; was the one where science had confirmed the reconciliation of Sally’s family tree. The complexities of moral realism never seemed to teeter and totter--her crown of knowledge meant nothing when dealing with childlike anxieties. To stand outside of the general public at birth--cast a shy shadow over glazed eyes. Artemis watched as the kids grew abuzz by a nervous laughter; heaving the moment past whatever impression of celebrity was held upon elementary playgrounds. She stared blankly; a paparazzi mentioned admiration for a bedtime story too scary to read alone--where readers became viewers and advanced participants in a fair-ish enough battle.

Artemis didn’t like their stories--because why would three sisters be born to be enemies? There was no reason in a tale of violent pleasantness; what reason would there be for earthquakes depicted by moods--to invest double in personal spite and position oneself into a corner for the sake of thwartedness in future psychological battle.

Artemis would have nightmares following the encounter--banging her adult dome on the nearing wall in a moment of active imagination: grinning and bearing a conversation--clarification in duties between herself and the newer tenants known only as Space Force. A twitching smile bore the most stress in the throngs of nonsensical social battle.

A Little Light died within herself. The newest occupants famously flaunted the reallocated budget from a Crest of Hope; knee capping the newest quarters. The fiscality of preserving locations of one hundred and twenty-three degrees twenty-three point six minutes west longitude--didn’t come to par when comparing future resources for the opportunity to militarize and "equalize" a failing Nation with a swift sub orbital mission.

Artemis salvaged the wreckage--failing at every corner, there was nothing sexy about a stern scientist; clamoring to embrace cylinders and nose cones for a future project. Her powder-pink horned rims slumped over a hospitable smile. The world had taken up the hobby of dumping waste into the ocean--her Indigenous Warrior tears be damned. Artemis would begin projects of refurbishments, to preserve what precious time her body could muster; eventually forgetting the billowing flames that peaked and moaned all around them. The Mechanical Boar had expressed dictation over a steady market--and in a twist of fate; an early investment into a Global X Funds had accelerated success upon an otherwise hopeless mission.

Artemis had once met a man named Bruce; familiar company and a convention had lead up to a moment of two intellects holding up their wine in merriment--thrilled in agreement that Artemis was the future of spaceflight. Bruce was constructing a warp drive...and deemed it her warp drive by the end of their conversation, as if passing a scepter of information. Artemis had impressed a stranger with authenticity--dimming his booming worries that she were not some random fool with a steel weapon. A device harnessing boson waves made light of what little Artemis understood in the realms of physics--her idiot instructor had spent his time critiquing sanding skills and complimenting new blouses at inappropriate times. The fresh air of impartiality among peers had meant the other man had been decisive in his need to strike fangs--peering at Artemis’s bare neck. To be seen as a scientist first, and a lady second had otherwise felt like a somehow off-colored, and unreasonably daunting battle.

Artemis was gently shaken awake; Bruce had needed the inspiration to find motivation in the construction of mundane manufacturing, when the theoretical had been more exhilarating to explore--the puzzles of the universe had assisted with holding a spirt high among the clouds for a long weekend. They giggled; toasting to the best chances of figuring out an otherwise overlooked equation--with Artemis taking note; to invest into mines of tungsten. She was the prize horse--that could bring the world of science into the future, or drunkenly burn the house down on a Monday; her fabulous footwear either spiked or painted bright orange. Artemis hadn’t known better at the time--a moment of reflection had yet to spark revolution into her grieving heart. The man with colorful flowers dancing upon his robes; swaying with the rejoiced cheeks of Dionysus--with the night magically stretching into the dawn. Such remarkable introductions on her walk through life--felt pivotal to the appreciation held for engineers, as though she had dismantled an incorrigible, booming personality and lived to boast of the battle.

Next Chapter: *[ XXIII ] Artemis and the Belt of Hippolyta*