Artemis was pretty used to being disappointed in people on a whole--a cloud of vilification befell days where timorousness wreathed a tired smile, as she remained roiled by everyone’s inability to treat each day like Christmas. The toll of spirited wonder--perfectly described her ineluctable grin; appreciated as timeless and reliable in spaces where such seriousness had once been seen as enduring. There was rarely justice for those that believed in doing the right thing, or less be it a peasant with good intention and occasionally present when a community came together to quell life’s mysteries and she had been the dutiful stalwart; holding minutes down in virulent silence. A stone skipped upon a river was forever a once skipped stone; sunk and abandoned below the surface waters--permissive in punishment for existing as a stone.

Everyone had been so upset by the things Artemis didn’t know--the lack of erudition unexceptionable; the larceny of care and investment overlooked completely. Artemis had the flaw of betting it all; paying precipitously to buy in and allowing a fear of disaffiliating to keep her at a table--rigged for a home to self-destruct. She wasted little time dissuading bad company: forgetting an upbringing filled with deviant exposure--with siblings being slighted by an apology that would never come. To be the prop of entertainment in a loveless home, the object of mockery, an outlier to a twisted parochial fostered system--hostage to seamy people...unable to shine in a frame of darkness. Life had been lonely before Artemis had taken up a powerful weapon, to claim oratory struggles on a quest to operate a false star.

Her place as a bastion to such cruel treatment could be painted in a moment: the part and parcel for future aggravation towards injustice; ink’d in the memory of a child--losing her collective shit after a hand had pulled trousers to the floor in passing: deplorable behavior was considered humorous. Extra points given to an adult for successfully pulling trousers and pants to six-year old ankles in the presence of military buddies. Artemis was garnered to believe that sympathy didn’t exist in the world--told to stop screaming and "making things weird" whenever self-advocating: her perpetrator was forever protected by a code of booming omerta. Fight, flight or fawn responses had gotten her nowhere. A child being asked to be left alone led to a whole deluge of new treatments--accused of not doing enough to keep cloth and dignity while running by. There was no escaping the animosity of Hera, everything equivocated to a disbelief: because a husband had given up carousing--it was simpler to cast Artemis as an archrival; morals corrosive with perversions and envy. There was a beauty in leaving the boorish woman in a house filled with hollow memories; yammering about incompetence as Artemis washed ceramics by hand and stared out a window--longing for a dramatic stage and a chance at becoming a star.

It had made her life seem more fun and simpler--to care less of those with limited worldliness; Artemis remained the shining gestalt to the tiniest of towns. A small Crescent-shaped city remained in squalor; was now overran by sordid elders in red hats. A book of ambulated words and a desire for self-improvement held her cultural obligations to be align with reality; affixed to a generational poster. Most days outside of her static prison were mundane in its contents and occurrences--since it wasn’t Christmas. Artemis had spent life lonely; forced to interject herself into kind interactions with those that occupied the land of her ancestors--claiming to be without home, food or hope. The pay was scantily worth it, to patrol the night by the rules of someone else’s game--her personal ambitions forever out of reach, slashed and dashed at the expense of surviving orphan-hood, and a domestic relationship in early adolescence. She remained overqualified and underappreciated in life. There wasn’t any accomplishment to sprint towards--without the carryover of such heartbreak in failing at admission to a program operating a false suborbital star.

More often than not--the world avoiding approaching Artemis. There was no overstated card labelled victim to present as fair proof of her struggles. The chances of such fairness could dispel many-a-misconception. No such encounters existed. Artemis acceded an uncaring position; brandishing an out-of-place smile, occasionally scorned--hiding the perseverated fact that her heart had been turned to stone.

The only thing that could break past a seasonal maraud of depression keeping Artemis at arm-lengths; distracted by disparity would be the plaudits and efforts provided by commercial winter holidays--a moment in time where people were elated, extolling merriment for a single day. It was such an odd Pagan custom for her to favor above the rest, but indicative in expressing such relentless and wholesome charm--primped and packaged with fastidious hallmarked love. Artemis would watch as they wasted their money on consumer products and the latest tech--their digital music drizzled from their ears, sperm-shaped tunes oozed down obese profiles. The future was fucking bleak. Artemis was no better than the rest--she had once gotten stuck wearing a cursed top-hat made of exotic metals. A princess prisoner to a device nicknamed "The Moon"; housed in a mythical cyber stone.

The evils of consumerism wasn’t unique to the West--there stood a lone commerce-driven village to prove such a toxic point: the small conglomerate of Tropodo, whose squares of soy paste and eggs held high contamination for carcinogenics; the lack of regulation kept workers enslaved to unlivable working conditions, their produce tainted and exported despite the plume of that heeded the warnings of pernicious health hazards. There stood a moment of internal conflict--the sins of not knowing something, and having access to unlimited information to do nothing with were the most modern of problems. Artemis had needed the indicators of such dreary; amplified by anxious forbearance found by an education department mob--waking her up at four in the morning to garnish wages and threaten house and home. She had known better, supposedly. Predatory loans had been propositioned to a wide-eyed nineteen year old, offering credentials needed to qualify for scientific opportunities and a program dedicated to exceptionalism--those few selected and heavily trained to operate and maintain a false star.

Artemis was a muse of fashion: holding a certain timeless pastiche--red stained lips and a love of accessories that had once brought doom upon her in the past. The mechanism had been crafted by an eccentric and racist man named Shockley, and trapping her within his device--imprisoned by chemical disparity and pleasures. The loss of faith in a dedicated servant--had triggered the device to power on: her choice to trade a useless symbol for two cultures; each symbolizing resilience and undeniable faith. Artemis had needed to find a God to replace the fallen Gods of Olympus--no longer confined to a family of treacherous personality disorders and left to finally stand tall...liberated from her worst enemies in a world of people ready-and-eager to see Artemis succeed in life. She had been plucked from the bowels of Hades--the dusty particles of obscurity left behind in a narrow house; double-and-wide, unafraid of the beginning trails of failure-pebbled instances--if it meant careful footing built a life where Artemis was valued and seen as a delicate star.

Artemis had never met the man with a tall-standing hat--she had observed the fair-child exodus of eight; the junction of reasonable demands sandwiched between a set standard for treatment. The end all-be-all in tyrants had stunted plenty of great collaborations in the past. Artemis was always able to look past the laboratory--to find such rare gems in professional places and offer pages where such cohorts knew their place at her side in any office space. Artemis’s ability to utilize knowledge ethically-- had often painted her to be held as snobbish, attributing what little social class held beneath a belt: to be fair-enough weaponization to sway the pendulum of social justice(s). The point-contact of such a stray use of force had allowed Artemis to find peace; holding tight to a childish belief in people--despite the accusations that her gorgon heart had been turned to semi-precious, hand-chiseled and thoughtfully polished stone.

The strange madman had followed Artemis through the more scary of dreams each night--remaining unaware that he had died, and was pissed off that an obscure soul transcended time and space. The ability to stand within two color spectrum ranges had never occurred to the one-dimensional engineer; the junction of errors came at the expense of his unwelcoming approach to life--his isolated soul would wander through the darkness; unable to grapple with the weight of his words and the harm they inflicted upon entire generations. Artemis was unable to defeat; or encounter the memory of such hard-hardheadedness, and so she forgave his hateful heart--taking pity in a man that died alone, plenty of his good ideas tossed aside, recondite due to his efforts in loathing those of other-isms. The permanent archiving of his legacy would be overshadowed by spiteful eugenics and backwards-ass theories that fell to bottom of a river of information like a blunted stone.

Artemis had finally broken free from the gold-laced cursed hat--her inability to amplify hate had given a rare opportunity to let go of the things that had already come to pass. The deep sorrows of life had left a trail of gold or blood-drenched tears wherever she went; suffering in silence had been all she had come to know. Artemis escaped from beneath the crown of doom with barely her life: sprinting through tunnels beneath the fields of Moffett, attempting to resettle the past by crafting a book--achieving aeronautical history...all while holding the charmed grin of timeless star.

Such stories of Gods being reborn--were the ones found only in the tribes of the Tolowa, Karuk, Hoopa and Yurok: as practical means in attempting to make sense of their place in the universe. There stood a separate understanding of greatness and what it meant to be born great, as expressed by the massive carbon storage units that still grew along the coast. The Yurok people were forever punished--held responsible for the flourishing of taboo words and evil intentions; burdened by sin and locked away in purgatory. Artemis held the coders curse--a right clavicle hung low in strain, as though it were fatigued from the most idiotic of dreams; slashing away at the enemy with an oversized sword. The immense pains of mortality; served as a reminder for her to stretch and listen to the fine language of a body holding the pains meant to signify death nearby at a hours. The strains upon a spine were familiar to few; the seal of time had finally allowed the narrative of empathy to open up--the sarcasms found in the cliche of being thirty-flirty and thriving held its limitations. She no longer lived in the shame of her own disabilities, as the world rotated on a left tilt--ablest fell from the woodwork, as the world rotated to the right--steps backwards were taken; the bespoken matter of disability scripted as unsightly--at risk to mock and ridicule to a ruling Mechanical Boar. Democracy would shift and sway; the fabric of time slowly being pulled from beneath the beaded threads of information that floated all around. Inspiration and blind ambition had often steered the patriotic direction of Artemis’s heart; the worries of a Nation taking granted the hardships of such an achievement were to be held near and dear--to be witness to a clandestine shooting star.

Artemis had wasted her life away believing in people--riffling through countless psychology textbooks and managing several failed romantic relationships, held near a flame of eternal light. The holder of such honored torch came in the form of a modern loose-lipped bin; trapping scavenging monsters into a slice of time. She had been born to pick up a crown; left behind by an orphan named Norma Jean--to dust off a blonde ambition and tailor a world--where nothing could stand in the way between a person’s love of visual arts, and the silent understanding that a room of auditioning talent: meant a better chance in standing out as the next primed and prepped star.

There came a random day...Artemis witnessed the arrival of curious passerby’s holding a firm line behind her. It was easy to perceive a woman holding her back to the world, but in all reality--she watched with caution while a bin caught flames in moments of political turmoil. She wasn’t in a trance, unlike the weak minded flocks passing a line of reasoning to lick the flames of such successes...licking the underside of an orange ball sack as they joined stood in a chest consumed by heated debates and weightless accusations. She’d tilt her head; as if bothered by the shame of others actions. It was such a pity to see an empty bin fill itself to the brim with elderly and unwell citizens--their retirement robbed by an aging Mechanical Boar; offering tours of his white home...in exchange for a personal fee. His investments in a static coin had been drawn up an drafted--the short-sided con would eventually be worth less than the most dull stone.

The more people that arrived to fill up her invisible army--the more Artemis was able to round out her thoughts and emotions. The puzzling dances of flames filled with static had been stepped into motion many moons ago--the Traditions of leech-like mortals dancing had put the world into a motion of spin: pushing a sun forever out of reach. The skillfulness of surviving the Indigenous Warriors Genocide; had put people like Artemis way ahead in developing authentic empathy--the flames of discord had always existed. It was the skill of pulling such fabled objects from the flames and properly assigning them to the monsters trapped on a timeline of accountability--that had made Artemis to be an alchemists of words and theory. On the non-specific day in question: Artemis had seen a speck of resolve form beneath the three-dimensional fire. The whirlwinds of change--came at a pace that was fashionably late; Artemis wasn’t in any rush to trade privacy for the bare rights given to those claiming to be a public star.

Female leadership had made the transition from tennis shoes to heeled straps to be formed around the valued culmination of opinion, the choice to step-up in moments where a new take on leadership was needed--became a version of coping with the dreads of being born under such smokey and grungy haphazard generation: existential crisis came at the price of scenes divorced from love--children left to their own devices and worries. The overcompensation for adult issues bleeding over into the lives of others left a timeline where each child was awarded a trophy of participation; a false sense of being entitled to the title of a star.

Artemis simply worked on holding her own: still managing to win a beauty pageant, and work for free as a student athlete--all while being punched in her sleep by loser partner. She were this statue of success and culture in the spare moments--free from the glaring eyes of abuser. Such slow motion panning views felt like fluttering edges of a dream--surrounded by admiration and knowing the true horrors that awaited such new-found confidence. The trance could twist and turn crowds into blurring masses holding down a horizon of glory: Artemis clenching fresh trimmed flowers and tossing a gentle wave in every direction. Her life had been so splendid in such moments; there had been a speck of proof in the pay-off of a life’s barrages of trauma--raining down on the shadow of a person crawling along in the darkness, humming as she warmed up a singing voice and prepared for whatever may come from the task of being a weathered up-and-coming star.

Her life felt like a circus for a few moments; repressed memories placing herself in a static-filled room with a twenty-year old pageant queen, and willfully concealing her tears--thinking of the discomfort that came along with scattered bruises wrapped around her thin arms and wrists. The heart-wrenching tale of a girl once called white-trash; thrown across a room and mocked for her need to seek perfection. Her sin of laziness; of saying less on behalf of a victim--had won her a royal purple sash and dazzling crown. The world had awarded her for caring less, and taking the steps needed to survive a wretched relationship--a milked opportunity that expired years before it ended. It would take another few rounds with a violent human named Peaches before Artemis fled--unable to squeeze, unwilling to pulp a single excuse from a relationship turned to stone.

Artemis took the experience and reserved the memories of a standing ovation for the darkest times of her days. The emergency stash of serotonin for her to hoard away from the world. The moment of gathering flowers had indubitably left Artemis with a lust for blood that grew with intrigue--songs felt the need to bubble beneath the surface. The woman had needed to win--to supply herself with a title that explained her strange need to hold her jaw at the angle prepped to burst forth with a wholesome grin. Her friend, Lane would later compliment her smile in a way that implied that she were a threat to his massive shield of lazy-pleasantness. She found his overwhelmingly large smile to be mesmerizing--strangely jeering at all hours; for whatever reason this random Indigenous Warrior was always easily impressed with Artemis’s cheerful legacy--blushing at the idea of a petite lady being tossed in the air; an oversized bow all a-flurry whilst creating the formation of a twirling star.

Artemis would spend reign in office; being called a failure by her council of men--she had placed a bet in herself...walking away without argument if it meant a University could salvage a business plan for a Healthier Haskell. They left no room for her to breathe--screaming that she was "fucking everything up!" on official minutes. Artemis would have an abortion in quiet, and fall ill for years following the event--the premature removal of crown and title were the least of her worries. Excruciating pain bore down upon an already injured spine; the weight of her choices bearing its full weight over her life...Artemis would often dream of such emotional turmoil--in doing the right thing and forcing one’s self to turn their soft heart into stone.

The gossip and embarrassment of the situation had left Artemis being informed by his mother that she had deserved such situations that came under the label of an ale can. Artemis had been abandoned by all those but Adams and Gipp, and she swore to return for her hugs and round of bullshitting over lunch. She left the University in wallowing shame and nakedness, for having lost her boyfriend to a younger woman who claimed she was a Panther or Prettymoon--both meaningless unless the snarl fit. She felt fortunate to have a public relations team to lean on in moments of unrest--there came an added eloquence of needing a bigger issue to resolve that held viable solutions to be of a more mindful use of energy; the twists and ugly turns that came from stepping into a room with The Other Woman kept Artemis content with her choice to turn a cheek and focus patient energy on commitments surrounding the agreement that she had what it takes to be a bonafide star.

Her temptress coyness was a bit much for Artemis, but she could see how Gentlemen Prefer Blondes in this sense. Artemis would never apologize for holding the overbearing personality that was associated with being a Jackie, but unlike most: Artemis hid under a blonde tussle of snakes. A Trojan Horse listening and observing what men consider to be figuratively seductive. Tis’ the true culture of women: yelling at a random stranger you walk up on, as a strange woman brags aboot sleeping with your boyfriend: confused when she didn’t know his girlfriends face, as it casually strolled up. Artemis had felt her stomach turn; the sheer dread in hearing words that didn’t make sense to whatever version of reality Artemis lived in. Words refused to leave pursed lips--no amount of explaining from a stranger could undo the disappointment in a moment where her youthful heart instantly turned to a charred stone.

The woman was lazily dismantling life; without Artemis’s knowledge or consent--bragging of such unlikable discretion to an onslaught of shared peers. Artemis still smiled at the memory of expression falling--their peers had even less to say; and the nightmare of a fake-mistress blossomed into a self-explanatory silence...where Artemis had been the victim, and the stranger had been the perpetrator of violence--telling a man with substance issues that his pregnant girlfriend didn’t understand such romantic passions such as the one they shared. His drunk fists upon Artemis’s pregnant body would be the only thing to force a delayed separation; there was a woman hissing in his ear at all hours...convincing an immature and pathetic man that he deserved better with little sway. Artemis was fairly sure that Peaches simply had a closeted crown filled with stone.

She had finally left that awful relationship on the day of Hallows: the sharp memory--sprinting past a man that refused to hear the words of resolve trying to reach the front door with an officer knocking on the other side. The sensation of of her life hanging on line kept hesitation from catching up with her stride. Artemis would realize time-and-time again, that she was afforded the luxury of missteps or mistakes in such frenzied moments--it would be detrimentally damaging if small feet refused to flee; if there ever came a time where Artemis arrived on a fated soggy trail or came back in contact with such domestic violence and her wee feet turned to stone.

Artemis still had awful dreams; attempting to understand the pain she believed she was deserved to some twisted extent. As an orphan--there was always to be the underlining fact that her own parents had tossed a baby Artemis out with the rubbish...their inability to show up--had once been the mental ammunition in grooming Artemis to accept physically violent “love”. The embarrassment of such a time--had left her fleeing for her life: following a stray conversation in a public restroom where an ex--stated that he would always hunt her down the ease felt in accepting incarceration if it meant Artemis would never be with anyone else. Such frightening threats to her life had been unfamiliar territory; since Artemis had thrown herself in sheltered environments on stages and wooden courts--affording herself protection while honing in on the hobby of becoming a star.

Artemis held back tears--leaving all she had known upon the land of Stulls and Jayhawks--no beaded crown was worth her life. She had held the same isolated sadness that seeped through the dry soil--dry humor set its place. The land were cursed beyond repair--the thrashing of misplaced tobacco and cotton fields had slurped generations of nutrients from its top soils. The lack-of-profit from sparse crops had given past elders a reason to disperse West--following the promises of Lady Liberty, the progresses manifested by a God with no name. Her world had been a product of misguided interpretations of a single portrait of a pale woman leading the charge--no crown...but a mark of death holding its place upon a bewitching forehead; a lone yellow star.

Artemis had retrieved the art from the barrel of time: the throw-aways of planted themed in dread. There stood little relief in the mirroring portrait of a White Buffalo Calf Woman; no amount of explanation could account for the evils witnessed by the soils. Artemis created a chamber of hell for readers to tempt; if the curse of contorted time and the idea of living out an entire lifetime as a sapling were to be of any interest. A purple sage species with the name salvia held--more than enough explanation as to why some were able to handle the many dimensions wrapped in one reality. Someone with a delicate heart and mind like Artemis feared such unchecked introversion included with such psychedelics; she feared a moment of being dragged down a dark hallway by a bleeding ear--to be stuck in moments of her childhood memories; heartbroken--weighed down by stark awfulness of life’s givings...all reflexes to run away in order to survive had yet to exist. Artemis resisted the pathetic memory of a preteen yelling and taking lofty steps toward a door at the end of a hallway; each step reluctant--building a fire of ambition with each moment--attempting to make sense of the senseless; thrown around like a lifeless doll, while childish feet attempted to correct wrongs in moments where a perpetrator of abuse attempted to extinguish moments where Artemis almost questioned life itself...asking questions and dragging her leaded feet. Such confusing moments were flooded with the memory of feeling light footsteps pressing toes into carpeted floors; honest feet turning to semi-precious stone.

Someone had stolen food from Hera’s Kitchen; they had tampered with the distribution process that prioritized a small business over the well-being of its employees. Child labor had been funded through the tax-payers; dragging back an advancing civilization by the blue, and white collars. If someone had to be responsible for a prepubescent teen "stealing food" without permission--Artemis didn’t mind falling upon her own sword; if it meant walking away a more focused lenses of the personality of Hera. A woman famed for sharpened red talons; flaming or dull hair, and an authentic dislike of Artemis--the scape’d goat that fled a pig sty of a home. Artemis had been the threat to Hera’s house of ginger’d bread--the outlying light in the abyss of Narcissistic darkness; the inextinguishable shooting star.

Artemis had planted herself on fairly doomed timeline; wanting to excavate and report on the Indigenous Warriors--that lay unrested in mass grave sites scattered aboot--almost forgotten by time. She had wanted to turn up the volume on their stories; not needing to fabricate, exaggerate, or amplify the range of violent overtures used to whip an entire race of Peoples into submission for decades upon decades. Artemis was a lot of things, but a bad auntie wasn’t one of them--sometimes she took up the responsibility to hug the nieces and nephews needing someone to embrace their memories in the afterlife: the timelessness of a demi-goddess with an indestructible sword came with great responsibilities. There in the ocean of static--stood a beautiful and brave little Indigenous Warrior, an Apache baby named Emily; weeping as she looked for a place to call home. Artemis hugged the shadowed memory of a fourteen year old--lost to the cruelty of a fostered system--patting her head and providing nurturing kisses to the broken soul of a child ripped away from time. There was nothing to offer; no answers as to why her body and been decapitated and abandoned near a foster home. Artemis was going to do whatever it took--anything, within her Princess authorities to force the world to say the name of an Indigenous Warrior that had been slaughtered heartlessly. Artemis was beyond-pissed off...glaring dangerously all around--the crazed stares of anguish meant that the entire world was about to fucking know the name Emily Pike.

Artemis stood upon a scale; holding a lost soul in the threaded lines of dreams and nightmares--the white label: bad auntie, holding itself upon an oily forehead. The moments of lush desires meant the tag would only change upon years of sobriety...but she needed the name-tag...in order to step upon a gold scale of Justice--saying nothing, and watching as the world unearthed the image of an uncle named Alex--giddy, with the flirts and expectations passed along by Lori; holding a lime colored bucket and a sleeping child in the other arm. Artemis began to weep openly--mumbling to herself and refusing to let go of a shapeless memory that threatened to dissolve if the embraces of a hug were abandoned. Trembling hands and sorrowful tears were all that could be offered to the sacrificed niece and nephew standing parallel. Their story had been hounded and hawk’d by the minute: where Emily and Artemis were left to fend for themselves--forgotten out of the inconveniences of their skin color...the efforts of an open investigation moving along lethargically, its backing and support adding extra weight to the story’s stone.

Artemis sought vanity for her own sake--she had no man laying claim to her hand in marriage and lived in each moment knowing...she would never be as young or beautiful, as the present moment. There was an allowance to daydreams of a son--born beaming with love. Artemis loved all things silly, and the idea of her being a mother--seemed to be a part of all that describes motherhood--the ultimate trial. She’d just shake her head in relief as each year passed--Artemis was left without...her "uts" in one piece. The horrors of C-sections and complications being associated with their negligent and borderline criminal healthcare were worries for another day. She wondered how the Nation called themselves patriots, but they looked away as their own citizens died as their medications were held at ransom by Sirens and Boars. Artemis hadn’t the average payment of ten grand...that was needed to even have a kid if she wanted to. There was a shortage on babies, on the contributions to a future labor field--all because a horny Commander in Chief had broken the libido of a Nation; plopping his daughter upon his lap and forcing the male population of citizens and their once coveted erections to turn limp...logged down like an unsexy stone.

The memory of such shame would sit center of D.C. a virus shaped scar for the world to observe. The spoken curses of caring had set the wheels of time in motion: Artemis holding anchor to a spiteful soul, reminding the world of her childish innocence and lack of true advocate. She held firm to hunched shoulders weeping in the misunderstanding of being in trouble--Artemis hushed her sobs...praying to an unknown God through endless tears; asking for help in de-burdening the responsibility of caring for victims by any means. In the darkness arrived a brave man named Nate: unaware as to why his presence was afforded until looking to the right scale sided with an uncle and his niece and nephew. He stood tall; walking straight up to the uncle in question and peering past the future in his hands. Through it all--humor would break the darkness up in moments; fragmenting the serious airs with the obvious and benign questions hurled by any journalist. Artemis chuckled a little--hearing Nate snarl into the darkness; "Welcome back Lori...where are your children?". The path of deathly bloodshed had began to blossom and segment itself by way of pinwheel in the shape of a Dupont Circle--it’s local unique to a timeline carved in patriotic stone.

The world was cast into a blur: the person in Artemis’s care falling away as she stared at soils of a dense park. She knelt over a fallen knee; unable to gather footing in a mere seconds--her crazed hair blowing in the winds of change. The pinned-wheel had tied Artemis to a kindly sibling named Roger: holding only a sign and weeping for a lost woman named Joyce: Artemis approached, offering only the solitude found in the object of a discarded wallet and the last names of two lazy burglars: Joaquin and Allen. Unable to de-thread a truth without true resolve or punishment: Artemis wanted to help a grieving brother as he shared the story of a gleaming sister with the world. There wasn’t a doubt in Artemis’s mind--that Joyce had been a beacon of joy for her slew of brothers; the abnormality of a black hair dying before a grey haired person had disrupted an entire timeline...to point out the irregular efforts put towards someone scandalous--a story riveting with sex and fatal violence as a politicians missing mistress named Levy. Artemis had set out to prove that one life was perceived as more valuable than the other--one’s story plastered from coast-to-coast, the other falsely accused of committing suicide due to "cultural pressures"...when in all reality; Joyce was a random victim plucked from obscurity--her story and search efforts given little attention, despite the missing woman’s prominent efforts to methodically and rightfully step into her place a political star.

Next Chapter: [XXVIII ] Artemis and the Golden Dick