Artemis lay aspirating slowly in a pool of blood: substantiation of failure dovetailed the realities of editing for fun, as there wasn’t a whole lot to be deemed glamours when resetting a scene--to one neon, furtive, and insecure. Moving words and an inability to let something go; resulted in a grudge rebuilding a world around a woman in bombing jacket; incapacitated along the same famed bay. A leather sphere made dreams come true; a personality inscrutable to physical stature--occasionally striking fear into the hearts of man with a mild earthquake.

Artemis practicing weathering tone--parroting nettlesome glee and repeating news sources: looking for aid and casually dying of boredom and holding a vaunted mask. There was no relevant place in the world for the overlooked, eyesore auntie...cheerful grins indemnified for the vastness amount of growing loneliness; to offer occasional sets and song complete with an outdoor arena to amplify the weight of the world cemented by fear, portending for imminent disaster. Artemis left to stare at empty skies and extrapolate data and modern motif--complete with couture fashion and pose that distorted reality when standing alone.

Infamous for failure; a Belieber on a moment of sorrowful exhaustion--the bravery of appreciation in woo’ing--to hold sorrowful tune and tear...living in a moment where others knew what it meant to see wall art with the numbers nine-nine-nine and sigh in relief that a restful spirit had finally found true rest; free of leeching personalities. Life had been too precious to notice; good health considered a mortal bliss of a golden age. Women fought the patriarchy; men fought curses of cringe...humping an unconsenting pools edge--violating the most sacred of elements in a ego-driven quest to gain views and engagement. Artemis stood on the adjacent side of an obscure nameless river--downriver to be precise; she enjoyed the title of American outside of the name...the patterns of augmented personality disorders was running rampant--she couldn’t look away. Sanity of fresh air and good company became a place-of-escape, ready to run away from the threat of wage garnishment by a lazy Mechanical Boar--trimming fat, unaware of the facts dancing all around; included the ritual burning of a scarecrow standing in field ablaze with far-swept flames--destined to be alone.

Loyalty foolishness had taken a world powerhouse off the auctioning block--the clocks of time continued to be peddled by lies and "non-foreseen" consequences. To be a woman; unarmed and patrolling the night knowing overpaid traitors were clocking into duty--to hold bounty on mostly-peaceful protesters; yanking them off their feet and illegally detained while obscuring facial expressions. Evil could easily be measured in the dancing eyes of such terrorist, domestic or otherwise--fumbling hands remained tremulous; unsure of what will be pardoned as not war crimes whilst a faceless citizen prepared the island moat of timsah--reopened scars of eugenic war; rekindled by stupidity. Man passed off a seedling of evil; pressing forward to ensure others were tortured and left to die--if it meant a weekly earning and a way to deflect one’s own fears of feeling the uncomfortable sensation of being alone.

The non-existent epidemic of male loneliness kept the conversation going; dancing men claiming to be Your Idol and spring colors began to paint the world artsy as fuck. Artemis offered little resistance: swaying a lightening stick and licking waffle-coned dairy. She had left on quest--to seek help with a niece frozen in spells of great woe...to save a broken Honmoon. Artemis hadn’t wanted the answers for lifes’s questions--she just wanted to get help; the pressures to produce solution felt fruitless...told to wait outside. To be left pacing an abundance of time to misplace--aimed at lesser of priorities like errands and plopping her right back at square one. Plenty of parenting figures knew what it meant to have helpless hands tied; to be the only one concerned about the patient in concern--down to the detail of a niece being left with the impression of being alone.

Artemis awoke surrounded by fed up citizens; a stage of lyrical madness were pretty inconvenient when drawing up scenes tossing up medical supplies; and crouching near the day ones--caring less of the moments in awkwardness to follow the clasp of a decisive conductors wave. The thanklessness seen in exiting bowing and occasional heckling came too soon after inappropriate disruptions--it was neither prank or stunt; just a bearish lady climbing down from improvised sets. There was method to disruption; where the crash out following an inevitable day of reconcile would be painted with three words deny, defend, depose--the citizens beaten into submission...until they weren’t. Artemis took up arms to defend constructive methods of destruction--if it meant reverse engineering something, to build a better and safer set of systems; to find comfort with a baseline of reasoning and truth--she wasn’t and hadn’t ever been left to fight the waves of curious madness alone.

Artemis had only known physical battle to be unfair on all fronts--her body struggling to retain and disperse iron, her soul weighed down with sorrows and athletic ethos; trapped in a broken vase--held together by gold and wishes. The lack-of-pride in experience; or the smaller-than-expected package of a defensive athlete remained to be an entire new form of disappointment from the booming community. The answers of lonesome tale: confined by malnutrition and a prostitute mother kept their expectations to come crashing down swift and imprecise. Balls of lightning fell from the sky following storms and appreciated rains in a burnt out city; built off the humor of the citizens complaining about the weather--the social skills rewarded with sincerity and the un-engaging stress. The generation that spoke to practice the art of speaking had been given little tools outside of educated logic and guessing. Artemis and the reader were forever unable to cross such a river of a destiny built to manifest fortune and well-being; anchored from the knee down in a tan sandy sludge. To be a survivor; meant the acceptance of individual failure and the choice to bring anyone and everyone along. Artemis remained behind; attending to citizens explaining apologies for the sins of their parents--their grandparents long-gone...paddling down the relentlessly sharp and parented rapids alone.

The misinterpretation of languages and the rare encompassing trait of frisson; forced Artemis lay in a fetal position..awaking in a dream and sensing a violent flow protruding ruby liquid endlessly from her exposed throat. The citizens remained stuck in the muds of change; forced to hold the line of accountability...unaware of the good fortune in being stranded with a busybody named Pete sitting patiently and listening to the concerns of his neighboring sufferers. Artemis thought he was too nice; but appreciated his need to remain firm in integrity and less neetlesome conversations...resulting with a Mechanical Boar sniffing out giggles and jeer--squealing and mumbling about his old days partying with Jeffrey and Ghislaine: time had left the Mechanical Boar to dry out with dirty pantaloons...the last man standing, dick-in-hand--wanking off to his successes in life alone.

Artemis had dragged a reluctant niece to the sands of destruction; to un-slump the mortals filling holes--pulling out allegorical characters one at a time, like a god damn magician sitting at a pub: realizing life had been wasted away caring about something nobody else seemed to fucking care about--left pulling out flowers and cards from bottomless sleeves; the hair-fluffing secrets creating a labor of being alone.

The teetering of madness; came from a balancing act--walking between the dreams of surviving and a few moments trapped in the last second reliving the public execution of Helen of Troy; painted with gentle face of a woman named Nicole. To be trapped beneath a blade of helplessness while experiencing the worst possible of outcomes as they unfolded--paying the ultimate price for efforts in trying to help; tacked with the ominous aging label of step-mother to top-it-all off...poisonous cherries drawing the curtains closed upon the crown of beauty named Helen in some dimensions...Ms. Brown in others. Obsequious silence came at the highest costs known to man, often resulting in a fatality or two--all but the one timeline fell into the category of inevitable chaos; nudging at a fate where she hadn’t met an angry husband...but alas; their timeline had been turned around in the span of a single homicide investigation--women everywhere rocked to the core--stony glares assembled upon hearing gruesome details of how such a beloved person had been slain outside near a garden; staring in the direction of a fallen friend and taking a last gasp. There was nowhere to go...in such profound moments nightmares; resulting in Artemis aspirating with the relief of getting it over--crashing through the experience of what it meant to be utterly lost and alone.

The rural streets waited for no man--the unaddressed fumbling of the largest mystery known to the century had remained walked over; footed under the rugs of society. Modernity and over-consumption meant disguising disinterest at any cost; self-appointed to carry lame vibes with the shield of accessibility to information on command--drawling out a voice to include a croak and rolling eyes; whenever such rare bouts of patience was found in a room of disorganization. Artemis led the charge with bad posture--holding a rocking boat afloat with reasoning and grunts of acknowledgement to provide minimum communication to the curious individuals; noticing the lack-of-accommodations for present participants followed by the unveiling of a flimsy set; complete with lumpy beds--skirted with flames as Artemis stood on business alone.

She lazily avoided unwelcoming and unprofessional experiences--the fact that a stranger had wandered in and set a small fire in a banquet kitchen; his farcical worn-down greeting had been warmly welcomed by a jovial new employee...welcoming people to work, and piecing together the overarching timeline when a small army of firefighting warriors arrived at five in the morning. Artemis had resigning nightmares of the leery instance; back when misery paid the bills until a toxic environment had almost coincided the theory that she wasn’t a very good leader at time. The oligopoly was worth less--without the workers leaving soul-sucking middle and upper management sucking ass while they threw employees at a nameless machine: profits and margins kept weak personalities in charge of the rotating rows of the willing--the expendable nobody.

There was an amiable disagreement to be had; to those too educated and hard working to be cast as thankless and overlooked. Artemis avoided leadership positions--unbending to the attitude issues pending in the following next generation. She was considered as rude; walking away while wishing bad management good luck--stopping by a market filled with exotic cabbages; wishing to apologize for the jackass-faced man abroad. The famed monster named Polyphemus: yelling homophobic rhetoric to anyone that glanced his way. Artemis just called him Chowder; to better buff out the vacuous nature of his shrill preaching. Verbal adulation was the only toll able to deter the sex-pest; to fluff his feathers for him--in exchange for him removing bonded package from tables and shoulders--Artemis was unable to suffer in the awkwardness of dealing with such lewdness alone.

The monster was famous for the singular red eye that stood-center of his boring face and a strange ability to move the world with contortion in morals. He remained average in intellect; suffering from a lack of common decency; an enraged sour personality noticed by each passersby that politely avoided peering at his medical monstrosity--a rotating face kept the world offput by the trollish beast. The monster suffered from strange curses: sometimes named Vitaly--having been compulsively compelled to smell his own farts in order to gain sexual arousal. Polyphemus; Ramsey edition; was a notoriously average looking man--famed for impiousness and endless excuses; a streak of unaddressed conflicts had brought him down to reality--a stern judge reminding the tourists of his misguided assumptions in being special...odd exception to well-enough defined laws. Artemis had wanted to return to a time where the festering of social norms being violated crash landed on everyone and anyone. There was a true madness for silently observing a tiled mask as it slipped in silent moments; in watching a three sides of standing beast to brought to its knees overnight. She had seen the writings on the walls--a pattern of escalated violence rolled up with consistent wave of calmness between each jumping off point. Three men had hid a lack-of-erection by attacking citizens; assaulting strangers in the brunch hours to gain notoriety and fame--pressing bags of tea in untaxible places: their misery aimed at everybody, and asked for by nobody.

The issue of injustice keeping her soul alive in a generations of ignorance and insensitivity resulted in life posing as thankless. There was no proof of success in publication; there was only the slight stumble and occasional fall...the less-graceful impact(s) that came with falling from the sky--the reckless youth trapped in a snowflake experience; blistering past and forgotten by the stages of glorious fulfillment--the fan driven experience cast at the hand of Artemis; a magician of words--given wings of redemption to bare the weight of her sins. To be an addle sibling--painted gold for her courage between a grip of siblings. Her adversity to failure meant she carried a specific scent of fear...picked up and hounded by unwell people; seeking reasons to implode...a single excuse to crash out; if a threat to a meticulous image ever arose. The ink’d patterns of hatred had kept Artemis chained to a timeline--sprinting ahead and returning to plead they listen to voices of the fallen Warriors and unprepared citizens; painted by the image of a small child running through a doorway--sprinting in a sun-kissed hall for the last time--yelling for everyone and anyone to run. Even while bleeding out on a battle field; she would burn the ears of her opponent--to offset facts as to whether the label of hero had ever belonged to Artemis. To be a survivor--held a separate value to the words cast to protect the lives of others...she had once sprinted past Athena: obeying a command to run, not needing to look back at an unwell cousin--holding a sassy crown and the gleaming eyes; the manipulation of reality--slashing away at fine silks in a maze of lies: unscrupulous character, driven by deranged self-centered whims. Sophomoric memories guided Artemis to the study of psychology; needing to untangle and observe the fraying truths carried by only her--the concept of accountability held an acrid imbalance in a family built around a rotating penchant of lies. Pundits buying fabricated tale and tear kept Artemis and Athena cornered--two sisters against the world since day three, beleaguered and alone.

She remained talking shit whilst bleeding out on an obscure sidewalk: unwilling to give fodder to forgiveness; forgetting the unforgivable sin of such selfishness. Solitary and insanity were unhelpful in den of personality disorders; Artemis had been forced to wander through a house of mirrors--to have baroque mistruths and the enforcement of nepotism holding her chained to a bay of sorrow...unwilling to forgive a person born half-alive: an aged-out orphan. Missed by nobody.

The worst of timelines held vicious women like Ann--screaming from the hilltops; attempting to cast insular opinion to build shores of privilege around--to rebrand the desire to kill Indigenous Warriors. The thin-lipped woman grew hysterical; drooling and claiming it to be bad fortune that an entire race hadn’t been deleted from history...advocating Genocide over a calm cup of java’d beans--all while holding an immaculate smile. The lack-of-integrity in the world had bound Artemis to raised expectations in civility to women such as Mrs. Coulter--shrillness and all. She had been a lone singer; dashed of a song mid-tune...taking cautious steps away from the frail claws of Ann--afraid of what skin-to-skin contact would do to Artemis. This was exactly who the settlers had always been; born with thrashing tongues and a lust for violence--except now, Artemis didn’t have to pretend that their sneers and leers hadn’t been accounted to placate a booming volume behind Ann’s murderous words. "Hey Ann...tell me how you really feel, you fucking psycho." The causal threats of white people had left Artemis confound to a throne on wheels some days: screaming tremulous warnings past endless pages--hidden away from the world that imposed threat and intimidation upon her every step; wielding a sword of truth--bought and paid by nobody.

The monsters hidden behind blades and lies had landed Artemis in a den of carelessness...walking away from conversations of inappropriate nature and allowing the citizens to finally fight their own battles. It took a sweeping plague and its echos of madness to full wrap-up; before the citizens took it upon themselves to look around and build walls of self-awareness. The skill of minding one’s own fucking business...came with the commitment of intellectual enlightenment; held in a game invented to seek out and release those labelled Gorn. The particle of endorphins captured with a childish girl named Emm; staring past a small piece of paper--aflame in her room and the green spark of ambition that came from finding relief in a single moment. Excuses aside; all laws were suggestive in glee-filled moment where the truth was tossed up into the air...professionals being the only one’s able to break down intricate masks--tiled by dark impulses and repressed anguish. To be the survivor left--removing one’s self from a room after the spectacle of bloodshed in survival was over; meant the shedding of lies and the failure in enabling. Blossoming concerns mirrored for all the world to view--there was a somber silence that fell over worn-down poems. The concept of genetic offsets of repressed neurological activity had yet to be discovered; the gleaming eyes unstudied--despite the fact Officer Spazarus had been captured...avoiding the civil duties provided by chemical truths and the physical admittance of pain-relief provided in the action of ill-intent; led stray from the path of civility in a single decision--tasked to accomplish horrific crimes--when such commands had come from nobody.

Small cracks came to shimmer surface-side: a closeted man began squealing about a “ Latino sprite”--the reduction of humanity was often cast by weirdos like Ann and the male-counterparts named Chowder. He had managed to condense his hatred for science into one small bigoted widget: a red button holding an arrow had put a final game of terror in motion. The pair of beast had started a campaign of hatred and disinformation--causing a deranged woman in a chariot to arrive at Artemis’s door; causing havoc and falling-ill to heartbreak and a mid-life crisis--suppressed until a blonde woman walked by. Artemis was forever the stranger with dark skin wandering through--holding a target upon a hunched back; creating a line of communication for the citizens to better understand twisting words and outmoded integrity. There was nothing more threatening to the pale citizens; than a woman holding an unapologetic smile...avoiding the fate of three sisters; hunting down demons and monsters...taking turns combating the initial blows of hopeless circumstances and moving past issue after issue--to be done with everyone, done with wishing the enemy well, done sitting silent in agreeance while the word cast an endless shadow of doubt upon traumatized minds--cared for by nobody.

Artemis were forced to borrow the ping of concern from the past; knowing the hunt of the Gorn ritual was meant to capture and return unwell fish. The book torn into two--a fateful death of an auntie at the hand of another auntie most likely; had been the trials for a lost niece to cope with...the alternate version meant to be stitched together: mended by the fact that Athena had been self-appointed as a personal protector. Lifetimes had passed where Athena had kept Artemis from harms way of any and all enemies...until a sickle of insecurity kept a baby sibling left spiraling through life’s chaos alone...born glowing on endless stages, saving sessions of weeping for private moments. Slight curses--mumbling and grumbling before stressful performances were reassuring conversations with a fallen sibling...Artemis unable to cope with the fact that Athena was gone--forced to burn the world down and become larger than life...all to have it dashed by the tip of knife: sprinting down a fated hallway--protected by nobody.

She felt a tread of unease on the trail of mortality--crafting a cage and bait to be used in the rare-but-not impossible chances that a middle sibling misunderstood the assignment of being a decent friend. Artemis took to the stage a final time; singing a song of desperation...pleading with the public to help find cure for an unwell woman--sitting with hands intertwined and a pleasant smile. The threats seen and observed by her careful eye had kept Artemis fleeing past unpointed jokes; wondering if an elder sibling had known she had wasted life being a jerk. The search for God had began with a walk through the darkened forests of grief--accepting that the trials of leaving; hurt others more than any words ever could. The rare act of captured studies kept Artemis on edge; grief-stricken at the loss of one sibling...alone on an island of emotion; hiding from everyone and accepting a life of insignificance...to be scholar drowning in debt...thrown into a common box--to be pitied upon by nobody.

Artemis just shrugged her water-logged shoulders--managing disruption to expectations with extra efforts aimed toward self-care. To try harder in new ways; to be born ready for battle...storming stages in dreams--using songs and dance to cradle a fallen Indigenous Warrior in tired arms...it all had been for nothing. Artemis crafted a box of jewels for a tearful niece to rummage through--trapped in a cursed game of Pretty Princess; building walls and laying cement with foundation and context for when it all came crashing down. She had done everything possible to make sense of the senselessness of it all--to give footprints guiding a baby niece, if she needed to learn how to trade places in moments where bravery was unfamiliar...to stand tall when rescue plans had failed in launching; left on a jogging trail--soul shredded to pieces; clawing away at a bleeding collar bone...surrounded by nobody.

Trollish men like Polyphemus had lost his wife in transit of a single story; moved from A to B with his own words--Artemis held to the reigns of truth; pulling her weight in expertise of objectivity from a distance. The best thing about personality disorders--being, that they were rarely wielded by intellectuals. To meet one of colourful culture was rather strange luck to be stumbled upon, as the sickness had been inherited with pale skin--the skin of a killa. Artemis stayed talking shit. The natures of deflection kept weirdos away; to be blinded by ego and the notion that words and actions created an aura of importance. Artemis fluffed a ribbon’d collar. Her only mission now was to place a distress call as a honey trap, and to seek out the beast that had so unwittingly caught her attention with lusty words and an indescribable aggression toward pregnant women. The crown of influence knocked over by the rule of fortune--to be judged and sentenced into a state of frozen retirement...dragging along shameful wings and wandering into the event horizon--to be missed by nobody.

He had turned back; to mark his glare as the last words--approaching Artemis as she prepared to call for backup. The man had toppled her over with the gesture of charging head-on toward an unknowing aggressor--Artemis fell; afraid of what it’d mean if he realized the depth of sickness that veiled her words with bravery--the concept of a Takedown stretchered out to half-heartedly prove the sins of greed and ego. The snarling stranger stood over her; casting an insincere smile--hair raised and causing a strange blurry halo; he had the intention of deeming her the enemy at all costs--unfazed by the ideal that his greatest adversary was a complete nobody.

Artemis coughed up curdled blood, and laughed with anticipation through blood-outlined teeth: death and pain, being the only two things that brought amusement or sexual excitement. Life had broke her. She rolled over with what little might was left...pleading to be Free--forever prey to personality disorders; discordant men like Chowder...afraid of his own curiosities; clobbering Artemis and belying public speculation as to his sexuality. Impatience had been stimulated two fold--when erectile dysfunction and diminutive ego set in, and she just happened be crossing the digital street as he ran past red-lights and warning signs. A pert stride and cloying demeanor had been marked as threatening to the man in a dress, despite the sardonic presence in her laughter. The compliance in turning over like a sausage; kept the mood of the room light, and kept Chowder in a irascible state...snarling in an instance of inevitability, hindered by nobody.

Artemis asked if her teeth were positioned right--adding fanfare to an otherwise gangster form of torture; sarcastically grinding her teeth over the edges of the concrete. The staid will to survive had gotten her this far in life...providing relief to a reader; escaping a second wave of death and the isolation that came from monsters running rampant--kidnapping citizens for bounty in broad daylight. Decorum and civility had been thrown out the window. The perfect job had passed Chowder by...he had given a somewhat memorable and garish voice to a machine of fame and fortune--unable to hid behind a cowards masks or hold an occupation of specter. The incredulous irony of such a chance for him to shine at work-- having been lost on nobody.

The self-professed wise man was distracted by a crew of vigilantes forming a stampede upon the bridge. Artemis had been wrestling the man for years upon years--cajoled by nothing and no one. His silence had given birth to a new vengeful laughter--envy being found in a strewn about timeline; tied off to whatever his hateful little heart desired...bottomless misery had left him stumbling; losing footing as he asked to reach for pocketed identification--putative evidence of his masculinity hidden in a small letter stating a male status. "Still looks like a little bitch to me." Artemis couldn’t help talking shit; impregnable humor remained glaring over a shoulder at the thumb-nailed portrait--resulting in an opponent giving one last stomp on her spine. "Your face looks like you lost to a fight with blackberry brambles." Artemis had taken harder kicks from her domestically violent ex--armed with the truth...sometimes men and women had opposing ideas of what it meant to be winning. The man began thrashing his foot upon her neck and spine in tantrum--the approaching line of racists had little conflict with Indigenous Warriors up until the late eighteen-hundreds; a Mattanza tactic couldn’t keep the threats from finding a natural born leader--because the world worked reluctantly, and then there lay a demurred Artemis....thirty, flirty and thriving: content with being alone.

Such incendiary childish fits didn’t warrant her glare--it was easier to take the blows and accusations laying down, and to reduce the imperceptible chances of falling over on uneven surfaces. The disruptive nature of men like Chowder fell for a decade strong; red rings of spells falling freely behind a mouth full of food...the only factual crumbs being the one’s that he shoveled food into a thankless face--the divorced man was suffering from the lapsing consequences that had come outta nowhere. Artemis giggled between light spells of hummed mellow tunes--wondering how long she had been fighting impervious battles alone; on the brink of failure--screaming for his wife to run...pulling at the arms of strangers without an expectation of reward...forced to wait until a wife realized that her loving husband genuinely cared about nobody.

The sacrifices of a public incumbent named Phil had raised the bar--set the standard to be just a little kinder in tone, self-forgiving to those that cared about the state of the world. The art of verbal pirouettes had taken him far in life--praised for being a kind husband, a beacon of hope for intellectuals and empaths alike. Artemis had been tasked with being the anchor: hidden in plain sight while holding down a muggy bay, Phil--holding the sail for the winds of reasoning to move them forward on choppy waters. A quorum of two held steadfast: each waiting for the curtains of silence to fall. The lies of domestic bliss covered the length of song; boasting of a single woman--expressing how peace brought out the best in mankind...building a choir to boost her into turbo mode...weeping at the sight of passing pedestrians gathering to witness the vague situation--offering eyes and understanding as they began to ask who deserved such man-appointed beatings; gaining comfort with questioning a perpetrator of violence and still doing nothing as a tact...since Artemis appeared before them as an unfamiliar nobody.

Artemis began warming up vocal engines; they were worn and torn by chided moments teeming with life experience to offer a ballot to better paint the edges of childish hope...to take pride in the questions of the citizens--standing between conflict and doing nothing: to preserve mundane schedules and offer sacrifice to machines demanding white or blue collars. Chaos had taken its toll on the citizens; Artemis had gathered barrings on the situation...taking up an offering of aperitif with pride as a melody began to fall from Mt. Olympus. Artemis had veered a story past pointed questions on the beasts sexuality and pronouns; remanding little and reminding the world that his sexually repressed acrimony was a personal problem for the grown man to ravenously sort out alone.

Chowder began to writhe in pain; eschewed from touching himself--stumbling in the direction of a gang ready to capture and release anyone the stood in their way. There was a separate emotion of surprise in walking upon a bridge--walking past a man lost in moments of uncouth pleasures and a woman screaming nearby...afraid of heights and fighting spells of stolen breath and garbled vision from looking past a grated floor at the waters below. Pandemonium in its finest form...allowing the citizens to cross and observe history as though they were angels wandering into rooms of mystery. The absence of Tranquilla brought out chaos past tromped soils--time began with neighbors asking what was happening; thoughts scrambled by unity in caring...giving birth to device powered by a maelstrom of news and events--fine tuned by the chasm in opinions and scrawling past pages for the sake of efficiency. A drop of debauchery kept the cogs of the machine oiled and primed--the image of Artemis and the label of victim standing behind the ink; her attendance peculiar, cordoned from society for having survived a vicious sexual assault by the age of two: weeping endlessly for the mother she never had...fated to survive the life of a prosaic muse alone.

The story had almost been forgotten: minus the efforts of a beautiful machine--cache-ing article and gossamer coverage to be etched in stone: carved out into a dark universe. A diverse crowd pointing their words in their direction--chit-chatting amongst themselves excitedly; something had gone afoul at a concert event and there was castigating chatter about a husband named Andy...something about a cold play. The lack of votive candle, had kept the conversation going--holding a line firm while Artemis crouched over hand and knee with wind tousled hair washed over golden locks. She felt so much worry for the world surrounding; it was a resounding trait from a cloistered childhood...forced to deflect problems without solutions, and to crawl to safety on the other side of a Golden bridge creaks and groans to match her ferocious strides. Artemis began regaining the memory of three sisters: over a few song lengths that went on for a good thirty-thousand-five-hundred something years--doomed to sacrifice themselves to prove separate points...recalling what it meant to wrestle with perplexities of hope for a single moment--to bare the fruits of freedom. This is What it Sounds Like. Artemis was left to accept the flaws in wanting to be everything for everyone--if it meant a diversion from self-reflection, whilst surviving a battle with carrying on a near-extinct blood quorum and whatnot--an Indigenous nobody.

The opposition raised her head from the curb; glitter fluttering past his wings and sticking to the wet surfaces of a mans knuckles--Artemis laughed deeply; trying to regain control over a situation by falling back into the scene of two people holding a battle to the death. He peeled her face outward by the widows-peak of crowned hair: hissing in her ear while music began to flourish all around them--unable to view the public state of their shared stage; veiled and alone.

Artemis withheld secrets--uncovering meaning as time went on; cue’d to the environment around her--clouded by carelessness and exhaustion. Instead of insulting him directly, she informed Chowder boi of a domestically violent ex named Peachy: how he had cheat on her, with other women and a man. The blindsiding of sexual relations with men kept him hidden behind a glittering homophobic mask of lies--Artemis had dipped dramatically, scooching out of scene with awkward shoes squealing and screeching. Those were the things men had warranted to be necessary for the quest of happiness, but they didn’t want to say the quiet parts of their desires out loud...and then blamed their misery on anyone and everyone instead of just taking a moment for self reflection; fearful to extend the concept of being alone.

Artemis continued giggling; twas a month of pride--and she was occasionally beefing with a stranger as he painted her as a "faggot". She waited for the public to step in; to defend the changes that had healed a whole generation. It meant more to watch others care for strangers--to set the record straight when expressing the new paths of adversity that was wide enough for everyone and anyone. Artemis continued to endure his swings: holding immense pride in being armed with Athena’s laughter in such gore-filled moments--tales of violence had been often overlooked when standing directly behind statistics painted with commonality. Pallor men famed for their violence; Indigenous women famed for their resilience...the world kept turning baby. There was a beauty in reopening the worst chapter of her life to gloat for once. Artemis told Polyphemus of her travels, and the boots that had already deformed wilted discs; his tantrums were impressive to nobody.

Artemis smiled wickedly--recalling an event about one monster to gift another...of a man called Peachy: towering over most crowds, and withholding his problems of jealousy when standing next to a taller woman. Artemis was condemned as a whore--whenever men or women admired her smile, hostage to his threats and microaggressions shining brightly...and Artemis had wanted to be loved by nobody.

Artemis had taken a moment to point out the normal state of exploring sexuality, and how women often loved her in a way that was confusing. He had called her a freak, and unnatural for allowing herself to be attracted to people--the love of people had kept her at deaths door. Artemis was an agoraphobe...afraid to be in a room of monsters, but even more afraid of leaving unknowing groups of people in the grasps of someone like Peachy or Chowder. She had once let a violent ex attempt to rip apart glittery wings, and in doing so--he cut up religious robes, delicate chains, and comforting wires of a crown on a campaign of property destruction. She had been given the opportunity to ask him why, but walked off to call proper authorities instead. The price of a few objects that could be replaced had bought her freedom--the law had stepped in to protect her with enough evidence. He was so angry at all the other two-spirited individuals--it caused a conflicted spirit to steal money from a bearded partner. Obviously. Artemis had weaponized his selfishness: building a wall of protection with evidence and paperwork--caging herself away from a sketchy person dedicated to self-perseverance, lacking self-awareness and respected by nobody.

"Are you like the big or little spoon, or how does that work?" The question had tipped Peachy over the edge of whatever emotionally insecure cliff was nearest--the fluctuation in sexuality kept his mind dark, dark. He had awoke alongside a man; forcing a cheerful teammate to hold a session of truths--causing Artemis to raise a weapon to her temple for a single moment; lowering it in relief--learning the truth sooner rather than later had broken off an engagement and saved her potentially decades of surviving in the wrong life. The nightmarish stresses that echoed from a doomed pregnancy could fill an entire black hole. Artemis was left standing stage side to a stranger; holding a round-armed posture like a man named TOP--frozen in a moment whilst attempting to recall the choreography of an otherwise mesmerizing dance. Artemis had been etched into word and picture alike--forever seen everywhere and nowhere all at once; trapped in static, standing at attention in the middle of it all: alone.

The situation had been an unexpected twist, to the treacherous relationship. Artemis laughed at this memory of her ex Peachy--occasionally telling his story in public places; the seams of the boomers foundation in argument had began to crumble. The Navajo People tended to spearhead the conversation to be built around their existence--they invented Indigenous mentality, clawed and clung to a brand nobody knew--everything down to their professional morals seemed less straight than claimed to be. An intoxicated Peaches; punching a pregnant woman sleeping was a passage of manhood--An intoxicated Artemis; condemned for drinking with her partner to start with. The sins of participation were spun in the favor of the man. The falsehood of entire lives were now common place as conversations between generations; the younger taking advantage of the efforts in vulnerability--learning that kind men had done the work of random deadbeat fathers. Others had waited until children were grown before finding genuine love. The end of the road came at beaming light cast by interpersonal enlightenment--at moments where men like Ryan took the last name of a step father before stepping in a room with Hubers one last time: the misstep of caring for the wrong people came at a steep cost. The scourge of discomfort carved holes in the fabrics of a person’s understanding--Artemis had known such barreling news falling in steady downpours would be followed by a downpouring of bloodshed would overwhelm some readers; the pace of mental deterioration quickened by trauma--gifted by truths and tales of selfish lovers; their actions understood by nobody.

Brave men took turns; standing upon a rug lined with genetic patterns and markers along the brim--the crashing of a few men crumbling to their knees with a thud caused curious strangers to take interest. She had wanted to prove that Chowder had a propensity to be dominated specifically by men--his words of old world family values devalued with a few guided walks across an ancient artifact, with a simulation surrounding a sacred hunt. Plenty of men like Chowder would fail: too ignorant to read the fine print in the word Trento and probably went about assuming it were an assassination assignment. Artemis was skilled in the craft of acting; pulling fringe and shoulder pads and darn tooting lot of sparkles--to announce the results of such magic...luring an aging pig to his premeditated grave by wearing a smile and skirt--making it all up as she went along; her cheers and chants appreciated by nobody.

She had parted the world with words; needing to find help for a friend with an injured heart, a man with missing siblings and the nickname ice colbs...his mother had broken it to pieces--Lori had done the impossible and gave up on the duty of motherhood. Destined to forever be defined by her parenting skills alone.

Artemis disliked the traits of pom-poms and cheers being appointed to the description of Lori. Her version of authenticity came at a high cost. She approached the far side of a rug and reached out to hug Colby: no amount of cheers and chants could change the way life had played him...Artemis couldn’t fix any part of his problems, bound by limited resources and distance most days. The mere mention of Indigenous Warrior blood meant Artemis was obligated to hear his story--to hold tight upon an enemy-held cloth, and wait for him to wake up from his a daze of confusion; the words finally clocking that his siblings were just out in the world...alone.

Artemis had crash landed on a cursed timeline: needing to tell Jasmin the truth if it meant saving her life. She remained stagnant: unable to connect a young woman as she wrestled with the loss of both parents. Their mission on a time traveling adventure had been disrupted by a fog of mischief...resulting in threats of disorientation and sometimes the side-effect of death. Artemis had wept; embracing flawed hands for comfort as she repeated softly past gentle tears....all of it was a lie...none of it was real, she’s gone. By sheer chances and anti-luck working in perfect tandem--ice colbs had crash landed to decipher the riddles of mankind: tempted to face the faces of evil alone.

Artemis had awoke: telling a baby niece about ambitions to yell at crowds and perform acrobats upon a magic rug...zooming forward in a lurching blur to a time where she felt true content. Life felt as though it were on easy mode: Artemis was discussing the timing for raising a sign past elbows held tuck to the side...drawing a close when a teammate stated the signs would still say yell. She had wanted to believe timing played an important role, and her teammate thought it was helpful to be an asshole about it...they stood at an impasse on the topic in silence which was also helpful to nobody.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the trivial transgressions of her part-time work compared to a long-spread past with manual labor; still set to the same tone of seriousness somehow. The final blow to her story came when being held up in the air; raised overhead the same man that had messed around with her violent ex--and performing the final touches to a stunt holding up spirited signs. Artemis lifted a white and purple sign simply--hoping for the best and expecting nothing...only to be heckled by a couple of audience members that chose to to yell, "YELL". There was two more round of the cheer to go, and Artemis was standing on another person--understanding that nothing could’ve of prepared her for that particular situation. She began contemplating if this silliness was considered time theft on everyone’s end; or of which of the nine circle of Hades came in this particular form of reality. Why were we here? What was the meaning of it all? Time moved slower; there was nowhere to go...even when she got down from the trophy pose. She was trapped in that moment of strangers yelling about their passion to yell: forever surrounded by morons, left with only the option of powering through it all with a smile--her skills in passing as an athletic empath fooling nobody.

The monster Polyphemus grew angry by her story that didn’t involve him whatsoever, and Artemis didn’t have the heart to point out the familar thread of losing one’s whole family. She and Ice Colbs had both survived a den of demons, except Artemis didn’t have much of one to begin with. There was a reckoning to be had; when realizing why men like Colby and childish weirdos like crowder couldn’t exist in the same space...standing upon a fair-sized rug. Artemis and Colby were free to zig and zag back and forth; to place red strings along proper paths and admire the result of untangling the truth and tying up loose ends. Below a red web crouched a strapped up crowder--holding a ball in his mouth and gagging himself while complaining: his brand of entitled anguish understood by nobody.

Justice wasn’t made for these streets--no arbitrator would be brave enough to halt the physical assault between Artemis and Polyphemus if a debate ever panned out in the real lifes: she had settled for taking protection behind the skill of being invisible and waited for an educated man named Kirk to come aide a conversation on abuse between men and women. Crowders blind hatred for women had made Artemis a target worth the time--it was only a matter of time before an aging penis sought blood flow at the thought of beating the shit out of a nobody.

The parting between victimization and survivor complete by his own hands...the spoiled man-child had sought out a beast named Medusa--told by some random false oracles that he would fall at the hands of nobody.

Artemis burst her eyes open; unaware that crowder had gone for her throat by existing in a cursed timeline--when barred on all the other ones. She defensively began drawing a silver sword from the darkness and utilizing a crouched position to slice upwards--to open the neck of her opponent without argument--without drawing a single drop of blood. She had wanted the last view the monsterous loser being the image of her glaring over him with purpose--he seemed like the kind of guy that was fated to die unwed, bitter and alone.

She needn’t end the life of a man that held no power or authority--his Sirens call was diminished by the actions of a fleeing wife. He had wanted the cake, and to it too....but its ingredients were spoiled rotten, and time had created a crusty lining along the edges. Artemis watched as he wandered off: forever cursed with vertigo, and stuck walking...weeping over a white cake--leaning heavily to his right...as though he were stumbling around intoxicated with nowhere to rest. No home to destroy with his bare hands. Artemis laughed, and brandished a final farewell with a sprinkle of sarcasm--returning to a window of entertainment as though he had never been there...watching a Prince named BamBam as he yelled and sold fish on a river; the unique quality of doing odd things will being indescribably wealthy had made the man glow with a golden aura....his need to fulfill obscure side-quests had had great success, but overall was rewarded by nobody.

The helpless man didn’t make it far-from-her before walking off the right side of a bridge with floppy limbs flitting upwards in the wind. His obscure place in history was a simple formality in a neighborhood fueled by conflict and despair: labeled as digital battle grounds. He fell gently like a fragile rag doll: plummeting to his fate...marked as just another soul--lost to the famous bridge holding down a golden bay. Artemis didn’t need to do anything to announce his defeat--the bridge had already been painted red with the innocent blood spilled by the Siren named Elizabeth and countless sorrowful citizens. Artemis threw up two fingers in casual victory. His absence and bigotry wouldn’t be missed by the world: for the man were simply a nobody.

Next Chapter: *[ XXXIII ] Artemis and Athena*