Monday, June 11, 2007

"Is It Not Strange That Sheep's Guts Should Hale Souls Out Of Men's Bodies?"

Artemis was overjoyed. She sat facing west, watching the remainder of Apollo’s sluts push his pretentious fiery chariot down over the horizon. She reared her steed somewhere above New York City, needling through mountains with her huntress’ gaze. In the space of a few hours, her hunt would pull her over San Francisco, where she could visit that mad fool she took an interest in some months ago. Her stare gave a sneak peak of what was to come, though in extremely soft focus. She saw the bald outline of her interest, plucking with steely seriousity at some peanut shaped wood item with a rod stretching cords over the hollow at its center. There was something to this activity that put Artemis to rest. It certainly wasn’t the melody created from this exhibition, as the sound crashed with disarrayed chaos against the Rockies rather than assailing the stars. The mirage presented the possibility that this child was simply doing what he was supposed to. How Artemis had yearned for at least a glint of that from this asshole. She slid a great white arrow into the notch on her silvery bow, and launched it westward and out of sight. For a moment, she saw the blurred figure halt his activity and smile. Far off, she heard Apollo labor with great frustration as he tended to one of those damned harpies. The urban glow of New York flared with the charge of Artemis' delight.

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