Alan is nothing to them-just so much slop; just meat and molecules, currents and chemical soup. As he zigs and zags, biosensored through a maze, his unique ballet of beef and intention is carefully charted by Dr. Poindexter and his posse of would-be PhDs-the wizards in white coats working off their student loans and their feelings of sexual inadequacy.

With Artifacts, K. B. Dixon offers an eccentric collection of irregular stories in assorted sizes-small, medium, and large-stories that flirt with the existential issues of the cuddlesome lone entity. There is a poet whose hair hangs in front of his face like a cheap curtain, a depressive who is a just a pill away from perfect, and a curmudgeonly codger dealing with the oppressive kindness of an unnamed social-service agency. It is a melange of moods and forms-a mix of light and dark, of music and meaning.