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Artifex Ex Machina (or A Good Idea Is Hard To Find)

What I Would Say To You Now

The Streetlight Goes Out When You're Underneath It

The Art of Rejection

Rapture

Untitled

Amber

Intangibles

At the very moment that he finished writing that very last sentence, the author's telephone rang. He leapt from the little padded work chair by his desk over to his bed, navigated across the vast sea of blankets, and grabbed the receiver before the thing had finished its second ring. "Hello?"

"Hey Dylan, is that you?" buzzed the head of the phone. It was - in spite of the tiny sound quality of the telephone - a rich, deep, booming voice, almost akin to that of a playful god.

"Yes Owen, it's me. And don't worry, you can say what you'd like. I'm pretty sure my parents aren't eavesdropping, unless they have my line tapped and are recording our conversation. They're out of the house, shopping for our little 'family gathering' tonight."

"Please don't tell me that lame shit is what you're going to be doing tonight. Please."

Dylan, who was sitting on his pillow, gave his comforter a good kick away from himself, and sprawled back against his headboard. "Don't worry, Owen. I've got my own plans, regardless of what they want me to do."

"Do you really, man? Whatcha gonna do then, Dylan? What cha' gonna do? Where you gonna go? "

"Um...well...I'm..not sure," Dylan lied.

"Hah! I knew it, man. Well, lemme tell you something...I know exactly where you should go," Owen laughed a hearty belly laugh, and Dylan smiled. When Owen laughed like that, it could only mean good things. "You see, there happens to be a small party going down tonight at a little place called Xanadu. You should know the joint. It's that weird-ass looking house in the neighbourhood. Doesn't fit in at all, remember?"

"I think so. Vaguely."

"Well, if you get lost, just call me, I'll hook you up with directions. Anyways, the fact of the matter is, anyone who's anyone is gonna be there. Including myself, and now..."

"...Including me. Thanks Owen."

"Don't mention it. I'll see you at 9:00, Dylan." And with that, the phone clicked dead.

Anyone who's anyone? If she was gonna be anywhere...maybe she'd be there, right? Everyone else would be...

Dylan hung up the phone and collapsed down onto his mattress, staring up at the ceiling, palms sweaty and heart racing, full of that excitement and terror, anticipation and trepidation, that only teenage love and imminent death can bring.

In another room not too far off, a girl sat on her bed, chewing on her hair, book in hand. She had been there for a couple of hours, and though her eyes scanned over the words in the book, and though she flipped its pages every once in a while, she wasn't really reading it. Her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was on Dylan. What was she going to do? She didn't know where he was, or what he was doing tonight. She desperately needed to talk to him. She desperately needed to tell him how she felt, how much she adored him, how she'd look at trees and wish she could take a knife out and carve a little heart with the words "Miranda + Dylan" inside it. But here she was, sitting in her room, pretending to read. God only knows what Dylan's doing tonight. He's probably out there, partying, drinking, doing drugs, having sex with hundreds of girls, all more pretty than she was. Dylan was never going to notice her. He never had, and now he never would. But...

Miranda got up off her bed and looked out her window onto the streets below. She could see her reflection in the glass. She saw her pale skin, the freckles that lined it, the contrast of it and her long, dark hair that just sat there like a mop, practically unstyled. She raised her index finger to her eye, and watched as her reflection wiped a tear away. She imagined that she could see Dylan behind her reflection, that it was him wiping her tears. She imagined that those people she saw on the road, she imagined that they were Dylan. I'm sure he's at a party, she thought, because everyone else is. And if there's a party�well, how hard can it be to find? You'll be able to hear the music, see the cars, smell the drugs, right? And if there was a party...she'd find it. She'd find Dylan.

The sleepy little suburb that Dylan lived in was not so sleepy that night. As he made his way through the winding roads of his neighbourhood, he saw kids, teens, and adults alike partying, dancing, and inhaling and imbibing as many intoxicating substances as they could; the gorgeous scent of early summer, of flowers blooming and trees blossoming and a cool wind stirring all things under the sky, was occluded by the sour aroma of split yellow beer on pavement and the sickly pepper-sweet stench of marijuana. Off in the fire-red sky of sunset, flames and smoke licked and scraped against spare grey cloud wisps. What was on fire? Could there be rioters in the city?, Dylan wondered. Probably; now was as good a time as any to steal that big screen TV you've always wanted, he mused, even if you could only enjoy it for a few more hours. This thinking of course made Dylan think of her...as most thinking tended to. Even if he could find the courage to tell her how he felt, what would happen if she accepted his advances? Would they kiss? Make out? Or even have sex? Is that all he really wanted? Would that big screen TV really make those rioters happy...and would it be worth all the destruction they caused?

Dylan looked around himself and suddenly realized he was completely lost. The street signs were so unfamiliar it seemed to him as though they were written in another language altogether. The houses looked almost like the ones in his neighbourhood, but just ever so different, slightly taller, slightly more orthogonal, in slightly different colours than he was used to. He kept his legs moving for a little while longer, turning corners onto streets that he thought would lead him in the right direction, but his orientation would never be realigned, his mental compass could never find north. Eventually he caved and pulled out his cell phone.

"Owen, do you think you could help me out a little? I have no idea where I am or where I'm going."

"Yeah, what else is new?"

"Very funny," Dylan replied dryly, and then read the words written on the nearest street signs.

"OK Dylan, just keep going down the road you're on. Take the third right. Keep going straight, after that. Xanadu's on your left. You can't miss it."

"Thanks. See you there, then?"

"Sure. I might be a bit late, though. I've got...things to take care of."

The sun was just ducking behind the horizon when Dylan first set foot on the lawn of Xanadu. It, as Owen had said, didn't fit in at all with the suburban surroundings of mini-faux mansions, manicured grass, and generic garages. It was deeply buried within trees - unusual in and of itself, as the only trees for miles were the small little saplings that everyone had on their front lawns. The building itself was a complete anomaly; at least three stories tall, it was constructed in a thoroughly modernist manner that eschewed right angles all together. Small little patios struck out from it, and their edges were as smooth as the side of a circle. Hardly a box house, it closer resembled a cylinder. Even the garage doors were semi-circular arches. Lights were on in every window (of which there were many), and the sound waves of loud music fresh from Europe's (probably now dead) club scene were escaping from every open one, and any wall not sound-proofed, at that. Voices could be heard chattering and gabbing and yelling from inside and probably out back as well. Strange, Dylan thought, how no one was out front, leaving the house looking as innocuous as a house like it possibly could. The only artery to the house, the long driveway, was clogged thick with cars (they further extended onto the curb side, long down the road, too). Dylan walked alongside it on the soft grass, laced with acorns and dead leaves that crunched under his every step. A spiral staircase wrapped around the house and led to the front door. Dylan climbed it and stood at the top, unsure of what exactly he should do. He moved his hand to knock, but just as the knuckles of his fingers were about to collide with the door, it swung open. In the portal stood a boy about Dylan's age (maybe slightly older) wearing a wife beater shirt (with the words "Wife Beater" written on it, in fact). There was a beer bottle in his left hand and his eyes were shot with blood. He wrinkled his forehead at the sight of Dylan, and the motion of muscles could be seen all along his shaved head, laced with only the slightest stubble of hair.

"Um...hi." Dylan mumbled as he looked down at his shoes, terrified of meeting the cold, red stare that stood before him.

"You Dylan?" the fellow asked, taking a sip of his beer. "Owen called and told me about you. Come in, if you'd like. Make yourself at home. Name's Mike."

And with that, Mike grabbed Dylan's wrist with the beer-less hand and led him inside Xanadu.

Xanadu was a strange and wonderful place, and Dylan was led by the arm through all of it. This was a world completely unbeknownst to him, and he barely had a chance to blink while taking it all in. The air smelt salty and sweaty; it sounded full of chatter and laughter and giggling. Mike pulled Dylan through throngs of dancing and conversing and making out people, through the artificial hallways created by the small space between them, into a kitchen with counters covered by bodies, and then out the back door, into a vast backyard with a huge bonfire in the center. It was fully night time, by then, and the yard was enclosed by a wall of trees on all sides, whose shadow blocked out the light of the moon; the only illumination came from the tower of flames. All around it, people sat, looking as happy and relaxed as can be. Some of them sat alone, but were not isolated. Others sat together in large groups, and had their arms around each others shoulders, and moved together like a singular mind - when one would laugh, they all would laugh; when one would lie back, everyone connected to him would like back as well. Some of them just sat in groups of two, and they were obviously couples, and they kissed and cuddled and rested their heads on each others' shoulders, and this made Dylan very sad and jealous. Smoke wisps could be seen coming from shadowy figures standing in the darkness. Indeed, upon observing this, Dylan looked again at the circle, and realized the one thing that unified these individuals - they all either had a joint in hand, had passed one off to someone else, or were just clearly high out of their minds. It came as quite a shock to Dylan when he suddenly noticed that he recognized many people there; they were classmates and peers from school. He wasn't friends with anyone there, mind you, and knew them only on the level of an acquaintance. Still, he had always had a certain respect for them - they seemed like smart and fun people, and it surprised - and on a certain level, disturbed - him that these people used drugs. Mike finally let go of Dylan's arm and looked at him. "Owen told me that you were a bit uptight. Very serious. So we figured it might be a good idea to help you relax a bit."

"What...you mean...?" Dylan laughed nervously. "I mean, I don't do drugs. I'm not into that sort of thing."

"Listen dude, you're gonna be dead in a few hours anyways. Why does it matter? Why shouldn't you? At least this way, you won't have to regret having never tried it. Even if you don't enjoy it, it's better to regret the things you've done than the things you haven't, after all."

Dylan remained silent.

"Dylan, can you give me one reason why you shouldn't?" Mike pressed.

Dylan remained silent.

"Exactly." Mike laughed, and began to drag Dylan towards the campfire. Dylan didn't resist. He was seated next to one of those that he recognized on a log practically inches away from the fire, and it was so close that he could feel it burning his face.

"Tyler," Mike said, "hook my man Dylan up." The kid next to Dylan, a short, bespectacled fellow with the same style of hair-stubble as Mike, slowly shook the joint in his hand, and passed it over to Dylan, who took it clumsily between his fingers and looked at it carefully. Nervously he asked, "What do I do?"

Tyler laughed so hard he fell over, and Mike grinned. "You serious?" He then grabbed the little paper tube from Dylan and put it to his mouth. "Monkey see, monkey do."

After taking the hit, he coughed a moment and squeezed his eyes shut tight, shook his head, and sighed. "Now, Dylan," he said, passing the joint back, "it's your turn."

Everything around Dylan was baked in the orange red light of the fire. His pulse was racing, his eyes were burning, his mind was spinning around inside his brain. He still needed to find her, and time was running out. If he just did it, it'd get them off his back, right? And maybe it'd help him feel better, like they said. Maybe it'd help him relax around her, and he could be as sweet and charming as he wanted to be, but was too scared to be. What's the harm? What's the harm...

It was like a rush. Dylan could feel the blood in his body moving through his veins, surging towards his head. Every muscle in his body, from his neck to his feet to his heart, seemed to stop, relax, ease up. He closed his eyes and let his world swirl around him, let images paint themselves on his eyelids; visible without light, they'd wash away with tears and eye drops. He could see her, dancing around, smiling and laughing and being wonderful without even trying, without doing anything at all. She was so incredibly beautiful, and as he fell towards the soil, he envisioned her stark and naked, he imagined it was her on top of him who was making her fall, not gravity and bored muscles. Her figure so gorgeous�the perfect smooth skin, the soft curve of her breasts and the fleshy nipples that they wore, the twinkle in her eyes and the muscles in her thighs�God, he just had to fuck her so badly. "Where is she?!" he called with his eyes still closed, his breathing heavy.

"Where's who?" someone asked. "Who are you talking about?"

Dylan's eyes snapped open, and they were unusually heavy set and bloodshot. "Are you screwing her? Are you hiding her from me? Are you keeping her from me? Did she ask you to? Does she hate me that much? Shit!" and he jumped up from the ground as fast as he could and stared into the flames. Within a moment, it was as though he saw an idea within them, and it made him panic. Without anything more than an "Or maybe...!", Dylan took off back through the house, leaving everyone else wondering - but not particularly caring - about what just happened.

Dylan was now out on the streets of his neighbourhood again, but the sun had now long set and the moon, glossy and full, was now ducking behind the clouds for cover. The streets were dark and strangely abandoned. It seemed as though even the streetlights were conspiring against him. He had to find her. What if, Dylan had conjectured, she had been on her way to the party, when suddenly some madman had kidnapped her...raped her, killed her? What was to stop someone? It was no different from those rioters stealing that big screen TV.

For what seemed like far too long, Dylan circled the lanes, drives, and roads of the area, desperately searching for some cry for help, some evidence of wrongdoing. There was nothing, though. Nothing at all, not even people. It was strange, Dylan thought, how earlier in the evening people were everywhere, and yet now the town was practically deserted. Everyone had gone inside to do what they needed to do, and he was the only one left who was still looking for it. He could feel his past delirium wearing off, and replacing itself with tremendous disappointment. What was he going to do now? Time was running dreadfully short, and he had no idea where she was. Maybe...maybe she was back at Xanadu. He never really did look for her, an obvious fact that only just occurred to him. He should hurry back. He could take the path through the woods. It was the fastest way...even if it was awfully dark. Too dark to see where he was going, he noticed once it was too late, once he was already deep in the tree shroud. Just stick to the path, just walk towards the light...

And then he heard a familiar scream that made his heart jump. It was a girl! She was somewhere, but oh god where? Just follow the cries, the calls for help. "Someone! Someone!" But then they're gone, replaced only by muffled sounds, noise obstructed.

"Where are you?!" Dylan called, but before he knew it, he was right on top of her and him. He was wearing what felt like a tattered shawl, his hair was thin and crackly, his skin was leathery and dry. Dylan grabbed at him and threw him aside with remarkable ease. Leaves ruffled as he crashed to the ground. Within a moment, the ruffling leaves began to leave through the trees, running off in a panic. Dylan looked down at the form on the forest floor. He couldn't recognize who it was. It was definitely a girl, and her body was rather shapely, he was ashamed to admit. Was it...was it her? She was whimpering.

"Don't worry," Dylan said, "He's gone now. It's alright...it's alright..." He bent down and offered her a hand. A moment later, she weakly grabbed it.

"Dylan...? Is that...is that really you, Dylan?" she wondered aloud. Dylan looked at her and tried to make out a face as he pulled her up, but his vision was still hazy, his pupils still wouldn't widen. The voice sounded so familiar. Was it her? He closed his eyes and remembered the picture he painted. He tried keeping the outline on his eyeball as he opened them again, and tried to see if they lined up, and maybe...

"Yeah," he said, "It's me. I heard you yelling. We should go to a place...a little brighter, don't you think? I was just on my way to a party, down the path."

She didn't say anything to reply, so Dylan just took her hand and the two walked off together out of the darkness. Even as the shadow of the forest lightened up, Dylan couldn't bear to look at the soul next to his. If it wasn't her...pure disappointment. And if it was...it'd be too much to take. Eventually, though, she said, "Dylan...look at me. I want to see your face. The face of the person who saved me." And Dylan complied. And...

"Miranda! Oh, um...it was...no big deal..."

...It wasn't her.

The two walked alongside the street, hand in hand. Dylan felt horrendously uncomfortable, but for the sake of decorum, said nothing at all. It got much worse, however, when Miranda suddenly squeezed his hand very, very tightly. Even moreso then she had been doing before. "What are you doing?" Dylan asked her in a tone of pure bewilderment.

"Have you ever tried closing your eyes while walking down the sidewalk?"

"Well...it's the strangest thing. You're sure you're going to hit something. A runaway baby carriage, or a crack in the sidewalk or something. Or maybe, even though you feel like you've been walking straight, you haven't, you've veered totally off course, and you're going to smash your face on a streetlight pole, or trip over the curb. You're going to get hurt. You're going to get embarrassed. And you become so scared, so afraid. It's so hard to do it."

"I see."

Dylan mumbled incoherent sighs in the back of his throat, unsure of what to say, growing ever more uncomfortable.

"Listen, Dylan," she continued, "I'm...glad we got to see each other tonight, in spite of the circumstances. I don't know what's going to happen to us after this, but...right now, walking down the sidewalk with my eyes closed, and my hand in yours, I don't feel like anything bad could happen to me at all. Can...can I trust you, Dylan?"

He stopped and, very suddenly, he let go of her hand. "I'm sorry, Miranda." When she turned away, he said it again, "I'm really so, so sorry."

"No...it's OK. I...I understand."

From then on, the two continued walking back to the party in utter silence. Dylan tried as hard as he could to ignore the tears rolling down Miranda's cheeks.

When the two reached Xanadau again, they both stopped in front, as though on a mutual cue, and looked up at it and then at each other. No one said anything and, though perhaps to them it felt like it had stopped, time kept ticking on, counting down, second by second, how many moments were left until the very end of it all. The moon came out from behind the clouds, illuminating the night air and the chaos of the ending world. Dylan glanced at his watch. "There's not a lot of time left."

"I know that, Dylan."

"Miranda...I'm sorry. This is so...it's just so fucked up, right now. Absolutely everything. I don't know what the hell I'm doing or why the hell I'm here or how to be happy or even why I want to be happy so desperately bad. But I have so, so many regrets, Miranda...and I don't have an excuse for them anymore; I don't have any more chances to say 'I'll make up for it tomorrow', because there is no tomorrow. If there's anything you have to do, anything you want to say to anyone...you should do it now, Miranda."

And with that Dylan turned from her and ran into that house nestled in trees and below the moon. Miranda tried to call after him, but try as she might, her voice just wouldn't work for her. She dropped to the ground and began to sob. She knew just how much she had disappointed him in the end.

Dylan found himself surrounded by a swirl of humid heat and pressure and chaos. The lights inside were dim and the air was nothing more than smoke, fog and haze. Thick, heavy music beats pumped and pulsed out of speakers, flooding his ears and pounding on his eardrums like a jackhammer. He desperately called her name, but there was no answer except for the moans of fucking couples or the incomprehensible babblings of ecstasy users, rolling on the ground in their fantasy worlds of pleasure and serotonin. This felt like an entirely different Xanadu than the one he remembered from earlier in the evening. There was no Mike, no Tyler, no calmness. He ran and tripped through the throngs of people, coughing dizzy all the way through the hallways and up the stairs, stumbling into furniture and through every doorway he could find. Where was she? Where was she? "Where are you?!" he'd call over and over again, but no one cared or could care at all, no one thought anything more of him than just a hallucination, their brains crying out for help through all the sweet poisons they were being fed.

And then, up to the third floor and through a door, there she was. The girl he had been looking for all this time. Alyssa. But it wasn't the way he wanted to see her; not at all.

The scene was laid out like this: it was a small bedroom, probably that of a teenage boy. There were posters and pinups all over the walls and dirty clothes all over the floor. The lights were off, but a dim lamp was on, and a chair and a dresser could be seen. The window was open, letting a cool draft in, but the air was still thick and foul. And there Alyssa was, sitting naked on all fours on a squeaking bed. There were two other people with her, both looking to be twenty-something year old men that looked as though they came out of a bad porn flick, greasy and sweaty and covered with hair and just as naked as she was. One of them was sitting on his knees on the bed behind Alyssa, pumping furiously, his hands holding on tightly to her back. The other was standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, and Alyssa had her mouth all over him. All of them were breathing heavy and hard, even Alyssa (but only when she 'came up' for air). None of them really noticed Dylan standing there in the doorway, watching for far too long, conflicted, dizzy, and confused. His mouth was too dry to swallow, his eyes were dry but he couldn't blink. He'd just watch their movements, over and over and over again, like a short little tape stuck on loop. Thrust and suck and moan and sigh and pant and breathe, breathe, breathe. And then one the guys, the one standing, opened his eyes and looked over and saw Dylan staring.

What happened next was a blur to Dylan. He yelled, screamed, cursed, ran into the room and tore them off of her. There was no time for them to be confused or react; Dylan was full of the strange strength of anger and in moments had slammed their heads against the corner of the dresser or against the window, shattering it. He had kicked at least one of them in the crotch in blind fury. It had, unsurprisingly, felt hard under his shoe, and the kick made a dull thudding and crunching noise as the member was crushed by the force. Dylan only caught a brief glimpse, but he was pretty sure it was bleeding. Alyssa had covered herself with the covers of the bed and was screaming and crying. Dylan ran over to her and jumped on the bed."Are you alright?" he asked, and tried petting her hair.

She pushed his hand away, retreated as far as she could from him, and whimpered and through a wall of tears cried, "What the fuck are you doing...?" Between every other word she would sniffle and shudder.

"I was...trying to help you, Alyssa," Dylan said, trying to move closer to her, as close as he had the guts to. Normally that wouldn't be very much, but his blood was pumping and swimming with adrenaline, and right now he felt fearless, "I...I love you."

Alyssa just kept on crying and shaking. Dylan crawled over her and kissed her cheek. "It's alright, darling," he said, but she wouldn't reply. He kissed her on the lips, and his heart was pounding. He began to take off his shirt.

"No...no...get away..." she sobbed, but he didn't stop. He pressed her against the bed. She tried pushing back, but he was too strong for her. "Help..." she cried, but he put his finger and then his hand to her mouth, and whispered, "Don't worry, it's alright. It's alright..."

She was already naked, and soon Dylan was as well. Harder and harder she pushed at him and hit him and slapped him, but he wouldn't stop. "No regrets..." he whispered under his breath as he brushed them off, as he slipped himself inside her. She cried for help, but no one cared or could care at all. And, moments later, that's how everything ended. That's how Alyssa died; terrified and crying and alone with Dylan. And that's how Dylan died; full of happiness and without regrets, because he finally had gotten his big screen TV.