Dr. Malhari takes a moment to relax

Dr Malhari sits on his parlor chair, admiring a whiff of pipesmoke emanating from his mouth. The stuffed animal heads adoring the wall are somehow not enough. There is a blunderbuss mounted their too, and a silver sword. Soon, the cells under his microscope will have finished dividing, and he will rebuild the dinosaur, but with superhuman intelligence. This creation will of course be powered by silica crystals and an obscure form of gravity wave distortion. His bare feet feel good against the zebra skin rug, and he thinks of all the wonderful memories he has. So many grand adventures. So much danger. So much risk. So much reward. Martian slave girls in a silk market. The beast he fought under the dungeons of Angband. The black mermaid, with rivulets of ebony cascading as tresses, each one capped by a venomous snake. The devil. The blue robots, and their desire to eat perfection. Dr. Malhari had seen the destruction of three rocket ships. It was time for a glass of Madera, a smoke, and a look at the old trophies.

The White Hot Sun Recursive Triumphant

It is as simple as an Iron Robot wearing eyeliner. Truly. It is Bergman's rule combined with Bayse's law. The present. We were born into it and never leave. Present after present after present time, they jumble and stack, falling over themselves in a cluttered pile ten million heart attacks and lost keys tall. Beneath me, a type A0 sun has blown itself to bits, volcanoes have erupted, atmospheres have changed and changed again in their isotopic composition, birthdays have been ruined and enjoyed, pianos have been played and under the shade of a million million trees carbon has been exhaled and inhaled again. Life goes on and I am here, now, like every future instance of me reading this passage and every potential reader ingesting it for the first time or afterward. The pleasant moments, like this one, age well. The conflicted and sad ones age a little better. It is in the stacking of them that we create a narrative of who we are and where we have been, so that each present might search these fourth and fifth dimensions for meaning after meaning locked in the illusion of three dimensions. I wonder about the iron in my bloodstream and try to imagine the strange instant of present time that gave rise to them. How did all this carbon get here? Why am I so reluctant to part with books? When will I meet that elephant?

Triassica

My heart will not leave it, though it begins and ends with catastrophe. So many skeletons, frozen and mineralized. So many secrets. So many creatures doomed to extinction. For one narrow moment, each and every one shone brilliantly-a sapphire in a bath of cosmic light-a sonnet in a burned library. Now, only fossils, shifting sand, weathered rock. One world gives birth to the next.