. . . the sun's hydrogen fuel supply is not infinite, but only unimaginably huge . . . and there exists no known mechanism to replenish it. . . . So it's completely natural to ask: what happens when the sun runs out of fuel?

Short stories don't get the respect they deserve. For me, short fiction is . . . the heart of the speculative fiction field.

Did he blame Daedalus, his father? Who warned him not to fly too high         in the same distracted tones with which         he admonished his son         to put on a sweater in the cold,         to eat his lima beans,         to not run with scissors.

Two black eyeless heads, one over each of her shoulders, puffed out green feed-me spoors. Garskein should have left her babies at home—her neck pouch must ache from the weight—but no one could tell her anything. Usually, a parent ate a first brood before their mouths opened.