I'll have a short story published in the upcoming anthology Of Gods & Globes 3. Here is my interview with its editor, Lancelot Schaubert.

Anchisaurus, Brian Franczak

The forest is home and the forest is horror to Anchisaurus. Some scents mean life, and some mean death. Some sounds are friendly, others chill the dinosaur's heart. The softness of the mud under its feet delights, while the sucking bogs of certain haunts bring panic. The forest is all yin and yang and Anchisaurus is its philosopher.

Edmontosaurus, Ely Kish

The smell of a swamp is rich and thick. It hangs in the air like the morning mists, but lingers far longer than any fog. Edmontosaurus loves the smell. It smells like home. She wades deep through the soup, scooping up fallen vegetation, letting the water pour from her bill. The sound of the little splashes is so satisfying. Once a snail was in a mouthful of weeds, but its shell crunching in her mouth didn't even startle her—that's how pleased she is in the bogs. When the sun is high and bakes the swamp, she rests in the shade of the taller trees, shakes gnats from her hide, and dozes to the songs of birds and small pterosaurs. When evening comes she always manages to find her herd in the drier places and sleeps in their company. But when the sky lightens before dawn, she moseys off to enjoy the swamps alone again.

Teleoceras, Charles R. Knight, 1878

Teleoceras has a cold. His nose is gobbled up with mucous and a bitter taste coats the walls of his mouth. None of the grass tastes sweet. He sneezes and litters the reeds with a cloud of germs and snot particles. His eyes are puffy. The world looks as if it's in a haze. He blinks, tries to clear his vision, feels thick tears leak from the corners of his eyes. A cough shakes his body, brings up a wad of phlegm that he instinctively swallows down with a moan. If any predator were to stalk him, they would turn away in disgust.

Cretaceous scene, Joel Snyder, 1982

The smell of each volcano is unique. Some are sulfuric, boiling brimstone that turns the air rank. Others are more like burning wood, a choking, smoky stink that crawls close to the ground. And then there are those that belch acridity into the sky, making the air as sour as vomit. There is little that dinosaurs can do against any of these, save flee or tolerate. The first action is preferred.

Viatkosuchus sumini Upper Permian of Kotelnich by MaximSinitsa

Mist pools between trees but allows gray threads of light to settle on the muddy bank and the therapsid sitting there. Everything is still. It’s Christmas morning in the Permian.

Dying Mammoth, Zdeněk Burian, c. 1962

The world felt ripped apart during the avalanche. The floor moved, the hillside was the sky, everything was white, and trees snapped like pencils. Instincts were useless. There was no way to fight or flee; the mammoth could only be swept up with the chunks of mountain and forest. A thick, broken branch punctured the mammoth's haunch. A boulder slammed into its ribs. Snow filled the animal's nostrils and ears. It was better that way.

When it was all over, and the world stilled, the mammoth was just a lump among all the other refuse. It could not move; it did not want to, really. Breaths were difficult under the blanket of tossed trees and snow. The ice darkened where the branch stabbed it. The stillness of the valley was eerie, especially after the roar of the avalanche. The only sounds were of the mammoth's labored inhalations. When the wolves found it, those breaths had already stopped.

Late Carboniferous scene, G. B. Bertelli

When the air is still, soaked in the swamp's humidity, the only sound is that of the meganeurids' wings beating against it. It is like the gentle noise of paper rattling in the wind, or breaths shivering against the throat.

But to the swamp's the smaller insects, the beat of those wings is like the roar of thunder, a buzzsaw that warns them to retreat under leaves, under logs, under water. Bugs freeze, flies flee, and silverfish slither into shadows when the meganeurids pound the skies with those French chapel wings. Those who ignore the warning are snatched and devoured before they know they are dead.

Passenger pigeon, Charley Harper

Do living things know when the end is coming? Do they see the oncoming failure and accept it with a morose indifference? Is extinction an option or an inevitability? Can behaviors be curtailed to prevent it, or is every new existence just one life closer to the closing of the book?

Pteranodon, artist unknown, from Dinosaurs: Prehistoric Animals, a collectable sticker book by Panini, 1986

Fishing is a game within the waves. The sea hurls itself into mountains and valleys, which Pteranodon must navigate. Lunch lies beneath those heaving hills. Canyons open between waves, and the flier dives within them, plucking sardines from the foam. Then it lifts into the sky just before the waves clap over it, like the Red Sea swallowing Pharaoh's army.

Dromaeosaurus/Chasmosaurus, Ely Kish, 1974–75

One must be a seeker at the end of the world. Far from any green, Dromaeosaurus hunts for scraps of goodness, a last morsel of meat, a damp swallow of marrow, a tender leaf of skin. The rest of the desert has abandoned life, forgotten about it, but Dromaeosaurus has not. It appreciates the Chasmosaurus more than the rest of the world, sees the value in a withered mummy. There are treasures in the dust.

Nanotyrannus, Wayne Barlowe, 1995

The juvenile rex prowls the beach for stranded fish and sea things. Alas, the waves provide nothing today, not even a storm-tossed shark. After some steps across the wet sand, he spies a pterosaur skeleton, half buried like hastily abandoned picnic knives, but it has already been scraped clean by crabs and flies. Something else stirs to the rex's left. Not far away stands a morsel of a thing. It does not appear fast, nor does it have horns or scutes or talons or fangs. In fact, it appears to be the most defenseless creature imaginable. With catlike silence, the tyrannosaur zeroes his red eyes on this new prey. It is you he sees, Reader. Run!

Acanthopholis, Ann Baum

There is not much humping and bumping in Acanthopholis sex. It's a careful affair so thorns and spines don't puncture bellies and pits or tear the tenders. Even their flirting is understated. After a bit of silent throat puffing, the males are chosen and the relationship consummated unceremoniously. No grunts or moans or purrs or even raised dust. And once the seed has been planted, the gardener leaves, oblivious to the whole purpose of the affair. For him it was just strutting and rutting. For her it is more than that, but not much more, just a part of a process, as meaningless as urinating in a river. Acanthopholis is not a romantic species.

X, Charles H. Bennett, 1855, from Beasts, Birds and Fishes: An Alphabet for Boys & Girls

Ichthyosaurus will not use ChatGPT or Midjourney. He does not want to see A.I.-generated images on his Tumblr feed or watch computer-narrated videos on YouTube. Ichthyosaurus will not move over to Threads. He will not invest in crypto. He does not want an NFT or an electric car popularized by the unethical son of an Apartheid-era emerald mine owner. Which reminds him, Ichthyosaurus does not want to go to Mars nor sees the utility in sending people to live there for extended periods of time. He does not want to watch that new show everyone is talking about. Ichthyosaurus is disappointed by the commodification of the internet, not to mention its ability to spread misinformation, bigotry, and hatred. He does not like the growing disparity between the haves and the haves-not. Ichthyosaurus also does not like snowless winters, unquenchable summer forest fires, and the hurricanes-of-the-century that come every other year. Ichthyosaurus sometimes hopes death comes early so he doesn't have to see a future he will not like; then his children hug him and he hopes life lasts a long time.

Rhamphorhynchus and Aspidorhynchus by RavePaleoArt

Rhamphorynchus doesn’t much feel the wetness or the cold of the lagoon, yet underwater does feel like another world. There’s a thickness to its unbreathable sky wherein fish dart and bubbles rise. The pterosaur does not stay long in it. It is not much of a swimmer, and the less saltwater swallowed the better. So the place under the surface remains mysterious and weird despite it being the source of almost every meal. 

Andrewsarchus, Nikolai Litvinenko

The morning came slowly, drifting on the brightening sky, ushered by birdsong. Andrewsarchus shivered, curled her toes in the sand, then sat up. There was no denying the day's arrival. The sunlight glittered through the trees like sparks from a green fire. She never could doze when the sun was up. Binking away the last of her sleep, Andrewsarchus greeted the new day with everything it deserved—a yawn.

Cretaceous Leviathan and Krakens by tuomaskoivurinne

If you go deep enough, the world becomes silent. No longer does the sloshing of the ocean’s surface drum at the ears like a heartbeat. The calls of pterosaurs and swimming birds cannot reach this far, nor can the light. It is quiet and dark as a snail’s throat. This is where monsters dwell, drifting past each other like monarchs at an eldritch ball, acknowledging the other’s presence with a shadowed look and no more.