Unserious postmodern paintings.

The veery had grown quietly enormous overnight, though no one noticed at first — not the squirrels, not the moss, not even…

The scorpion had been waiting for the light to shift. It didn’t know why it was semi-liquid, only that the table felt…

The lobster had practiced the bow for seventeen tides, rehearsing it in the kelp forests before venturing ashore. It believed politeness was…

The capybara had once dreamed of naming constellations, but after three years of observing the same crack in the attic ceiling through…

The crab had not moved for three days. It had begun, as all things do, with a question: Why does the tide…

The cardinal had been there for three days. No one had fed it. No one had tried to shoo it away. It…

The smew had been waiting for the toast to pop for seventeen minutes. It did not know why it cared, only that…

The binturong had waited precisely seventeen minutes for the tea to steep, as the manual instructed. When the timer chimed, it lifted…

The dab had been promised greatness — a bold stroke in a masterpiece, a declaration of joy. Instead, it was dropped, forgotten,…

The shark had been there for three Tuesdays. No one mentioned it. Janet from accounting swept papers around its tail without looking…

The canary had been famous for exactly seventeen minutes after a local news segment mistakenly identified it as the sole survivor of…

The wasp had been waiting for the elevator for seventeen minutes. It had checked its internal clock three times. The hallway was…