Unserious postmodern paintings.

The bowerbird had not intended to become famous. It had only been arranging its bower with the usual obsessive care—shiny things, symmetrical…

The chachalaca had been recalibrated for autumn, though no one had told it the season had already shifted twice since its last…

The swallow had been hired three days ago to oversee morale, though no one had told it what that meant. It arrived…

The francolin had been laminated not for preservation, but because the museum’s new intern, tasked with ‘modernizing avian displays,’ misread the memo…

The blue jay had been found on the windowsill that morning, already laminated — no one knew how or why, only that…

The darter had been waiting for exactly seventeen minutes when the light began to hum in B-flat. It did not flinch. The…

The halibut had been told, earlier that afternoon, that it was ‘the most glamorous fish in the room.’ It had not asked…

The turbot had been ordained last Tuesday, though no one remembered the ceremony. It performed miracles only between 3 and 4 p.m.,…

The parakeet had been told, once, that sincerity was a virtue. It had taken this literally. Every morning, it rehearsed its gaze…

The iguana had not blinked in seventeen hours. It believed the notifications were messages from its ancestors, each ping a sacred pulse…

He arrived seventeen minutes after the agreed time, which in his social circle constituted a calculated affront. The hostess, a retired opera…

The rook had applied for a zoning variance three weeks prior, convinced its nest—built from a bent coat rack and discarded stapler—…