Unserious postmodern paintings.

The redwing had been practicing politeness for seventeen years, ever since the teapot whispered it was rude to flap without asking. Today,…

The guinea pig had not asked to be haunted. It had only wanted a quiet nap after eating too much clover. Now,…

The dab had been there for seventeen years, according to the logbook nailed to the wall outside — though no one remembered…

The axolotl had been declared spiritually fluorescent by a committee of retired librarians who met every third Tuesday in the break room.…

The hartebeest had been reliable for exactly three days last week, then unreliable for eleven, then reliable again for two hours during…

The ladybug had decided, after considerable internal debate, that today would be the day it moved the crumb. Not to eat it,…

The woodlouse had been appointed part-time Messiah by a committee of retired beetles who believed salvation came in small, armored packages. It…

The sea lion had been promoted to Senior Form Inspector three tides ago, though no one remembered signing the paperwork. Each morning…

It had been three days since the last update. The bustard blinked once, slowly, as the cursor pulsed at the bottom of…

The ibis had not blinked in seventeen hours. It had learned to type with its beak, though it never sent anything. The…

The moth had been rewritten the night before—its species, its migration path, even its preference for left turns—all altered in a quiet…

The crocodile had been found in the maintenance shed behind the municipal pool, oddly calm and slightly dusty. After hours of debate,…