Unserious postmodern paintings.

It had been three days since the octopus last changed color, and it was beginning to wonder if it had forgotten how.…

The kudu had been promoted to Senior Unofficial Liaison three Tuesdays ago, though no one remembered signing the memo. It arrived each…

The sunbird had spent three hours preening not for mating, nor migration, but because the teacup’s rim had a chip it deemed…

The starling had been invited to the opera but arrived ten minutes early, so it waited. It had spent three hours choosing…

He had been appointed cacique by a unanimous vote of the three squirrels living in the attic, a decision ratified by the…

The loon had been haunted for exactly three weeks, though it never complained. The haunting was mild: a persistent chill in its…

The quelea had flown three hundred miles that morning, guided by instinct and a half-remembered dream of endless millet fields. What it…

The lion had been famous for exactly seventeen minutes — long enough for the newspaper to print his portrait, short enough for…

The friarbird had stopped trying to be ironic three mornings ago. It no longer mimicked the café regulars who sighed over oat…

He had been hired to clear the sidewalk, but the shovel felt like a betrayal and the trowel, a promotion. No one…

The hornet had stopped trying to sting anything after the third unsuccessful attempt at a soap dispenser. It now believed stillness was…

The pollock had arrived three days prior, delivered by mistake in a crate labeled 'fragile: art supplies.' The janitor, noting its unwavering…