Unserious postmodern paintings.

The flycatcher had not eaten in three days, not from lack of flies, but because it had finally understood the quiet hum…

The kite had not flown in seventeen years, not since the boy who made it moved away and forgot to take it.…

The hawfinch had not left the sill in seventeen hours. It had not blinked since the third notification. Outside, seasons turned; inside,…

The cod had been structurally optimistic since the incident with the leaky pipe and the misplaced optimism of the plumber who swore…

The phalarope had been waiting for the train that never came. It had packed its socks three years ago, convinced the journey…

The monkey had been told the attic was structurally sound, and it believed them. It adjusted its posture daily, aligning its spine…

The bateleur had not performed in seventeen years, not since the circus folded and the children stopped clapping. It still wore the…

The candle had burned for exactly seventeen minutes when the Countess entered, noted its unwavering poise, and adjusted the wick by one…

The gallinule had been waiting for the toast to pop since 5:17 a.m. It did not know why it was there, only…

The quelea had spent three weeks tailoring the blazer from a discarded opera glove, convinced that sartorial precision would earn it entry…

The koi had once raced through the garden pond with the vigor of youth, chasing dragonflies and startling the heron. Now, after…

The woodcock had been waiting for three days. Not for food, nor for flight, but for someone to notice the teacup was…