Unserious postmodern paintings.

The cotinga had spent three days refusing to fly, insisting the teacup was a gift from the wind and that accepting it…

The hog had been waiting for the thermostat to change for seventeen minutes. It had read the manual twice. It knew the…

The tinkerbird had flown into the house through an open window seeking warmth, not knowing the laminate was fresh. It landed, puzzled,…

The chickadee had been told, by a very serious squirrel wearing spectacles, that true courage meant attempting the impossible without hesitation. It…

The teal had accepted its fate three days prior, after realizing the toaster would never fix its existential dread. It donned the…

The oxpecker has been there for seventeen years, though it does not count. It does not sleep, nor does it tire of…

The roadrunner has been immortal since Tuesday. Not dramatically — no lightning, no chanting, just a quiet realization during a particularly uneventful…

The brant had been invited to tea, but refused to sit. It claimed the scone was stale, the lamp too dim, and…

The civet had been told, quite firmly, that glamour required stillness. So it stood. For forty-seven minutes. The orchids had begun to…

The marmoset had been deemed obsolete after the last algorithmic caretaker retired, its role in predicting minor household inconveniences rendered redundant by…

The grouper had been immortal since Tuesday, though it never bothered to mention it. It liked the quiet of the bathroom, the…

The halibut had been left out overnight, not by accident but because the cook had forgotten it was there after arguing with…