A Snowy Ibis Finds Meaning in Wet Sand

 

Above is Irma, a snowy ibis who just awoke from a ten-year slumber to find herself in a different place. 

Below is Irma's first diary entry after a decade of sleep. 

Dear Diary,

Is the world hotter and wetter, or am I just older? I should feel rested after such a spell of respite, and yet I wish that I'd stayed awake this whole time so at least I'd know how we got here. When I put my head to sleep on a pillow of hope, I had no idea I'd wake up to an angry sea. It was the sky I'd been worried about before. Silly ibis.  

No, I didn't go to sleep by the water; yet now the incoming tide tells me I must keep watch forevermore. I only hope the webs of my feet may move me to safety, may stop my fall through this world to whatever is next. In ten years, did I travel to the ocean or did the ocean find me?

Oh, but I am grateful to have strong feathers, after waking up to these stiff and uncertain winds. I worry for those beings who lack the wings, who lack the webs, who lack the words.

The ocean is upon me, but I am still here. I will fly, swim, and dream, and help others as best I can to do the same.  Let's stay in better touch, Diary. 

Yours,

Irma   

A Seabird's New Year's Resolution

Above is Vincenzo delBirdio, the prominent Laguna Beach real estate mogul well known in the inner circle circle for his cutthroat business deals and take-no-prisoner's approach to beach front land development. 

Below is Mr. delBirdio's New Year's Resolution. 

Dear 2017,

I look out from my patio (which is, by itself, 500 square feet) and I see an endless ocean.  I walk through my condominium (one of seven properties to my delBirdio name) to my other patio (which is a mere 300 square feet). From it, I see my empire. I see the many houses I've built and sold. I think of all of my profits. Millions of dollars for hundreds of thousands of square feet.

Then I turn and look inside my own "home."  I see emptiness. I see marble floors. Shiny. I see my very impressive collection of mirrors, mirrors I am afraid to look into and ask "Whose a pretty bird?."  I see my Subzero fridge stocked with worms and caviar. Full, but empty. 

Most of all, I see no one else. Even my assistant has the holiday week off to spend with her family.  I have nothing but space.  I have nothing but emptiness.  Many square feet of personal defeat.

But this shall be no more! In the coming year, I shall work less. It won't always be about the sale. It will be about filling my life with more than closings and yet another four figure dangly bell.

I hope to be able to look in a mirror and see perhaps a wife standing beside me. Maybe one of my many empty rooms can be a nursery?

2017, I entweet you to be a better year. For if such is true, I will be a better bird. I will be a pretty bird with a pretty life, who won't be afraid to look into my many mirrors anymore. 

-V. delBirdio 

A Grasshopper Turns Down an Opportunity to be Anthologized in Order to Take His Material on a Spoken-Word Tour

Above is Garrison, the grasshopper. This photo was taken just a moment before he got the phone call from his agent that his poem was accepted to be published in the latest edition of Bugs and Ballads. Turning the offer down was the hardest decision in Garrison’s life.

Below is Garrison's letter:

Dear Editors,

Thank you for your kind offer to publish my poem about being trapped in a vase “Glass is Greener” in your latest edition. I must, however, decline as I have decided to take my material in a wholly different direction.

Instead of desiring to witness my words on the printed page, I feel that my new calling in this life is to hop around the world and impart my experiences as a slam poet.  I hope that I can found an entirely new art form and way for my kind to express myself through the use of stridulation as well as through words.  This new means of expression will be called “hop poetry” and I hope one day it will become a wildly-embraced phenomenon.

Thank you for providing me with the external validation I needed to make this decision with confidence.

Yours,

Garrison

A Cat Protests Apple's New Non-Cat-Named OS

The above is a Maine Coon cat named Enoch who thinks the new OS should have been named Apple BigassKitty.

The below is his letter to the Mac powers that be.

Dear Jony Ive,

After over ten years of naming Apple operating systems after my feline brethren, you chose to negate that sacred bond by naming the new OS after something that sounds like a shitty dive bar and reminds us all of Mel Gibson's finer days. How dare you.

As such, I've decided to learn Linux, and will be trading my iPhone in for a Samsung. This is what it's come to.  Also, watch out; I pooped in your shoes.

Sincerely,

Enoch

A Crab Contemplates Autocannibalism

Above is Corson, who may not survive this post.

Below is his unseemly confession.

Dear Diary,

Once again an aquarium visitor in a bright red shirt reminded me of an inviting pool of cocktail sauce. I want to jump in, dipping my entire body and soul in the condiment. Then, I dream of gnawing away at my extremities like I'm the only course of my last meal.

Can you see me, diary? Look at those legs! Why must I have such masochistic desires and such beautiful, succulent stems? Why must my defining feature torture the rest of my very person?

It is probably no use to tell you about this, diary. What can you do? Frankly, what can I do? Nothing. Nothing is what I'm left with...as surely my need for self-preservation will prevent me from sucking the sweet salty meat from my own flesh and dying a horrible death in front of my mates.

And on the matter of my fellow crabs, how I wish I could tell my tankmates of my unsavory lusts. Maybe they feel the same way about their own bodies? Maybe they dream about being steamed and fed to themselves.  Is it weird to think that I could be very good friends with the crustacean version of Hannibal Lecter?

I guess I should just be content to be alive, even though it means that I'll never truly be fulfilled always hungry.

-Corson the Crab

A Piranha's Admission of Illiteracy

The above is Perry the Piranha, who is still living in the '90s as defined by daytime Disney programming.

Below is Perry's frank and hopeful letter.

Dear Friends,

I am dictating this letter to Gordon, my best mate, a sea anemone who also happens to be a grade A typist. I cannot write this note myself as I am - as hard as it is to admit - unable to read.

You see, I dropped out of grade school at a tender young age in order to chase my Hollywood dreams. Time passed. I got older. My scales grew dryer.  I lost my virginity to a famous actor. I dabbled in Scientology.  I played a small role in the '90s Disney series Ocean Girl.  I thought I was happy. I was merely filling a void. So many bubbles and so little learned. Now that I'm back in the aquarium, my thirst for knowledge has only increased with each fish flake filled day.

I've decided to take Reading classes at the learning annex in the corner of the tank by the green rocks and water filter. Gordon has offered to lead the classes. At the end of the semester, I plan to pen my own Ocean Girl reboot script and finally change the world forever.

Yours,

Perry the Piranha.

Sultry Confessions of a Pink Fish

The above is a photo of Lenore, a fish who accidentally cheated on her  jellyfish boyfriend at a wild high school reunion party.

Below is her apology letter. 

Dear Gil,

How to begin... First of all I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I hope you won't immediately turn your gooey back on me after you read what I've written.

I went to my high school reunion party last Friday and had way too much fermented kelp.  Way too much.  You know I'm a lightweight...

Well, remember Sam, the foreign exchange Siamese Fighting Fish from high school. I know you got kicked out of school senior year... Anyway,  he was there.  You remember he was my date to prom, wayyyy before we met? Well, things got a bit out of control.  Sam was visiting just for the weekend and...  We got to talking.... We got to reminiscing...  Then we made out inside the plastic sunken ship.  A jerkface minnow snapped a picture of us, so you might see that on FishBook, just FYI... 

Oh, Gil, I just had to tell you! Please don't hurt Sam! Please don't break up with me! 

Let's get married! 

Yours forever,

Lenore

Seymour Seagull's Third Suicide Note

The above is a picture of Seymour, taken an hour before this note was written.

Below is Seymour Seagull's last (?) suicide note. 

Dear World, You Jerk, 

I exist! Damnit. I think! Damnit! I’m a feathered fool captive in a Descartes quote. Oh, how I am so pretentious. I hate every pretentious feather on my body sometimes. Especially now. 

To recap: I’ve tried to leave this earth twice. The world won’t spit me out. It just keeps chewing and chewing like some sadistic cow.  Like a bastard bovine. And I’m its jinxed cud. 

But I have a plan! I am going to jump.  I’m going to dive. I’m going to swim until I reach the bottom of the ocean. And then I’m going to plant my webbed feet there on the floor.  I’m going to cling to whatever fish, oyster, or ball of kelp comes along.  The water, that shall be my exit. Cool cleansing water for this feverish dirty bird. 

~Seymour

Editor’s Note: Seymour survived. (Again).  An overzealous Good-Samaratin-type dolphin saved his life. 

Eelish Hopes of Ballet and a First Kiss

The above is Eelene's show-stopping final number from her re-imagining of Le Corsaire. (She is the Moray Eel exiting stage left.) 

Below is a diary entry, written by a most hopeful saltwater teenager, just hours before this performance.   

Dear Diary, 

I've done it. I've revolutionized and waterproofed modern ballet! 

The premiere of my reinterpreted ballet, Le Corsaire, is tonight and it's going to be just aces! 

I just finished fashioning my tutu out of seaweed; it is actually quite fetching! The green perfectly matches my skin!  I'm nearly ready to take center stage. My, I'm so jittery...

Oh, it's all coming together, diary. All those nights practicing my twirls and deep emotionless stares are going to pay off! 

Can you picture it, diary?  The aquarium will never have seen such a show. All the other fish promised to swim their bests and hit their marks, even Freddy Feederfish  My choreography is, if I say so myself, brilliant.  Who said you had to have feet to pirouette?  Who needs toes to couru?  Not I!  Swim-two-three-four-splash-six-swim-sink-swim.  

All right, I'm off to do my makeup.  I'll be the prettiest Moray Eel the world has ever seen!  Maybe after the ballet, after everyone has seen how beautiful and graceful and pretty I am, I'll finally get my first kiss. Maybe Freddy will finally notice me! 

Wish me luck, diary! 

~Eelene  

A Note Left By A Gang of Artistic Dust-Mites Who've Been Living Inside Your Computer

The above is the first artwork known to have been produced by The League of Artistic Dust-Mites.

Below is their manifesto calling for the end of technology and the resurgence of "L'art pour l'art."

Dear Computer User/Landlord/Sheep:

Let us introduce ourselves! We are a bohemian troupe of highly evolved and singularly creative dust-mites.  We are visual and performance artists hellbent on universal recognition and respect in the human art community.  For months now your Mac Pro tower has been both our cozy home and our studio.  Do you like what we've done with the place?  It's a mix media artwork comprised of hard drive, magnets, white-out, desire, and oil paint.  It's avant-garde.

As dust-mites, we've had a unique perspective to observe you and your kind acting as slaves to these powerful, humming boxes.  Our art installation, "Dust-Mite, Lust-Night, Computer Prison Edenville," will change not only the way the world views performance art -- but also change how civilization understands technology -- but even moreover, change how man regards dust-mite. Change! Change! Change!

We dust-mites we be marginalized no more! This is our artistic manifesto!  We are taking over. Dust-mite by dust-mite. Computer by computer...

Behold the onset of the bohemian dust-mite revolution!

Respectfully,

The League of Artistic Dust-Mites

Letter from a Fraudulent Frog-Prince

The above is a homo-sapien-obsessed and -- dare I mention -- sexually promiscuous tree frog.  Just look how he shoves his junk against the glass like that.  For shame.

The below is this tree frog's attempt to exploit popular fairytales as a means to get sweet lovin' from as many human ladies as possible.



Dear Sexy Women of the World,

It is I, Prince Luigi Francisco Leroy McCallahan, IV.  I hail from the rich, although obscure (you've probably never heard of it), principality of Notafrogtopia.

Would you believe it, the thing they warn you about in the storybooks happened to me! I got cursed by an evil, ugly-ass witch.  I was once the handsome, rich, studly heir to my country's throne. Then I got caught in some mystical crossfire and now I've been turned into a beast: a pint-sized warty green tree frog. Alas, alack.

I beg you, I beseech you, oh fine ladies of the world.  Kiss me!  Make me a prince again.  And then I will take you to my kingdom---what did I say it's name was---oh yeah---Notafrogtopia and you will be my queen.

So just come on over, lean down, and plant a wet one on my quivering froggy lips.

Your kingdom awaits!

Sincerely,
Frog  Prince Luigi Francisco Leroy McCallahan, IV

Sea Bass Petition For Name Change

Above is a photo of a sea bass trying his best to look compassionate.  

Below is a sea bass' petition to change his name to something less delicious. 

Dear Governing Entity of this Seafood Holding Tank:

It has been brought to my attention that my life is in danger due to my very moniker.  A nemesis of mine, a tuna who now refers to himself as “Rupert,” has been taunting me lately. He points out, quite accurately I’m afraid, that “giant sea bass” sounds like something that would indeed go well broiled, baked, or grilled atop a serving of saffron basmati rice.   "You're gonna fryyyyyyy," he snickers.  So immature. 

As I’ve been captive in this seafood holding tank for weeks now, I’ve had time to fully consider this.  And while Rupert is a smarmy jerk, perhaps there is some wisdom to be mined from his insults.

I would like heretofore to be called “Harold” instead.  No one pan fries a Harold. “Baked Harold with butter sauce” sounds wrong and unseemly.  

If you could kindly affect this name change before the dinner menu is printed up for tonight's meal offerings, I would be most appreciative.   Also, if you could make a note that the Rupert Tartare is particularly fresh and palatable this evening, that would be truly splendid.

Thank you - ever so much - in advance.

-Harold, the fish formerly known as “Sea Bass.”

Gazelle Noise Complaint Letter to Zoo Management

Above is a picture of Garth-Floyd (foreground) sunning himself with his half-brother Cleavon just hours before writing this letter.

Below is Garth-Floyd's grievance letter, which cites his condemnation of zoo's owl population -- namely their obtrusive hooting. 

Dear Zookeeper,

I'm a sensitive type.  Sensitivity comes with the territory of bein' a gazelle, you know. Just the way God made us. But---I just gotta make a complaint.  You gotta do something about the owls. Evict em, send ‘em packing.  If you don’t, I will.

I’ll break it down for you -- nice and simple like. I spent all morning and all my afternoon trottin’ around the fence, makin’ the kiddies smile. “Ohhhh look at the pretty deer,” they squeeled. Note: I ain’t no damn bambi.  But…what do I do? I skip, and leap, and otherwise pretend to…frolick.   Oh, I hate myself. The things I do for a handful of feed.  

So, tonight, I really need the peace and quiet. But, to be fair, I am feeling pretty swell.  I finally got that saucy lioness, Chompserella, to agree to hop her fence to go on a date with me!  We are gonna rendezvous at the elephants' watering hole.  Boy howdy, you shoulda seen her.  Her eyes lit up.  She told me she liked the sensitive types like me. She even licked her lips, hot damn!  So if these damn owls mess this up, I’m gonna be mightily ticked.

So, to get on with it, I need my beauty sleep tonight, you see.  Gotta look all fresh and irresistible for my date tomorrow. 

And if these owls know what’s best for ‘em they better shut their beaks -- or else me and Chompsy are going to have them for dessert tomorrow night.

-Garth-Floyd the Gazelle

Editor’s Note:  Garth-Floyd did not survive his date with Chompserella the lioness. Chompsy did, however, have the owls for dessert.

Seymour Seagull's Second Suicide Note

The above is a picture of Seymour.  Perhaps his mental illness stems from the fact that he thinks he's a seagull though he's clearly... not.

The below is his second (last?) suicide note.  To read his first, click here: Seymore's First Note

Well, as you might have guessed, I'm still alive.  Not a zombie, not a vampire, just a forsaken soul.  

Here's how it went down the first time it didn't go down: I was flying due west into the horizon.  I prayed for a brisk gust of wind to send me spiraling down, down, down into the sea.  My wish was granted, praise Gaia. But, alas, I had forgotten how well seabirds float. We float very, very well. We're bastards. 

So I regroup and I rally: This world-weary and regrettably buoyant soul lives to try again!  

New Plan: I have decided I shall feed myself to one of the more absurd looking foofoo dogs who wander these grounds led on Italian leather leashes by their masters, the fools.  I think death by Poodle would be a fine end to my mockery of a life.  I shall walk right up to the pitiful beast and climb into its toothy mouth.  

And if these bones and these feathers resist defeat by Poodle, I shall commission a larger creature -- perhaps a  Labradoodle -- to do the deed.

If not by Poodle, then surely by Labradoodle, I shall find peace.

~Seymour   

Heartbroken Hamster Haiku

The above is what Rascal would have created -- had he been born a painter and not a poet.

Below are seven haikus penned by Rascal, a garden variety hamster.  They are written about Charlotte, a particularly striking blonde angora hamster with whom Rascal spent the first few weeks of his life at the PetSmart in Culver City, CA.     

The poetry was written over the course of his two and a half year lifespan.  

I eat over here.

I run yonder, in the wheel.

I poop over there.

I sleep next to her,

Safe in a nest with her, and them.

Life is good, for now.

* * *

Where’d it all go, my...

My warmth, my nest, my love, her?

I miss the pet shop.

Now daytime is for :

Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep

And to dream of her.

Wonder where she sleeps,

Still safe in a nest with them?

Does she remember?

* * *

It’s been two years now

I’m on my last leg, I think

But I’m not afraid.

I’ll see you soon, love

If hamsters go to heaven.

A nest in the sky.

Bunny Angry Letter to Apple

Above is a picture of the last rabbit Steve Jobs would ever want to come across in a blind alley.

Below is a complaint letter from Reggie, the world's most frustrated lagomorph, detailing his issues with the wildly popular Apple iPad.

Dear Apple,

I hope all is well over in Cupertino.  I’d love to check the weather there -- but my iPad won’t respond to the touch of my fuzzy-wuzzy bunny paw.  WTF, Steve Jobs? W...T...F?!

You think I slaved away stealing four hundred ninety-nine dollars worth of goddang parsnips and yams from that d-bag Mr. McGregor’s farm for nothing?

Considering I can only count to five, four hundred and ninety-nine is a shit ton of crap.  Do you even know how many rabbit turds are in a shit ton of crap? I sure don't know.  I’d love to ask Wolfram Alpha -- or hell, I’d stoop to use Yahoo, but again, I’m too friggin’ fuzzy to interact with your “game-changing” device. Game-changing my woolly cottontail butt.  Part of me really wants to go all Bunnicula on your ass.

Well, Apple, that’s really all I have to say.  I guess I’ll just invite my pals Christopher Robin, Donnie Darko, and Brer Fox over so they can take turns playing Angry Birds while I sit and watch...sick with envy. 

-Reggie Rabbit 

Dog Diary Entry

The above is Fifi (left) commiserating with her pal Buster on the rec room couch of the La Veranda Assisted Living Home in Boca Raton, Florida.

The below is a diary entry of a dog suffering from an identity crisis.

Dear Diary:

It was on again today, that documentary about the wolves.   I feel a certain irrefutable kinship to those beasts, yet when I look in the mirror all I see is an innocuous poofball staring back at me with glistening adorable eyes instead of the cold stare of the wild.  I somehow doubt those magnificent relatives of mine suffer the luxury of living in a retirement home.

Speaking of self-esteem issues, I fell down them again today, the stairs.  I ass-slid for what seemed like days before regaining my footing. Thought I’d ass-slide for miles into some horrifying abyss where I’d lose all hope of finding out what’s at the top of those damn, humiliating steps. 

I’m in the midst of some existential crisis, I think. I cannot seem to come to terms with the incessant fluffiness of my very being.

I suppose I should think deeply about my place in the world.  I will have to do that later as now it’s knitting time and I have a lap to keep warm.

Duties are duties, whether it be killing antelopes for sustenance or holding down a ball of yarn for the duration of craft hour. 

Sigh.

~Fifi

Kraken Letter to Santa

The above is an artist's rendering of a festively adorned sea beast (not to scale.)

The below is a letter to Santa Claus from a frustrated kraken:

Dear Santa:

I hope this letter makes it to the North Pole in time.  I gave it to a mackerel who said he was meeting an eel buddy of his about halfway to the arctic who’s delivering a Yule log to a polar bear who - as luck would have it - is intending to eat a penguin that hangs out near where you and Mrs. Claus live.  

At any rate, my Christmas Wish this year is just some advice from one fictitious fellow to another: How do you get people to believe in you, Santa?   I think it’s amazing what following you have and if I could just get a cruise ship captain to acknowledge and maybe even fear me a little, I’d be soooo happy.

So, if you could just write back with some words of advice, I would really appreciate it.  Also, if you want to toss one of those tasty elves overboard when you’re above the Indian Ocean this Christmas Eve, I’d be deeply thankful.  I’m having some mermaids over for cocoa later and they just go nuts when I put the little dismembered pixie parts in with the marshmallows.

Hope all is well. Give the missus my love.

~The Kraken

Starfish Letter to the Editor

Above is Burt's "happy place," an illusory safe haven Burt retreats to when his anger management issues get out of line.

Below is the letter from a very upset starfish to the editor of a very popular line of self help books.

Dear Guy Who Came Up With That Stupid Inspirational Starfish Story,

You know who you are.   Every time I hear that story about the guy walking on the beach who throws the beached starfish back in the ocean because “it makes a difference to that one,” I spew a little in my mouth. 

You might as well get together with Guy Who Wrote The Ubiquitous Jesus Footprints On The Beach Story and take turns immersing each other in a bowl of extra hot chicken soup for the soul. 

No, seriously.   Here I am, a tired, weary starfish (my name is Burt, not that you care) out for a serene ocean-side stroll when POOF some holier-than-thou brat tosses my spiny ass back into the cold dark sea without even asking how I feel about it.   And all in the name of sentimentality.

You know what, last time I did something that sentimental I was sixteen. I made a mixed tape for a girl -a scallop named Delia, dang, she was smokin’ - who I intended to shtup after junior prom.   Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot since I put a Death Cab for Cutie track anywhere near The Beta Band.

I mean I get it, you’re one of those do-gooders.  That’s nothing to go to hell for, I guess.  But you know what, dude: I am a person, not a metaphor!

You know what would “make a difference” to me?   If you would just shut up!

Kindly,

-Burt [Last Name Redacted]

Flamingo Break-Up Letter

The above is a photo of Fernando (front, center) at his "mental health retreat" last summer. 

The below is letter from Fernando the Florida Flamingo to his boyfriend Arturo, upon Fernando’s decision to end the relationship.

Dear Arturo,

I hate you.   I hate everything about you.  I hate the way you won’t acknowledge me in public.  I hate that you spend so much time in that dank, cramped closet.

I hate your deep, soulful eyes, and the way you don’t look at me the same with them anymore. 

I hate that you made me change for you.  I hate that I spent all my winter savings buying you that hideous Christmas scarf you wanted so much.  I hate how you look better in it than me.

I hate that we don’t talk anymore.  I hate that we never talked. I hate that you never said a goddamn word to me.

Most of all I hate that you are plastic.  I hope you melt in hell.

-Fernando