Reuben peered over the ledge and shuddered as cold dread settled in his gut. Below, an immense plain of blackened earth streaked with yellow scabs of sulfurstone, spread toward the horizon like a stain.
When I turned 34, I decided to write a series of short stories. The only catch? Each story had to be 34 words. 34 years, 34 words. No more, no less. These are the fruits.