Jeff looked down at his large, crumb-strewn belly. It rose above the open folds of his stained robe like a hairy, albino whale. He sighed. This godforsaken corner of humanity’s backwaters was killing him.
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.