As if wrought from stone, the Imperial Consular sat unmoving under the silver emblem of the Empire. Only her eyes, glittering with cold hostility as they followed Kelvin, betrayed her as a mortal woman.
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.