A wet chuckle rattled up through the constable’s thin, twitchy lips. His eyes, already small in his enormously fat face, narrowed to dangerous slits. “Why should I care what a shaggy little brat thinks?”
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.