Enid’s whiskers began to quiver uneasily as the rat in front of her slowed and then stopped. Rotating her ears forward, she could hear the distant clang of metal against stone. Another collapsed tunnel.
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.