An enormous, two-story chandelier hung from the central dome. Its opalescent crystals caught the afternoon sun and sent it racing around the room, dancing across the intricate mosaics in shimmering ripples of radiant light.
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.