Ava clung to the turret, watching in horror as the sea began to crest. The mud-colored water raced inland, surging toward the citadel. Within moments, great boiling waves were crashing against the lower walls.
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.