Suddenly, Aunt Agnes sprang from her recliner. Her nightgown twirled above wrinkly, rainbow-veined legs as she deftly spun around the coffee table and plunged a bright pink knitting needle into the masked assailant’s ribcage.
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.