Farther out, then farther still
the little dinghy drifted.
While those inside feared sun and tide
and wished the fog unlifted.
But sun and sea care not for thee,
nor whether you’re short shrifted.
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.