The old monarch’s laugh was deep and rich, and the golden tones rolled around the hall like mirthful thunder. He raised his goblet toward the rafters and the gathered crowd erupted into raucous cheering.
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.