Dax carefully raised the beaker. The strange substance slid around the glass in unsteady, lurching movements that reminded him of a drunk fraternity pledge stumbling across campus in the after-hours darkness of rush week.
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.