The old woman, smelling of coconuts and talc, stared down at her phone screen with the same apathetic, glazed-over determination of the passengers half her age. “She must want to forget, too.” he thought.
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.