As Jason slid his fingers into the strange glove, the group erupted with laughter. A smile flickered across his face. Turning slowly, he raised his hand, flipping them off with his shimmering, sequined finger.
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.