As a wood nymph, she knew that it was wrong. Or, at least, that it was supposed to be wrong. But she couldn’t see how. What harm could there be in loving a lumberjack?
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.