Fear pressed upon her, paralyzing her as darkness seeped from the edges of the room. It gathered around the bed, rising like an oily tide, it’s black, wraith-like tendrils wound around her trembling figure.
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.