Garrett turned, his gaze following the line of Hank’s trembling, outstretched hand. He turned away and began to gag. Just beyond the path, a purple-blotched toe protruded up from a patch of damp soil.
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.