From her window, she could see the world beyond the walls. But there wasn’t much to see. Gray, stone-covered hills stretched into the distance, growing faint and indistinct before finally dissolving into the mist.
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.