It was a peculiar sensation, but he really didn’t mind. There was something oddly comforting about the hesitant, curious way their skeletal feelers rose from the deep to explore the contours of his frame.
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.