The inner lining of the tank stretched up and away from him into the darkness, echoing back his increasingly feeble attempts to remain afloat. Exhausted and resigned, he slipped once more under the surface.
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.