He looked at the mangy flock of birds strutting, preening, and squabbling under the vapid headlines of the glossy tabloids that lined his newsstand, and wondered, wryly, if maybe people had evolved from pigeons.
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.