Peter peered up at the black cliffs that towered over the small lagoon. A flock of large, ugly birds had been startled by their approach and were circling overhead, screeching unhappily at the interruption.
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.