She clutched the bag tightly to her chest as she walked. Something inside the thick canvas begin to wriggle against her grip. She shuddered. “Just two more blocks,” she whispered, picking up her pace.
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.