He sat there, smelling the stink of sweat, piss, and poverty wafting up from his soiled clothing, and found himself nodding in agreement with the disdainful looks of the other passengers on the bus.
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.