My memories, once razor-sharp,
lie scattered on the shore
like pale blue shards of glass.
Their crystal edges,
chipped and worn smooth by the endless scrape of years,
now flicker vaguely in the twilight.
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.