Eleanor Brown stood at the counter, furiously cutting an onion with aggressive, angry strokes. Every few seconds her eyes would flick toward the table where a dusty envelope sat tucked behind an overflowing ashtray.
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.