The ooze began to pulsate, straining against the confines of the old grandfather clock that held it captive. With a sudden screech of rending metal, the clock disintegrated, ripped apart by the malevolence within.
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.