He stared at his reflection. It was hazy and half hidden by obscenities in the graffiti-scratched mirror. With trembling hands, he pulled the badge from his pocket and carefully pinned it to his shirt.
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.