Four days. It only took four days. The thick iron walls had inexplicably materialized around the city on a Tuesday morning, and by Saturday afternoon, the fragile sheen of civility and order had evaporated.
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.