He looked at his life’s work extending across the desk like the debris field around a crater. Tidy, organized stacks quickly devolved into haphazard, ash covered piles as they spread away from his seat.
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.