The shadowy figure produced a thin, metallic rod and hastily inserted it into a hole in the alley wall. Silently, the bricks began to retract; folding in upon themselves to reveal a jagged archway.
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.