As the child thrashed and moaned, the old woman gently took the mother’s hand. “Don’t fret, love. It’s her hymn of passing. We don’t understand the words, but we feel them just the same.”
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.