The man sat in a corner, sobbing quietly. Agatha turned away and sighed. “It is a terrible thing,” she said, slowly lowering her head into her hands, “to realize the price you have paid.”
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.