When the last Puntum tree died, the town gathered to mourn the loss. The sheriff, still frail from the ravages of the virus, sat in the dust, crying as he slowly chopped it down.
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.