Catatonic, he stared at the lumps in his oatmeal. The plan was careening out of control, tearing through his life like a landslide. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to hold on.
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.