It was mindless work, but Anthony didn’t mind. There was comfort in its rhythm. Smile. Listen. Nod. Make an empty promise that the regency would look into their complaint right away. Dismiss them. Repeat.
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.