This is for my Fiction Writing class at Normandale. Ignore it, everyone else.

An old, discrepant building, the burnt yellow paint flakes off the exterior and dark brown water rings create a constellation on the ceilings and walls. A baby in the bottom dresser drawer. Mount the stairs; skip the third one because it isn’t there anymore, nails jutting out of framework. A single, flattened mattress and crumpled up, soggy newspaper blanket the floor. My personal Jesus lies face down, a belt wrapped tightly around his left arm. He isn’t my savior, just another former shell of a person, and furthers my own demise with sweet lies that I am too eager to hear.

One hundred one words exactly, excluding these. Not much in the way of a ‘traditional story’ – with an introduction, climax, resolution, and all that jazz – I attempted that but fell short of satisfaction. This is the result. It paints a scene, albeit not a pretty one, but one nonetheless.