Saturday, July 23, 2016

A flowing tide

Life, Harold thought, was a flowing tide.  It ebbed and rose, crested and rolled, twirled in eddies, and there was always the danger of a boiling swell or a riptide.  You could either let it take you where it willed or try to steer a course through the currents.  And there was always something slimy or nasty lurking beneath the surface.  Fitzpatrick was a hammerhead shark; an ugly predator that skulked along the sea bed, stalking its prey.  He’d caught Harold at a low ebb, tore a chunk from his side, then left him to tread water, waiting to sink.

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

That's a potent description of the kind of guy Fitzpatrick is, Rob. I really like the metaphor.