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.