Harry Writes Sometimes, It's True! Options

[Harryb412]

Thought I'd share some stuff.
A little project/writing challenge, stories/snippets that are exactly 100 words in length.

Ten Seconds.
Ten seconds on the clock and I’m wondering whether - nine - this is actually happening; not long on the squad - eight - and I’m already confronted with something as cliche as - seven - a bomb with an actual countdown. I’m half expecting - six - some sort of masked villain to enter the room - five - to announce his plan, but I don’t think he’d - four - have time for that. And now there are only three seconds left on the clock and I realize I’ve wasted - two - my final thoughts. I don’t even have any kick - one - ass final words. I hope someone remembers to feed the—-

Violent Altercation.
The young man thought it important to note that, despite his unfortunate appearance caused by a recent violent altercation, the fellow he fought with, an old friend until events that had recently transpired caused the relationship to turn sour, had been damaged far worse. Indeed, a crooked nose and swollen eye were nought compared to a cracked knuckle and broken thumb in his eyes. Though some may beg to differ had they been informed of the nature behind the young man’s assailant’s hand injuries, a powerful punch backfiring somewhat due to the attacker’s inexperience. Regardless, they both looked quite foolish.

Not You.
I feel obliged to put forward the assertion that the faults of our relationship were not your own, which is to say I object to the idea that you are to blame for our altercations; for I feel that I need to carry the burden of guilt. Indeed, life leads us down many paths and ours are simply diverging, again, not through fault of your own, but due to changes in my outlook of the world and growth as a person. That isn’t to say I’ve raised my standards. I simply mean to put forward that it’s me, not you.

[Harryb412]

I gone done wrote another short story.
Only a snippet here to avoid an unsightly wall of text:

It wasn’t entirely through circumstance that the Elegant Spy Mistress found herself in the home of an old flame. Though the word home seemed a bit too humble to describe such a location; the mansion was set atop a hill overlooking the city. It stood tall and imposing, the Host, of course, had the mansion built for that very purpose – he didn’t like to think of himself as some common thug, and such a grandiose display as his Mansion On The Hill helped to separate himself, at least in his own mind, from the city’s more shadowy characters.

Though the Host had invited the Elegant Spy Mistress to his dinner party as a social event, she was there strictly on business. The Host, however, was not the target, but that isn’t to say he couldn’t be a bonus. Everybody knew, or at least they thought they knew, of the origins of his riches, but one did not elevate to such a height as he did without knowing how to become somewhat untouchable by the authorities.

That night it was the No-Good Dirty-Rotten Smuggler that had caught the attention of spies and he was as slippery as the fish he used to hide the black-market weaponry with. Of course it should have been easy once his location was revealed, but it can only be assumed that the Host caught wind of the mission that he decided to change his plans from an intimate dinner party to a masked ball, with many more guests invited. None of which the Elegant Spy Mistress found particularly enjoyable company.

It was this series of events that had led to the Host and the Spy Mistress to be alone on the balcony overlooking the city once more. Though now there was no love lost between the pair. The Elegant Spy Mistress loathed the Host, he had, after all, broken her heart. Although he would argue that the harpy didn’t have one to begin with. What had started as bitter words shared between lovers scorned soon became quite a heated argument and ended with the Host having the larger half of his drink covering his face following a lewd request made towards the Spy Mistress.

The Elegant Spy Mistress cursed herself for wasting time on such trivial matters and returned to the “grand hall.” The No-Good Dirty-Rotten Smuggler was in here somewhere and the Spy Mistress, using all her powers of deduction, figured that it must have been the short man in the fish-mask who smelt like the sea. It was not a great disguise. Out from a hidden pocket concealed in her dress came a powerful revolver and before the smuggler could react a bullet had flew through his brain. A reckless move, she admitted to herself, before removing his mask to make sure she had hit the target.

Her powers of deduction had not failed her. She apologized to the guests for ruining the party, though some remarked that it had been the only interesting thing to happen all evening, and quickly left the building.

She was not, however, finished for the night.

http://www.goodluckcowboy.co.uk/writing/a-job-well-done