Snow by Dermot O’ Sullivan
Vultures skulked overhead. Their sharp skulls bludgeoned back into their hunched shoulders, black eyes flickering greedily over the poolside terrace, watching Francisco’s daughter as she stumbled from bust-in deckchair to mould-ridden bench and back, carrying with her – with intense concentration – the plastic spoons and forks and mugs that Francisco had taken from the kitchen earlier that day for the visit, not wishing to risk that someone may be using them by the time little Luciana would arrive….