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Take a seat, you are now in the village square. Enjoy!
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….

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In November by Dermot O’Sullivan

  Eyes shut tight against the water; Andy MacAuliffe fumbled for the shower tap, found it, and twisted it shut. He opened his eyes and stood motionless as the water drained off his body in a shining tangle of shallow rivulets. When the din of tinkling had died down to a steady drip-drop-drip, he stepped out of the shower. He towelled himself dry and took a piss, savouring the long, satisfying gush and the frenetic bubbling as his jet…

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