Such strange warmth for this time of year.
Ice is still thick on the lake, a dull mirror for the fog that hovers inches above the surface. Dense and disconcerting, it blurs the distinction between earth and sky and the shroud makes dusk of midday. What am I not supposed to see?
The silhouette of a vulture materializes across the field. Perched on the fencepost at the edge of the neighboring property, he sits far too close to the house.
Fear is illogical – death eaters consume only what is already gone.
Still, I shiver.
His stare is an icy blade.
In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story on ice. It can be an event on ice, a game on ice or a drink on ice. Go where the prompt leads you.