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Sand. Sand Scours. Sand clogs. Sand rubs, and scratches, and wears. Sand is already beaten down. Pulverized, smashed, and eroded off ancient rocks.



Outside the sand bit into the frames and fabric of the huts and tents. Hissing and slithering along with the dull rumble of wind that blew it across the settlement. Other than camels few things moved besides the blowing sand. A stray donkey trying to find a lee to shelter in, a donkey owner trying to find where his donkey had run off to, and a piece of roof blowing past. Other not so mundane things also were caught in the sandstorm. A piece of paper with a Normandy diplomatic stamp on it fluttered on the breeze surrounded by a scatter of non-native flowers, a newspaper with an article about a ship and a strange death scuttling and tumbling along the surface, and a glove stuck on a broken beach umbrella rolling across the ground, caught in the storm before being lost in the consuming haze to be buried. 


The sand simply continued to hiss and slither on by. 

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