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Weekly Contest #312
See the man. He's sitting hunched down over the contents in a cheap factorymade bowl. A grimy mess of sticky brown pieces drenched in a sauce vomit-colored. He stabs the mess with his fork repeatedly. The man is of thin build in sickly white cleaned armor too big for his size. The plates are draped over his shoulders, the dog-tag of its previous owner still in the man's pockets. He was allowed to keep it if he wanted to. Outside the rain turned sand to mud and beyond trees turned dark with evening shadow harbor yet the last few men untamed. ...
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