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Weekly Contest #220
Windswept grains of coarse blue-black sand pelted Liam's layered bung-bison pelt coat and thick scarf. Granules rained horizontally on the goggles he inherited from Elder uncle Myro. The straps had been recut from cured hide, but the glass was too old to put a number to it. Countless family members had worn it, until death or retirement. “Oye! Why are you out here? This is my section!” That voice; Dirk Skymark was working the ice-sands too. Of course, he was. “Sand doesn't have sections Skymark. Just as how the sky doesn't have marks, but ...
“Are you hungry?” “I reckon I'll let you know when my stomach wakes up.” Jake said, grinding the backs of his calloused fingers against his bronze eyes. Yawning, he tried to get up, stretching as he went. “What?” His shoulders and chest raised to almost sitting height but his waist wouldn't move and his feet didn't shift more than an inch or two. An object stretched across his waist; tight, broad and pressing into his abdomen. “Seriously, what?” Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked past his faded denim shirt. A broad, black strap hel...
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