60 mph winds scraped the land and ripped red dust into the sky. My teeth were covered, my eyes, shut to slivers, screamed from the grit. After ascending the rise, a blood sun sent his minions at me, but I was sheltered by the Totem.
I think that is how Paul Atreides felt during his exile to the desert.
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Copyright Colin H. Sillerud
This image cannot be used without my written permission.