Sand stung his face, as hot as sparks flying from a crucible.

Sand stung his cheek.

Sand and bits of rock stung his skin and the wind whipped insanely about him.

Sand stung the inside of Chakotay's nose, making him want to sneeze.

Sand swirled up and stung his face as he reached the rotors.

Sand blowing off the barren Battery Park City landfill stung the eyes and gave the neighborhood a Sahara-like feel.

Sand stung my eyes.

Sand still stung his face like hellish nettles and flamed the air he tried to draw between his teeth.

Sand stung his face and in a panic he rolled over into the low place behind him and, grabbing his rifle, broke into a run, dodging into the brush even as she topped the rise where he had been lying.

Sand carried by the sunset wind had stung their cheeks while they crossed the outer yard, made them blink and hurry.