Guthrow and His Crow
By Arthur McMahon
Copyright 2011 Arthur McMahon
A body wanders the desert. Many would see his smooth face and call him a boy, though all who have spoken with him would call him a man. Guthrow is dying.
Dark leather rests atop his head and shoulders, appearing to have seen more years than Guthrow himself. His hat's wide brim has several bullet-sized holes scattered throughout, and a section of the back has been sliced off. His coat at one point reached near his ankles, but the wears of battle and age have given it a ragged edge that now stretches just past the knee. Dark jeans resemble an old black dog with gray whiskers and sores; his shirt looks like a dirty washcloth that has been rolled in the sand for hours on end.
At first glimpse you would notice the adolescent features of a pubescent boy— smooth skin that is only broken by the few facial hairs of a young man accentuating a prominent jaw line with rough precision. A closer look reveals the hard years that have given age to the young face. That spring one would associate with youthful skin is fading, giving way to gravity. The oils that make young men shine are all but lost in Guthrow; small cracks grow in the corners of his eyes and lips and his fingers have lost their grip. His striking eyes put fear in the hearts of wicked men, staring them down with the pale yellow of a sun in its final days.