Friends

You always said we would be friends until the end.

Well,
where are you now?

You can't spell "friend" without,
"end."

Same Old Blood Rush, With a New Touch

As she flicked her hair when she walked by me, I knew the feelings were mutual. From the way her deep blue eyes found mine, I could see the interest. I knew immediately that it was time to get out of this saloon, before I fell yet again.

You see, it was not long ago that I had a beautiful lass of my own. However, not long after I put that ring on her finger, a vicious Indian took her life. We were galloping away from a battle, for we never enjoyed war, when an arrow went astray and caught her in the heart. Ironic, that while she must die with a broken heart, I must go on living with mine.

Not a day goes by that she does not cross my mind. I write a letter for her everyday, and always place it on her grave. I miss her dearly, although I know she is not coming back. My only friend is my dear stallion, Hondo. For the most part, I stay alone in my cabin. I live through my days by farming my fields for beans and squash, by feeding my cow, or by drinking myself near death at the saloon.

I live in the middle of no where, otherwise known as Ohio. The year is 1843. My name is Royce Carrow, and I am thirty years old. As I said before, I was once married, ten years ago. Her name was Beth Miller. She was to me, what sugar is to sweet tea.

Enough of my past, though. I currently find employment, alongside my farming, as a writer. I am more of a poet, however. My poetry has yet to catch on in this society, for it would appear few are interested in love now-a-days. I also paint, although more often than not, my paintings are only of the sunset.

I am Royce Carrow. This is my story. My legacy, however, has yet to begin.