Anna Forsyth

“Big Country” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #209

The plan was to recreate Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty’s road trip from Kerouac’s On The Road. Jack said he wanted to be Hunter S. Thompson instead. I told him that was the wrong book. We had a fierce argument for three miles (passing by roughly twenty thousand corn fields) until I realized he was just trying to piss me off. He threw his head back and laughed, closing his eyes briefly to enjoy the morning sun before refocusing the road. I yanked on his ear and he laughed again, running his hand through his bleached blonde hair; he was too b...

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“When I remember Pablo” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #85

There are some days when I think I’m in love with her. But the day after, I wake up with a throbbing headache. Mostly, we drink wine and smoke cigarettes, and she talks about Pablo. Pablo is her boyfriend. Or a dead poet. I can’t remember which. One is Pablo, and one is Paulo. She talks about them both a lot. I take a long drag from my cigarette and make a low, thoughtful sound. “Hmmm.” And then it doesn’t matter whether she’s talking about Pablo or Paulo - the lover or the poet. She’ll smile at me, and come back from that far-away place. We...

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“When I remember Pablo” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #59

There are some days when I think I’m in love with her. But the day after, I wake up with a throbbing headache. Mostly, we drink wine and smoke cigarettes, and she talks about Pablo. Pablo is her boyfriend. Or a dead poet. I can’t remember which. One is Pablo, and one is Paulo. She talks about them both a lot. I take a long drag from my cigarette and make a low, thoughtful sound. “Hmmm.” And then it doesn’t matter whether she’s talking about Pablo or Paulo - the lover or the poet. She’ll smile at me, and come back from that far-away place. ...

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“The one-eyed man is king” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #43

The first thing I remember thinking once I emerged from the fog – that’s not a metaphor for my mental state, it was actual fog, it was November after all – was “Why do they even make these?” A strange thing to be preoccupied with when not two minutes ago I woke up face down in the parking lot of one of those god awful 24-hour McDonald’s sure, but also a train of thought I couldn’t shake off. As I stumbled my way through the eerie autumnal mist, the golden arches glowing fiercely like the gates of Hades before disappearing in the murk, a...

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“The Troubles With It All” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #42

Colm woke to find he had once again he had fallen asleep in front of the paraffin heater, he had burnt a hole in his only pair of woollen socks and he was late for work. Great fucking start. He rushed out the door, gratefully feeling a Mars Bar he had left half-eaten in his jacket pocket as he reached for his keys. He did a cursory check under his car for bombs before starting the engine; one day he would regret not being more thorough. If Colm got too caught up in what could happen to him, a Catholic police detective in a Protestant town in...

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“Blondes have more fun” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #41

Sunny likes to eat cat poo. Or goose poo. Or any kind of faecal matter that she can sniff out really. But that doesn’t mean she should. Still, you try stopping that eighty-pound pile of golden fluff and bad thoughts from doing anything. Yeah, exactly. Sunny is a dog that cannot be cajoled or guilted or instructed to do anything but that which she chooses to do herself. My parents like to call some walks ‘Sunny’s Choice’ where they let the leash go slack and have her choose the route they go. I remind them that everything about her entire exi...

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“Big Country” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #40

The plan was to recreate Sal and Dean’s road trip from Kerouac’s On The Road. Jack said he wanted to be Hunter S. Thompson instead. I told him that was the wrong book. We had a fierce argument for three miles (roughly twenty thousand corn fields) until I realized he was just trying to piss me off. He threw his head back and laughed, closing his eyes briefly to enjoy the morning sun before refocusing the road. I yanked on his ear and he laughed again, running his hand through his bleached blonde hair, he was too beautiful to be mad at. Too be...

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“rising” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #39

Sometimes Isaac used to look up at the night sky until his neck was straining, and his hands got pins and needles and the arms propping him up were shaking with fatigue. And then he kept looking up for just that little bit longer. Until something closer to the horizontal plane demanded his attention and he was rudely hauled back into the real world. He’d trudge back to the farmhouse, as slowly as he dared, as slowly as he possibly could without going backwards, and begin his daily penance.But the next night, the sun would go down again and h...

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“Die With Your (Own) Boots On” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #38

Your 30th birthday is one of those artificial markers that people like to use to divide their life. You better have it all figured out by then. Career. Love. Kids. Before he turned 30, the only pillar Andy had sorted was his career – in fact he had that figured out that much earlier, before he even turned 20 – but now, two weeks into his post-30th birthday life, he had nothing. No life partner, no kids, and his career shredded into tiny fucked-up bits. Thanks Iron Maiden, thanks for fucking nothing.He still had to think of a better story for...

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“Vow” by Anna Forsyth

Submitted to Contest #37

All sorts of things can go wrong at a wedding – the cars don’t arrive; the groom doesn’t show up; an uncle drinks too much or the families start fighting. Sometimes all of these things happen at once – trust me, I have seen it all. My job is the easy part, I just have to turn up and say the right words, and I have most of them written down in front of me. So why couldn’t I do it today? Why did I pick today to draw my own line in the sand? Why blurt it all out now? That’s something I will have to figure out for myself, and I have nothing but ...

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“Buzzed” by Anna Forsyth

Sunday 5th April 2004, 4am – 65 days home out.No sleep, on the fags again, new scrip for happy pills.Losing weight, not sure how much, don’t have scales.Doc says to write down my thoughts, says he wants to understand me. He doesn’t. He won’t read this.There is little time to reflect on how long you can bear it. This is unhelpful thinking anyway. For the only choice is to hold on through the heat. Still, peeling one’s sunburnt skin away provides something to do in the evenings. And it is somewhat satisfying, as if you are starting over new, t...

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