Most wizards agree that the Armageddon Spell is the rarest spell.
As the High Mage of The Byzantium Library, I know that it isn’t.
The rarest spell is The Lost Spell Of Forgetting, of which the only copy is in the Library.
Why is it The Lost Spell?
Because I lost it.
I have no idea where the spell is in all these shelves and cupboards and desks.
I’m surprised I even remember there’s a Forgetting Spell.
Just reading it makes you forget what it is.
Hey… that’s strange… what’s this in my pocket…
It’s a scroll.
Of… um… what?
Tag: memory
Forget
You.
I didn’t want to know
your name.
But when you asked for help,
I helped.
And all it took was
Just
One
Click.
There it was.
Right. There.
I told myself
“I won’t search it.”
But I did.
And all it took was
Just
One
Click.
Click.
Click.
I can’t unsee that.
I don’t want to know.
So, I took out a forgetting pill.
The ones that
Nasty people use
To do nasty things
But I use it
For good.
To forget.
And I swallowed it.
Just
One
Little
Pill
I won’t even remember
That I swallowed
It
Click
The Voices
Every so often when we try to do something, we hear those voices:
You can’t do it.
You’re not good enough.
Don’t bother trying.
But we don’t always hear them. And other people never hear them at all.
So, I set up a 900 number that people can call to be connected to a room full of critical and pessimistic people.
Sure, I could write an app to simulate that kind of thing, cycling those voices in a loop, but when I tested it, those voices played over and over in my head, and I just gave up on it.
Forget Things
Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things. More things every day.
I know this because I write things down.
“Write things down,” said Rose.
I have that on my writing pad on the top.
Who’s Rose?
She’s the one who told me to write things down. It says so right here.
She also told me to write down “Never be afraid” and “Do what people tell you.”
And “Write things down.”
What is my name?
I don’t know.
Look at my wrist?
There’s a tattoo.
A rose.
Me?
I should write that down.
Before I…
Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things.
No Idea
I woke up with a splitting headache.
Checked my head, my hands.
No blood.
I looked around.
Hotel room. Clean, but nothing fancy.
Phone book says Dallas.
I’m in Dallas.
Where was I before Dallas?
I don’t know.
I check my wallet.
Cards. Driver’s license.
That’s me, Ted Martin.
I look through my receipts, trying to piece together how I got here.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Rental cars.
I lay it all out on the bed.
I check my pockets for a cell phone.
None.
The nightstand. An envelope.
Full of white powder.
“Breathe” it says.
So I breathe.
And sleep.
Sleep.
Umbrella
We’re in a drought. It didn’t rain all summer.
Until now.
I can hear the thunder… the rain… the screech of tires…
Going to work will be interesting. People forget how to drive.
And other things. Like how to use an umbrella.
I looked around for mine, but couldn’t remember what it looked like.
“Honey,” I said to my wife, holding up an object. “Is this an umbrella?”
“No, that’s a cat,” she said. “Put her down. She doesn’t like being picked up. Or getting wet.”
I put the cat down, let her scamper off, and resumed my umbrella search.
The Zoo Train
One of my earliest memories was when mom and dad would take me to the zoo, where we’d ride the train.
I think my grandfather was there. I’m not sure. I don’t remember much of him.
Every few years, we’d meet together at the zoo, looking at all the changes to exhibits, new animals, cages replaced with glass walls or open roaming areas.
The train gets polished up, repainted.
We took my kids there. We’d ride, look around. So many changes, so many things stay the same.
The monkeys, the giraffes, the lions.
The memories, as we all ride on.
Fist Full Of Mustard
When you spend your whole life in the dark, it’s important to have a system.
I keep mustard packets in my left pants pocket, ketchup packets in my right pants pocket, relish packets in my jacket pocket, mayonnaise packets in this shirt pocket, salsa packets in-
No. Really. Ask me for something.
Mustard? Right here.
Ask me again.
Ketchup? Right here.
See?
Well, okay, you can’t see, because we’re in the closet and the light’s off and it’s dark, but still, I’m ready.
Now I’m ready for anything! Let’s go out there and…
Um… hold on…
Who locked the door?
When it rains…
Mother used to say “When it rains, it pours.”
I’d walk out to the patio and say “Mom? That’s just Grampa on the roof with the hose.”
Mother never said much about that. It was bad enough that Grampa lived with us, making a scene at every meal, accusing Germans of poisoning his soup…
“That’s meat loaf, Grampa, not soup.”
“DAMN THE KAISER!” he’d shout, diving under the table.
The stories he’d tell me, well, they were magical. Tales of… well… I mean… magical stories…
Okay, fine. I ignored the crazy old coot.
Pass the meat loaf… I mean soup.
The Lost Ring
I’ve lost so much weight, my ring slipped off the other day.
I searched along the path I took, but couldn’t find it.
When I first got the ring, I felt its presence, but quickly got used to it.
Now that it’s gone, I constantly notice that it’s not there.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and I want to put it back on, but it’s gone.
So I will get a new one soon.
My wife was deathly ill last year.
Would I have had to remove the ring if she hadn’t have recovered?
I’d have kept it.
For remembrance.
(Right?)