The Forgetful Wizard

"The Forgetful Wizard"
by George R. Lasher
word count: 912

"Becky, where's my hat?"

A groan came from the master bedroom, followed by, "Which one, George?"

"You know. The one with the stars and moons." The old wizard gave up searching in the hall closet and closed the door. "It's the one you call The Fantasia Hat. I need it for the Wizard's Halloween Party planning session."

"It's where you left it."

"Oh, aren't you the helpful one?"

"Well, you're just so forgetful, George."

"Wait 'till you reach three hundred. I do pretty well for a wizard my age. Why can't you just tell me where my hat is?"

"You wear me out, George, that's why. I get so tired of having to help you find everything." She sighed, dog-eared a page to mark her place in the October edition of Better Spells and Gardens, and laid the magazine on the small table next to her chair. The wooden floorboards beneath her rocker creaked as she rose to come to her husband's aid. "'Why don't you just use your wand?" she suggested. "Ask it to find your hat for you."

"Can't find my wand."

"Shoulda known."

"How could anyone find anything in all this clutter?"

"It's all your stuff, George. Did you look by the cauldron?"

George walked over to the cauldron. There, on the stool by the hearth, lay his wand. "Found it," he called out.

"Amazing," came the sarcasm-laced response.

"What about my hat?"

"Use your wand." She turned to go back to the bedroom.

"How does that charm go?"

Another groan: the kind that irked him right down to the soles of his curly-toed slippers. "Reperio Meus!" She called out.

"There you go again with that attitude of yours. I get so sick—"

"YOU GET SO SICK?" Becky came storming back out of the bedroom. "Sometimes I can't believe I put up with you, you broken down, Merlin wannabe!"

"Wannabe?" George issued a warning. "One more remark like that, woman, and I'll turn you into a toad!"

"Hah! You couldn't remember the spell if you had to!"

George drew his venerable wand from his robe, held it high in the air and opened his mouth.

"Go ahead," Becky challenged him with words born of frustration. "Go ahead! Do it!"

"Fio… "

Seeing his uncertainty, she goaded him further. "What are you going to do, George, ask me to provide you with the words for that hex, too?"

Having the effect of a stiff breeze, the disrespect in her words parted the fog obscuring George’s memory. Triumphant, he waved his wand and bellowed, "Fio Frogeramus!" After a brilliant flash of light and a puff of smoke, a brown and green toad squatted on the floor where Becky had stood.

George picked the toad up, placed it on the palm of his left hand, and raised it to eye level. "Tell me I can't remember anything, will you?"

"Ribit."

"Call me a Merlin wannabe, will you?"

"Ribit."

" Let me see, are you saying, 'I'm sorry, George.' Or, 'Oh George, You may have forgotten more magic than most wizards will ever know, but you're still the grandest of them all.' Is that what you're trying to say, my dear?"

The toad responded by peeing in the hand upon which it sat. Disgusted, George dropped what used to be his wife, and watched as she took off, hopping towards the opened door that lead to the patio and the garden beyond.

"Go ahead!" George shouted. "But don't come hopping back later, begging for forgiveness... or flies!"

~ ~ ~

Several weeks later, George sat at The Drunken Bat during witching hour, downing a few pints with his old cronies, when he spied a lovely, red-headed witch, drinking alone on the other side of the bar.

“Go talk to her, George," his friends patted him on the back.

"Don't know," George replied, stroking his long, white beard. "She looks kinda dangerous."

"Just put a spell on her," one of his buds suggested.

George nodded, his confidence bolstered by the imbibed ale. He slid off of his stool and proceeded around the curved bar. "Salutations, fair maiden," he bowed grandly. "Wouldst thou accept a drink from a widowed wizard who admits to being an ardent admirer?"

"Widowed? What happened to your wife?" She asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"She croaked," George sighed. "Now I don't have anyone to cook and clean for me."

"Why not use your wand?" She asked.

"Can't find it," George sighed. "I really need someone to take care of me. Might you need someone, tonight, to take care of you?" Raising his white, bushy eyebrows, he gave them a suggestive wiggle. Sounding a tad unsure, hoping to ignite the femme fatale's libido, he uttered the words, "Lotta Humpamus." Her expression changed from suspicion to that of an insulted woman. George cringed, realizing he had botched another spell.

"Lotta Humpamus?" The witch recoiled, anger burning in her eyes. She waved her wand in the air and shouted, "Fio Frogeramus!"

Few of the bar's patrons noticed the brown and green toad that hopped through the opened doors of the crowded bar, barely avoiding being crushed by the inebriated throng of wizards and witches.

On the bank of a nearby pond, George squatted in solitude, bemoaning his fate. He winced as he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Ribit, ribit, ribit." It was Becky. Now he understood every word she spoke in Froglish. "Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Merlin.”

The End.

If you fancy another tale about the never-ending battle of the sexes, I recommend the following:

ID: 1490634   (Rated: E) Title: The Trial   Description: A well meaning wife badgers her forgetful husband By: George

If you've previously enjoyed The Trial, may I recommend my only published tale to date, a chiller:

ID: 1495851   (Rated: 18+) Title: "The Book"   Description: The story of a book that threatens to expose or consume the reader. By: George