Jimmy was quite an attractive young boy. Look at our young boy,
his parents would modestly brag, asking: is he not attractive? Quite
attractive, was the usual reply.
While still a boy, but not as young, Jimmy developed a love of
sniffing gasoline one he shared with a neighborhood friend.
One day Jimmy and his friend were floating happily around Jimmy's
garage. Without thinking, his friend lit a cigarette while Jimmy
was leaning over the gas can. A stray spark caught, and Jimmy's
face was enveloped in flames. The severe burns horribly disfigured
Jimmy who lost the majority of his nose as a result of the accident.
Even after extensive reconstructive surgery, he was still an unpleasant
sight a far cry from his formerly attractive self. He lost
nearly all of his friends and never had a long term or successful
relationship. Perhaps saddest of all was that his previously proud
parents wanted little to do with him, unable to overcome their
own revulsion at the sight of their formerly attractive son. Perhaps
even sadder was that Jimmy did not live to see the movie The
Man Without A Face starring, and directed by, Mel Gibson, which,
had he seen it, would doubtless have been of some comfort to him.
However, many times before his death Jimmy would take a little comfort
in a nice cup of herbal tea.
* * *
In a small, poor village, far away from here, there lived a woman,
named Alice, with seven kids to care for. Her husband had been killed
in the war, and she herself was unable to work because of a debilitating
injury. It was very difficult for her to care for her young familyevery
day was a struggle. The family might not have been so badly off,
except that in addition to her injury the woman also had a severe
addiction to gambling.
Things became truly desperate when the government threatened to
repossess the land upon which the family home sat, as Alice had
not paid her taxes in many years. Not insensitive to her pleading,
the government granted her four months to find the money she needed,
so Alice vowed not to spend another penny on gambling and, with
the exception a small lapse now and then, she managed to follow
Despite her perseverance, on the night before the government was
to take ownership of her land, Alice still did not have the money
required to pay the taxes she owed. When she woke the next morning
she was fraught with fear for her families' future. As she prepared
what little breakfast they were to have during what was to be their
last morning in their home, Alice listened to the lottery numbers
being drawn on the radio, as she did every morning. Amazed and astounded,
she realized she had won! All the families' problems were solved!
They could now pay their taxes and move into a nicer home in a better
neighborhood! Money would never again be a concern. As Alice brewed
herself a nice pot of strong, dark tea to celebrate her good fortune,
she suddenly realized that the last number on her ticket was 13,
* * *
Reading in bed one night I decided that the overhead light was
much too bright. I rose from bed to rectify the situation. Upon
switching off the overhead light, which was located by the door,
the room was blanketed (more like enveloped really) by darkness.
Not being able to see, I had to walk slowly towards the desk upon
which my lamp rested, feeling in front of me for said lamp. Normally
my desk is situated at a level somewhat below the midsection. Being
more or less immobile, and certainly not able to move of its own
accord this was true at the time at which the story took place and
is likely true even as you read this. However, in searching for
the lamp in the dark I was leaning and sightly crouched. Thus
is came about that my groin met with he corner of the desk. Met
with he corner of the desk somewhat forcefully. The desk did not
give. I crumpled to the floor clutching myself and writhing in some
amount of agony, crying like a small child. The next day I would
recount the story to an uninterested and unsympathetic friend over
a lukewarm mug of tea.
wishes he was as cool as me.
* * * * *
Made on the Notes I Found on the Table Named Notes
I Found on East 29th, by Matthew Dorrell
and Other Matters of Varying Concern
by Kent Bruyneel
We have a house now. It is higher than any of the others in
our area. There are three bedrooms and Matthew's probably
has the best view. But mine is bigger. And neither of us
have very many things on our walls. Not nearly so much so
that you might walk into either of our roomssay Matthew's
for instanceand say "Man, there are a lot of
things on your walls." It is a good house all by itself.
We are in the process of trying to make a bookwhich we
would like you to buy some day pleaseout of the material
currently and futurely appointed part of Forget. We are
doing all this talking about books, and not a little about websites,
in this great house that has windows taller than fences. And
it's not just the sun that punches through, and further bleaches
that dining room table a sort of brown white.
Last night while walking toward the 29th Ave. Skytrain
station, on East 29th actually, Matthew found a stack of
note pad pages all charted and written on by, we are guessing,
a 17 year old boy.
The last page has only a few words in sharp contrast
to the rest of the stack which is cleverly filled with grades
and notes and plans and dreams and all things one should write
down on notepads that get lost as you run for the train or maybe
the bus and you are screaming: "wait, Jesus I am right
here, can you not see me? Please wait for me because I will
make good company and I am a good student of people not just
books. Jesus could you just please wait for me!"
It says only:
"Tues. 3am July 9 02
EVERYTHING I do, or have done
has been wrong"
Well. I should like to meet this person17 year old or
notif for no other reason than to take the strongest possible
issue with this last proclamation.
From our gleaning you are not only a good student but a fine
writer of notes and graphs. And, man you are welcome here on
Saturday with us when all our friends will be here or at least
most of them and we will put our arms around each otheryou
and Ibut we won't force it, don't worry. And I'll ask
you about the week of Canada Day. Actually every day before
the ninth. Tell you about mine.
would like all of you to know that there is actual change
going on at this publication. Soon I will no longer be the only
one, or even the main one, updating this site with its content.
And we will shortly be returning to a somewhat daily schedule
(note: somewhat). We are also moving servers, establishing a
proper submission procedure (note: sorry to all who have not
heard back. shit is wrong and we are working on it.), getting
new email addresses (note: you can now reach the editor, the
creative director and all three senior editors by sending an
email to "insert first name of chosen party"@forgetmagazine.com)
ending our subhosting arrangement and growing all the way up.
* * * * *
by Nick Thran
Stampede Weekend. Ferris Wheels. Tie Downs.
Right now youre sure the most beautiful woman
in town is giving her cordial half
wave out the top of a polished red Firebird.
The celebratory sounds of brass
winds and snare
drums seep through the air vent- Music
to accompany the slow march
to sobriety, to self loathing. Lace-less,
its the small things, when taken away,
that hurt. Beaded necklace and belt
are gone. Youre staring hard at the white
cell walls, the way
that beautiful woman might stare
at her bare chest, after
her final obligation, and the Ms Something,
her name, has been lifted. Peering
closer at the flecks of paint, you wonder
if maybe that is your reflection there- if intoxication
could smear the features of a face
that much. Under the halogen cell lights
anythings possible: so picture cotton candy,
ten gallons, and all of the poorly constructed
floats with their flower arrangements
in your mind. Cmon, whether its only
an eight hour stint, or life,
who hasnt felt
sequestered, cut-off, prohibited
from just watching, let alone
being a part of the parade?
does not now. He knows us.