Prologue

I, Zelda del West, have reluctantly decided it necessary to write an account of events that befell an innocent girl from Walla Walla whose singular misfortune it was to be related to the Wicked Witch of West Texas, formerly known as the Wicked Witch of Western Washington, and before that as the Wicked Witch of Walla Walla. (It should be noted that after the events related here, the Wicked Witch has not been seen in Texas. She does have the resources to keep several lairs in several dimensions for her devious purpose, so it's always difficult to ascertain her precise location. However, there have been some sightings of her in fabulous attire, looking astonishingly glamorous in several Oregon locales. Suffice it to say she was overdressed. Suffice it to say also that her place name designation is likely changed.

For those of you familiar with her reputation, none of the wickidity contained herein will come as a surprise, but many, sadly, are unaware that wicked witches truly exist, and that they carry out misdeeds, sinister and terrific, daily. Many believe that even someone as famous for her wicked ways as the subject of this narrative is merely a flake with wild outfits and an over-realized vocabulary. Wicked witches are well served by this misunderstanding, as it deflects serious scrutiny and the vague, murky and disorienting effect is an element of their stupefying glamour. I have, therefore, set out to inform the public of the hazard these witches pose, purely as a public service and for no other reason. This, my dear readers, is a cautionary tale, so take heed. The girl who is the subject of this book, very kindly agreed to cooperate with its writing for this very reason: to shine the harsh light of day upon these denizens of half-light and mostly-dark.

This book is pseudo-truish, with some parts imagined as they must have occurred. You'll have to figure out for yourself, though, which parts are truth, and which parts are imagined, because you might as well learn right now not to trust everything you read. Even a harmless account of semi-factual events like this one could have a nefarious intent if it were written by someone less beneficent than I, your humble scribe. Some of the names have been changed to protect the mostly innocent. The Wicked Witch of West Texas is obviously not one of them. Add to these disclaimers the very real possibility, given the malleability of time, and the known proclivities of the witch in question to mess about with such material, that the factual events in the book, those that really happened, may now not have really happened at all, and could possibly have been replaced by other events that, at this writing, were only semi-factual or entirely made up, but which may now have become factual. Some things might even have become real that were entirely unimaginable at the time that the things that happened happened, which now might not have happened. Conversely, if things happened that didn't, then they may, subsequently, have been altered into the form in which they happened. This is somewhat difficult to ascertain in the realm of a fictionalized account of the possibly real or unreal or possible or impossible.

Ambiguous as the situation is, one might as well treat the entire thing as a total fabrication. It is equally valid, therefore, to regard it all as complete and literal truth. This, of course, precludes ponderment of precisely what “truth” even means, since that isn't a subject of universal agreement and thus introduces murkiness into the cloudiness of the ambiguity resulting in absurd levels of unknowability. Also, be careful what you wish for, because this story has proven one thing: it might just come true. If you do it right, it will.

All of this is to say: BEWARE.

Perhaps one should heed the advice of one reader of this tome who wishes to remain anonymous: “I advise avoiding the book.” Simply opening this book unleashes such a wave of particles of dimensions of chaos into one's existence that it is truly unadvisable to even possess this text. So, set it down and walk away. You probably won't, though. You've already opened Pandora's Box, so come on in. The water is strange and filled with creatures that are the stuff from which dreams are spun. The kind of dreams you barely remember and aren't sure you want to. These very sorts of dreams found their way into the waking lives of the family that lived in the brick house at the corner of Rose Street and Pomegranate Lane.