Mrs. Herman The Witch

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I wrote this when I was ten. My teacher was so impressed he typed it up and had me do an illustration. I found this copy in Rosemary’s box. Note the crescent moon and stars. I was born during a star shower.  Was I aware of Juanita Miller ‘The White Witch’? She looks like Kay Coakley who lived up the street.

I own a sense of irony. A blogger is born! The Twilight Zone would not air for another nine years. I should have been encouraged to be a writer. A blogger is born! I was such a positive influence on Christine.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2016

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Mrs. Herman, The Witch

by

Greg Presco

I am a neighbor of Mrs’ Herman, The Witch. Mrs. Herman is a wierd old lady. Every night she makes the most horrible sound when she makes her brew. She skins cats, watches every horror movie on television, and sleeps in the day time. The reasons I have for not liking Mrs. Herman are good: her house is a mess; the grass is twelve inches high; the windows are broken; the house needs ten coats of paint; her bushes are growing all over my house; and she throws her garbage on my back lawn and makes our house look like her house.

One day I went over to Mrs. Herman’s house to tell her to stop making so much noise. I was angry. I burst into the house. There, sitting on the couch was the curse of Frankenstein. Mrs. Herman said;

“Come in my good neighbor and meet my brother!”

“Ug” said said Franky. “He scare me. I kill him!”

“No! Don’t do that. Wait till Halloween! Me and my big mouth!”

Now I know everything! I ran out of the door and phone for the moving van. The next day I was living happily a good twenty miles away. But, there was one thing wrong….my new neighbor’s name was Herman!

*  *

I was aware people were jealous of me, and didn’t like me. I was Nerdish. I had an unlimited imagination that took me to other worlds – and dimensions! The Dull Ones ostracized me, and later – demonized me in order to bring me down to their level! My mother and her sisters became afraid of me because I was writing just like their father, Royal Rosamond. It was like his ghost had come into my being. He died November 26, 1953 when I was seven years old. We never met. I was going into trances when I wrote. Did his Muse become my Muse? My grandfather was born of two roses. I have every right to play with these rosy themes. I should have been hired by Walt Disney.

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About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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