Moss Angel Witchmonstr

from Sea-Witch


Wood-Witch existed as a collection of parts. She was never at any point in her life all together in the same place. Wood-Witch’s personality was contained in a red stone that lived for an incredibly long time underneath a desert. No one but this stone ever got to know her. A few other parts of her were made into things that played important roles in the lives of others. She was never dead, but what qualifies a witch-god as “alive” is anyone’s guess. Wood-Witch never existed in a way that could amount to anything like a concept of “experience.” She was a god all the same.



The end of a thing might not feel like an ending. It can be abrupt or drag on. Water-Witch felt like her whole life was part of a movie that should have been over a long time ago. The plot had arced & things had long since been tied up & she was an unnecessary character. This wasn’t true, though. Most of us don’t know what our own story really is.

Water-Witch met Strawberry-Witch when she was working on a pot farm in California. This was after it had been legalized & the two of them were both doing trimming work there. Water-Witch thought Strawberry-Witch was adorable immediately & told her so. Strawberry-Witch, who always loved a compliment, started giving Water-Witch all kinds of attention.

One day while they were working alongside each other, they heard cries from far away. The other workers went to see what was happening & so Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch joined them. About an acre of land next door to the pot farm had fallen into the ground, leaving an enormous crater & a giant cloud of dust. A little girl was in the middle, leg clearly broken & people were trying to save her, though the edge of the crater kept crumbling every time anyone got close.

A neighbor saw Strawberry-Witch & Water-Witch & recognized them for what they were. “You! Witch-Gods! Help this girl!”

Water-Witch looked at her feet. Strawberry-Witch tried to explain. “We can’t. We can barely do anything.”

The other pot workers agreed. Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch were some of the worst workers on the farm. “What are you good for, then? What is a god, anyway?” the neighbor asked.



The little girl died. They couldn’t get her out of the pit, & the edges kept crumbling. Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch held hands & cried. The crater stayed a crater. Others began to emerge in the area as well. There was apparently a system of caverns beneath the whole region that decided now was the time to collapse. Everyone felt the instability. Strawberry-Witch & Water-Witch began sleeping in the same bed. They did holy things with their clits & asses & mouths & held each other with their arms & legs. They kept each other safe as much as they knew how. They did a ceremony for the little girl, which was really a ceremony mourning their inability to save her. They were not the kind of gods who could save her & this thought made them feel as unstable as the ground they walked on.

Strawberry-Witch eventually went back to where she had lived before. Water-Witch cried & hugged her & they made plans to meet again. Water-Witch continued to work at the farm for the next few weeks. During that time her evenings got strange. She was very, very lonely. The loneliness was a fist in her chest that wouldn’t unclench.

Water-Witch stayed at the pot farm until they told her to leave, so she packed her things & drove to her sister’s house. Her sister wasn’t home. The door was unlocked in the back so she went inside. Where the living room couch usually would be there was a banana slug the size of the living room couch. Everything else was just as she remembered it. Don’t leave me, the slug said, twitching. I am so sorry, said Water-Witch. But I have to. I don’t have anything at all.

Water-Witch drove on to the coast. Reality got thicker. She realized she was trying to create any feeling inside of herself other than fear. She killed herself in her mind over and over. Why am I even here, she thought. This is all hurt. At the beach there were thorns that stuck in her tights. The whole planet spun slowly. It’s not important or interesting. Death as a stopping place. She felt her tights rip. They were already covered in sand. The world is dying & nothing can help it, she thought. How am I a whole person. I can’t do anything at all. I’m barely here as it is. There was sand in her mouth. When you squeeze any skin hard enough the sun comes out. It’s my fault. What if it could be over in a way that’s no big deal. It’s not important. A stopping place. It started to rain/it got too cold/she walked to the car shivering. This isn’t because of anything.


Water-Witch’s least favorite thing about herself is that she keeps waking up. In all truth mornings were the easiest time but after awhile it all slid into each other. Mornings slid into afternoons, slid into evenings, slid into times when everyone was sleeping & “cold” became an immersive physical/psychological experience. Water-Witch learned what to do to make time move slow or fast but never figured out how to make it go away. No matter how much time passed, there was always more of it. Water-Witch thought it was kind of fucked up, honestly.

Water-Witch decided to call Strawberry-Witch on the phone. Water-Witch cried to her. She said she missed her, & that things had been terrible. She told her about the bottomless feeling of doom that wouldn’t wash off. How it settled in after dark. How dark kept coming earlier as winter came. Strawberry-Witch was so sweet. She made plans to see Water-Witch again. They talked of doing things together & for a second Water-Witch thought she could be a person, but the phone call ended & Water-Witch found herself staring at her hands again, flexing her fingers, imagining her skull splitting on concrete.


MOSS ANGEL WITCHMONSTR is a transgender writer and artist living in Oregon. She is author of four books, most recently Sea-Witch v.1 (2fast2house, 2017). You can follow this project here.