This Morning I Lost My Favorite Sock And I Knew The World Was Ending

I wake up to the sound of volcanoes and people screaming.

Outside, Kīlauea glows. The Goddess of Volcanoes is sitting at my breakfast table, drinking coffee as she makes the world burn.

I say: “I hate my life. Take it.” I rip at my shirt collar, thrust my naked breasts forward.

Pele blinks. She is so, so beautiful.

Anxiety mounts and I wonder: did I come on too strongly, too like a beggar? A murderer’s least satisfying victim is the one that wants to die, after all.

Pele sits up and kisses me. Her tongue, velvet lava, melts everything away.

From Guest Contributor Andrei Șișman

Andrei is a fiction author and memoirist from Bucharest, Romania. He is currently wading through a forest of banalities in search of the perfect Tweet. By trade a lawyer, his literary work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and other places. Andrei can be found at andrei-sisman.carrd.co and on Twitter at @sisman_andrew.

The Three Brigits

Brigit, Irish Goddess of Poetry, sits at the feet of her Mother of Plenty.

She calls to her sisters, Brigit of Medicine and Brigit of Smithcraft. They watch as humans emerge on Earth.

Brigit of inspiration says to them, “Humans are evolving, so I’ve blessed them with verse. What gifts do you bestow?”

Brigit of healing says, “I share my curiosity so they explore their world and themselves.”

Brigit of the forge answers, “I share my love of craft, the shaping of earthly elements.”

Mother says, “I pray they find peace and joy in our plentiful gifts before destroying them.”

From Guest Contributor Soma Datta (@somaxdatta)

The Goddess Becomes

It was a pleasure to burn. Of the eight, it was my most beautiful arm: the hillside slope of the shoulder, the tender elbow, that lilting wrist, narrow yet invincible. Had he seen it in the dance, or still in his Sistine posture, even Michelangelo would have known God is a woman.

The downy hair went up first, and then the skin, the perfect fingernails, the sizzling fat and muscle. There is always a relaxation in admitting the truth, even a truth that smells like sulfur and charcoal: I am the flames as much as I was ever the arm.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, MoonPark Review, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. In 2013, she and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches poetry and creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. See more at www.brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.

Calypso: Bright-Eyed Goddess

Unknown amongst them,she sits; awe and wonder.Blazing eyes searching,surrounded, glorious banquet,wondering of the occasion.‘Where is your father?’Calypso forbidden his return!Wanting the strong man herself,locked away, a vaulted cave;awaiting his love.

Prisoner of the Nymph’s love.‘I actually heard he was home!’The gods, it seemed, had sinister plans.Not returned from battle,vanished, Never to be seen again.

‘What is the meaning of this banquet?’Men of Troy had heard of the banishment,their behavior animalistic.Seeking the love of the ‘widow,’leaving the son belittled,doomed to an inglorious future.

From Guest Contributor Melissa Land