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My mind, memories, and soul came into being—like waking up, only somehow, I was already awake. My dim cabin aboard the Samsa was more dilapidated than I remembered: rust and barnacles plastered every wall and fitting, the sink black, the mattress on which I lay threadbare. Aghast, I sought light, retrieving a matchbox from my front pocket and striking, yet the cardboard crumpled as if sodden, the match flicking from my fingers and floating away. I clambered for the window. Blueish light filtered in. There was no glass in the pane, no wind in the air. No air at all. Abroad lay a wasteland of sand, ruinous ship-waste, and ocean. The seafloor greeted me with visceral indifference.  I assumed myself to be dreaming. Thirty or so metres above, the waves churned like a mosaic ceiling, and I knew such detail alien to all except divers and spear-fishermen. It could never be imagined so vividly. This was real.  The previous evening had been wonderful and ordinary: I took whiskey and flirted with a young French woman in the dining room. A pianist played a fine tune, the girl touched my arm; I retired cradling a bottle, knowing my Australian ventures would be profitable. Now, that bottle floated along the ceiling, an inch of whiskey remaining, sealed away and out of reach.  I marched for the door. It would not budge; something had fallen against it, or maybe the pressure kept it in place—I was not a learned person. I tore off the curtain, seeing only blackness beyond. "Hello? Is anyone out there?"  Light swam through the darkness, illuminating stray particles floating in the corridor. A rainbow of cyan and magenta. "Hello?" a voice answered, accompanied by colours. "Yes! Hello there! What ever is happening?" "Well, we’re inside a sunken ship. Nothing particularly is happening," the voice said, each syllable accompanied by prismatic light. I faltered.  "What of the crew?"  "Crew?" "Of the Samsa , of course. Are they alive?"  "No," it said mirthfully, "they’re quite dead, given that we’re on the seafloor." "Well, that is the crux of my question, my friend: how is it possible that we are living— speaking as we are—whilst stranded without air?" "Oh," the voice of cyan bid, "you ate something, didn’t you?"  "I ate nought but peanuts and drank only whiskey."  The colours ceased. Fear flooded my lungs—to what did I speak? I stepped away from the door, striding for the window, refusing to swim, as if it’d rob me of my humanity. A school of silvery fish glided by. I stuck my head out, but couldn’t squeeze my shoulders through the porthole. My cabin was a cage. Something knew I was in there. ‘Hello?’ I tried again. A dark, mighty shape took form in the distance, fin sweeping back and forth. I slunk inside and sat on the bed. My bed. I pulled the duvet close and opened my copy of Treasure Island . The same copy I drew in as a boy, the one Mother bought for me, and Father read to me. The pages released bubbles. Ink floated free.  A sound echoed from the door, meagre magenta light creeping in. "Are you in this one?" "Go away."  "Your window’s broken—just swim out."  "I’m too big for it."  "Come here," it bid. I closed my book carefully, as if it could ever be saved, and came as bid. In the door’s window drew an eye, wide and unblinking, filling the entire view. The gaze of limbo. "I want to return," I said, hoping Death would heed me if I was one step ahead. "I’m dying, aren’t I? I drank too much. This is a warning. Well, I hear you, mighty God. I want to return home." "I’m really sorry," it said wordlessly, the lights somehow communicating in place of a tongue, "but you’re dead. Well, no— you’re alive, but..." The great pupil affixed to the mirror above my sink. I did not wish to see.  "Did anyone make it out? The nice French girl?"  "I don’t know. The lifeboats are missing, so, maybe." I laughed; pink light shone through my eyes. "If I wasn’t drunk..."  "Please, look in the mirror."  "I do not wish to see, Reaper."  "I am not Death, and you are alive. You’re just not living the life you think you are." I discarded it with a flicking wrist, sneering, laboriously dragging myself where it heeded. I wiped away the barnacles and beheld myself.  Upon a well-dressed skeleton latched me, a tentacled monstrosity. My beak was buried in his skull. Ichor trailed by my lidless eyes, dispersing by my mantle and fins. I tried screaming. A sucker pulled open the jaw, puppeteering shock. I stepped back, abhorred—my tentacles pulled the legs up and down, mimicking walking like a child playing with a doll. "What?" I cried through light, my mantle shifting iridescent blue, flashing wondrously.  "That’s what we look like," the one at the door said. "Well, I’m not attached to a skeleton, not anymore. I had my fill a few hours ago—I didn’t think there were any good bits left. Disconcerting, isn’t it? I saw all sorts of memories, but you’ve done more than see, you’ve become , haven’t you?" "This isn’t real. This is a nightmare. I want my mother and father."  "Unfortunately, I doubt they’d recognise you, or care much. After all, you merely ate their son’s brain."  I hid the skull’s empty eye sockets beneath its picked-clean fingers, not quite realising my eyes weren’t there. "I am their son. How could I not be, knowing all I do? Knowing my first kiss was with another boy under the bridge by West Side? Knowing all those stories I told myself I’d one day write? Knowing my secret plan to name my firstborn after my father? How could I be anything else but me ? No, please, God, save me. Let me live."  The squid at the door floated without input. I became aware of the taste of his brain, sweet and metallic. His skull released a final puff of brown-red as we decoupled. The corpse floated to the floor, his skeletal hand landing in the direction of Treasure Island . I darted from the window. Josephine G Cambridge is a biologist from the United Kingdom who abates the horrors of STEM with scary little stories. When she isn’t spacing out in a laboratory or recommending people read Shirley Jackson, she enjoys history and all things fantastical.

cough in your throat, snake in the woodpile, outside, the poets remember too loudly— quiet, please, time is passing. every morning cracks us open like a boxer’s teeth, every day we sit in the shade & think god, somebody has got to do something about all these weeds. this is the order of the earth; first land & then the concept of land. next the rain sells our secrets back to us. next we are strangers in this town we love. next the house, after much deliberation, burns down. next we are strangers everywhere else as well. we huddle close to whisper we swallow the pulse of the stars we  divide our love like robbery cash we  swallow the pills at sunrise we take turns at the wheel we record everything we swallow the absence until it is gone & forgive all we can bear. everything has a place. i am afraid ours might be  clutching our knees to our chest on the curb  outside the hospital. i am afraid every poem  might become a curse, like ivy strangling our memory with romance. i am afraid when  i remember but also when i’m asleep.  every night we embark on the journey of  persephone—a total eclipse of the limbic system.  no but really, this is the order  of the earth;  first a boy gets cut out  in the shape of a sky, next  a boy learns why no other  boy is in the shape of a sky, next  i carry my heartburn with  me down the street like a glass bird next  a morning cracks the window  of the house & we slip into it  next a seizure performs the labor  our bodies are too frail for next  we become at last familiar  to all things, just long enough  that it becomes our job to  pull up all the goddamn weeds Tyler King is a nonbinary poet in Columbus, Ohio. They are formerly the editor of the online literary magazine Flail House Press , and their work has appeared in Ghost City Press, mutiny! magazine, The Louisville Review of Books , and other places.

It was time to venture out again. He didn’t particularly enjoy these journeys, but at least they were a reason to escape the monotony that was his home life and the misery that came alongside it. The world outside had grown wild and strange, like a painting where the colours had bled off the canvas, pooling into something unrecognisable. He stood for a moment in the doorway, listening to the wind scrape against the dull steel, waiting for the time to feel right. But it never did. He reached for his woollen hat and pulled it over his head, savouring the momentary warmth that it brought. He only had two left; he needed to be more careful with them if he was going to survive the long winter ahead. They were fragile things in a world that consumed everything. He picked up his supply bag, strapped on his mask, and began the lengthy process of unlocking the bolted steel door. Each bolt released with a deep, metallic groan, a sound that echoed through the hollow halls of his home. Eventually, the door swung open with a reluctant creak, unleashing the sharp bite of the outside frost. A few moments later he made his way down the concrete steps and out into the wilderness. The cold slapped him across the face. It wasn’t the kind of cold you prepared for; it was a living, writhing thing that wrapped itself around you, slipping into your joints like a virus. He shivered and braced himself for what was about to come. Which voice would speak to him today, he wondered. The sky overhead was a faded bruise, greys and purples piercing through the many clouds. The streets beneath his feet, cracked and broken, acted as rivers of dirt winding through skeletal buildings. The snow, once white, had taken on the hues of decay, stained yellow and brown from the rot beneath. As he moved, he felt the wind whisper in his ears. He waited for one of the familiar auras to fill his head. He hoped that it would be The Storyteller, regaling him with tales of a long forgotten era, of a time when hope and joy still existed in the world. The trivial matters on which people used to be so focused amused him slightly. So much strife was caused by such small, meaningless happenings. He wished that the world could be like that once again. Those stories were the last shred of beauty, the last pieces of a planet that had once made sense. Or perhaps he would be joined by The Old Friends. He always enjoyed reminiscing about the past, about the before time, and the escapades that they used to get up to. The thought of their voices filled him with a warmth that contrasted the bitter air. The laughter, the adventures they’d once shared, all now just wisps of memory, but still, they were something. Reminders of the former joys in life helped him to keep going. The plans to reconnect with each other and relive these times provided him with a shred of hope and positivity, even if he knew that they would never come to fruition. Instead it was the musical whispers of The Bard that filled his head. The verses of joy and sorrow, of love and loss were always a welcome guest on his travels. The music, vibrant and raw, rose up, filling the desolate streets around him with renewed life. As the familiar melodies lifted his spirits he strode on with fervour towards his destination, his feet crunching against the snow like a dance. For a moment he almost felt alive. The buildings around him loomed high and jagged, the remnants of what once had been humanity’s triumphs were now twisted into monuments of defeat. Vines, dark and brittle, crawled up their walls, fighting for space among the many cracks. The streets were mostly empty nowadays, although he did occasionally see another survivor on his journeys. He had learned long ago not to interact with them. On the surface, they appeared to be no different to him, just another hollow-eyed husk drifting through this ruin like a ghost. However, they were not the same. When approached, they spoke in strange tongues that he could not comprehend, and when he failed to respond, they often became frustrated, even aggressive. It wasn’t his fault that the world had split them apart. It was much safer to give them a wide berth and keep to himself. He could sense their eyes glaring at him, judging him for the lack of interaction, but he kept his head down and avoided any conflict. He moved through the wreckage with careful steps, the icy ground crunching beneath his boots. He could see the luminous green glow of the supply cache against the horizon, blinking like an alien beacon, casting an eerie light across the snow. He was nearing the end of his journey. Just as he began to believe that he would complete his task without incident, the reassuring ballad of The Bard came to an abrupt halt. He had known that it was inevitable, but he couldn’t help but hope that it would not come to pass. He stopped in his tracks, his breath hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke as he waited for the next voice to speak to him. He prayed that he would hear the voice of The Sister, sharing her tales of life in a far-off land, where the air was warm and where the seas still glittered blue. A world that, despite all of its differences, was eerily similar to the one where he found himself isolated. But alas, this was not the voice that greeted him. The voice of The Mother spoke. Her voice was sharp, slicing through his thoughts before he could even brace himself. It stung, each word an accusation, each sentence another cut of the blade. He knew how to deal with the situation. As she rambled on he gave the expected one-word answers, agreeing or showing support where necessary, never saying too much. He was careful with his words, but a mistake was inevitable. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, he thought that his answers had all been acceptable, but evidently they were not. The tirade began, loud and unrelenting, louder than even the howling wind that clawed at his skin and froze his breath. He tried not to listen, but the viciousness of the berating pierced his defences. The world around him blurred, the colours of the sky and snow bleeding together, spinning into a cacophony of greys and whites. What had been a pleasant journey was now becoming a nightmare. He gritted his teeth, clenched his hands into balled fists inside his gloves, and bore the brunt of the attack. He wasn’t sure how long the whole ordeal lasted, but it was with relief that he welcomed the silence that surrounded him once the voice of The Mother departed. His head throbbed, but the world slowly came back into focus. He was so close to his destination. He took a moment to regain his composure, then continued towards the green beacon that marked his goal. As he stumbled into the bastion of hope, he took in his surroundings. The piles of rations were of no interest to him. He pushed past the others who had been attracted by the sanctuary, hardly noticing their presence. His eyes scanned the room until he found what he had been looking for. Overwhelmed with relief, he fell to his knees. He had found it, the golden prize. He lifted the crate of liquid ambrosia in his hands, his fingers trembling as they closed around the neck of one of the bottles. This would be enough to dull the misery and emptiness for another week. D. J. Bates is a new writer who is a proud part of the queer community. They have no previously published works and welcome the opportunity to take their first steps into the world of writing.

Cards 7th-Circle Pyrite features six tarot-style cards on its site. Click each card below to learn more about its significance in relation to our journal's mission. (TIP: Use the search terms "alien," "ghost," "minotaur," "gorgon," "baphomet," and "harpy" in the Archives to find works related to the themes each card represents.)

About Us 7th-Circle Pyrite aims to present a home for all that transcends the mundane. For those who choose to allow their writing and art to capture the macabre, surreal, esoteric, magical, and spiritual aspects of life, our journal hopes to be a refuge. This goal was borne by a desire to create safety and express appreciation for writers and artists whose work may be niche in the creative space. ​ We believe in the abandonment of pretension in our relationship with the creative community. That is, we believe that you as a writer or artist is what makes a journal great; your work is what makes it shine. For that reason, we encourage all who submit their work to remember that we will treat your work with respect whether it is selected for publication or not. And if it's not selected, that is not a reflection on you as a writer or artist . We want all creatives who reach out to us to remember that they deserve a voice and to remain confident in their creative pursuits.

Submissions What We're Looking For 7th-Circle Pyrite accepts poetry, short fiction, essays, and visual art whose content explores spirituality, the arcane and macabre, horror, paranormality, magic, religion, occultism, or whose style embraces dark and/or gothic imagery. These themes include — but are not limited to — the following: ​ Religious/spiritual beliefs and practices Death and the afterlife Astrology, tarot, and magic Paranormal or extraterrestrial experiences Mythology, folklore, and urban legends Demonology, spirits, and the supernatural Cultural tales and traditions Dreams, signs, and omens ​ Write about your relationship with God. Write about that haunted, dilapidated house you and your friends visited as kids. Write about your astrological insights. Write about your thoughts on death, Heaven, and Hell. Write about that one unexplainable event that happened to you that no one seems to believe. If you can travel beyond the material and mundane, we want to hear from you! Submission Guidelines Please review the guidelines below that correspond to the type of submission you're looking to present. Additionally, please take a few quick moments to fully review the FAQ that follows. [Note that you must be 18 or older to submit work.] Short fiction submissions are currently closed. Reopens December 21st. Submit 1-3 original poems for publication consideration. Simultaneous submissions are permitted. You do not need to notify us if your poetry is accepted elsewhere. Previously published works may be submitted. Maximum of 100 lines per poem. Submit your poems as an email attachment to 7thcirclepyrite@gmail.com as a PDF (.pdf) or Microsoft Word (.doc, .docx) file. Include the following in your attachment: Your full name (exactly as you would like it to appear on the site)​ A brief author biography (150 words or fewer) written in the third person An author picture; can be a selfie or professional headshot, but must include your face and modest attire One poem per page A title for each poem Use the subject line " 7th-Circle Pyrite Submission: Poetry " for your email.​ Essays Submit 1-2 original essays for publication consideration. NOTE: "Essay," as used by 7th-Circle Pyrite , refers to informative and/or argumentative pieces, as well as creative nonfiction. Creative nonfiction pieces may detail experiences and information that is autobiographical. Simultaneous submissions are permitted. You do not need to notify us if your essay is accepted elsewhere. Previously published work may be submitted. Maximum of 2,500 words per essay. Submit essays as an email attachment to 7thcirclepyrite@gmail.com as a PDF (.pdf) or Microsoft Word (.doc, .docx) file. Include the following in your attachment: Your full name (exactly as you would like it to appear on the site)​ A brief author biography (150 words or fewer) written in the third person An author picture; can be a selfie or professional headshot, but must include your face and modest attire Essays separated by a page break A title for each essay Use the subject line " 7th-Circle Pyrite Submission: Essay " for your email.​ Submit 1-2 original pieces of short fiction (short story or flash fiction) for publication consideration. Simultaneous submissions are permitted. You do not need to notify us if your stories are accepted elsewhere. Previously published work may be submitted. Maximum of 2,500 words per story. Submit your fiction as an email attachment to 7thcirclepyrite@gmail.com as a PDF (.pdf) or Microsoft Word (.doc, .docx) file. Include the following in your attachment: Your full name (exactly as you would like it to appear on the site)​ A brief author biography (150 words or fewer) written in the third person An author picture; can be a selfie or professional headshot, but must include your face and modest attire Stories separated by a page break A title for each story Use the subject line " 7th-Circle Pyrite Submission: Short Fiction " for your email.​ Artwork Submit 1-3 original pieces of visual artwork (drawings, paintings, photography, or digital art) for publication consideration. Simultaneous submissions are permitted. You do not need to notify us if your artwork has been accepted elsewhere. Previously published work may be submitted. Submit artwork as individual email attachments to 7thcirclepyrite@gmail.com as a PDF (.pdf), PNG (.png), JPG/JPEG (.jpg, .jpeg), or TIFF (.tiff) file. (Each image should have its own attachment.) Include the following in the body of your email: Your full name (exactly as you would like it to appear on the site)​ A brief author biography (150 words or fewer) written in the third person An author picture; can be a selfie or professional headshot, but must include your face and modest attire ​​ The titles of each of your art pieces; these titles should also appear in the file names of your attachments A blurb to accompany each of your pieces that explains the theme it represents; each blurb should be 200-500 words. Use the subject line " 7th-Circle Pyrite Submission: Artwork " for your email.​ Poetry Short Fiction Submission FAQs Q: Who is encouraged to submit work? A: Everyone! Both emerging and established writers and artists 18 and over are encouraged to submit their work for publication. Q: Is any form of payment issued to contributors whose work is accepted? A: At this time, no, there are no payments issued to contributors whose works are selected for publication. Q: What rights do I have as an author/artist if my work is accepted for publication? A: Authors and artists whose work is selected for publication remain the copyright holders of and retain full rights to their work. 7th-Circle Pyrite does not restrict authors and artists whose work is published on our site from doing as they wish with their work elsewhere. Your submission to 7th-Circle Pyrite authorizes our journal only to publish your work on our site. Q: How long does it take to hear back about the status of a submission? A: We strive to follow up on poetry and artwork submissions within 30 calendar days, and fiction and essay submissions within 45 calendar days. We ask that any inquiries into the status of a submission be sent only if you have not received an acceptance or declination email within the number of days relevant to your submission type. Q: How much work can I submit at a time? A: You may submit as many pieces as are allowed in the ranges referenced in the guidelines above for each submission type, but please refrain from submitting additional pieces of that submission type until you hear back about its status. For example, you may submit two poems and three pieces of artwork at once, but we ask that you not resubmit any additional poetry or artwork until you hear back about your original submissions. Please be sure to thoroughly review any acceptance or declination letter you receive, as it may reference a time window during which a resubmission would be unreviewable. Q: Is there a fee required to submit my work? A: Submission to 7th-Circle Pyrite is free of charge. Fees are neither incurred nor collected at any time, for any reason. Q: If a submission is accepted for publication, is it edited first or published as is? A: If a piece is selected for publication but contains a small number of minor grammatical errors, the errors will be outlined in an email to the author. The author will then be given the opportunity to make the requested corrections prior to publication. Q: How often is new material published on the site? A: We publish bimonthly (every other month). Q: In what mediums is 7th-Circle Pyrite distributed? A: 7th-Circle Pyrite is an online publication only. We do not circulate or distribute print-based content at this time.