Archives
167 items found for ""
Contributor Content (162)
- Across the Marsh
Nobody batted an eye while the man with the carrion-crow mask handed the little girl flowers of violet. Not even the young farmhand, who stood by the dank estuary with a slender torch and makeshift antler horns of wood. Turning away from the tall, strange man in the woods, the farmhand slipped back into the firelight of the village festival of Samhain; the final day of October was setting upon this village, with the moon in a deep shroud behind grey clouds and rousing smog. A shrewd chill caressed the fair skin of many village folk, but the blazing flames and veiled costumes warded off the frigid omen. In tandem, sultry oranges and fiery reds danced off the slender and depressing beak of the stranger, as he remained on a single knee in front of the little girl. Prominent cracks and shavings of deteriorating birch were beginning to show on the faded white of the bill, and those two eye-holes were merely part of a sunken lake at dusk. Still, the little girl grinned and giggled at the ridiculous mask, bearing her own pair of tiny, wooden antlers. She asked the silent and dignified man: “Why doesn’t your mask look like the others? It looks dangerous and pointy.” The stranger’s head lowered slightly towards his chest, brushing against the mantle of dead leaves; these crisp and colourful pigments of nature lined the entirety of his neck, acting as a warm pelt one would wear during the winter solstice. Slowly, he reached the backside of his leather-gloved hand to brush down the little girl’s cheek. “Ye are fair, but ye danced around the flame of cattle thrice sunwise.” He spoke softly, as though this voice did not belong to him. Perhaps it was stolen—his voice. And maybe yet, the little girl knew this, for she now wrapped her arms taut around the nearest fir tree; her village had been blessed with their rich verdants, warding off bitter spirits from entering their tiny village in Meath—a spacious and Holy land of Celtic worship and Pagan practices unto nature, surrounded by a vast woodland and towering spirits of festivity. “Where would ye like to go, little one?” The carrion-man’s voice was silky, but the hollow of the wooden beak recused its butter-slick tune—muffling the inquiry with a freakish reverberation. The little girl paused for a moment. “Where do others dance? I think I would like to go there.” The gifted flower stung sharply in her hand, but she held it tightly as she mumbled into the old tree. And so, the tall man with the carrion-crow mask took her tiny hand in his, sauntering slowly towards the quiet marsh ahead. Craning his head back to the raging flames of the Samhain festival, the carrion-man watched as many humans danced their sweltering flesh around the heaps of offered livestock—many hopping and tripping into loved ones as they hesitantly threw away their spot in the dance. Of course, it was obvious as to why this was; the souls of the living were never ready to face their awaited fates on the night of Samhain. When the little girl turned her face to stare up at the carrion-man, her golden locks formed their own mantle at the base of her neck. “What is the flower’s name?” “Wolfsbane,” he answered, without so much as a breath to ponder. The little girl giggled with a childish croak. “Does it nip?” A curt nod was the only response that left the carrion-man’s rangy stature. Slowly, he took to his knee, dipping two fingers into the murky bog that rested, now, at their feet. There, he mumbled a chant of sorts—one which stole away the little girl’s curiosity as she stood in timid nature behind the man; for before her eyes, a gargantuan monster of shimmering verdant and fallen leaves emerged from the deep water. Upon meeting its beady eyes with the little one, it bowed its head in a plodding manner, paying no mind to the carrion-man. “Oilliphéist, I require assistance. Imprudent passage across the marsh would prove unbefitting for this young one.” The water-serpent, known as Oilliphéist, reared its long and slender neck as it glared down upon the carrion-man. “Is the dusk of Samhain arrived yet?” it spoke in its baritone bite. The carrion-man nodded his head as he reached a careful arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “It has, Oilliphéist.” The disquieting crow mask tilted upwards slightly, causing a few leaves to fall from his cloak to the ground below. Once more, the serpentine creature looked down towards the little one. Then, it sighed. The carrion-man did not join with Oilliphéist in staring at her. Instead, he continued: “I have met with the one who danced thrice sunwise. Thus, I am to be granted passage across the marsh, for this flower will never bloom in such a dank locus.” Oilliphéist scowled with a burning grin. “An appraisal of mankind may yet be in order.” Then, it brought its snarling snout and piercing fangs down to the little girl’s height, brushing tenderly against her clothed chest of ebony and white. The carrion-man cupped his hands together as he gestured for the girl to use his palms as a stepping stone. Giggling, she practically leapt off the makeshift stool, wrapping her arms around Oilliphéist’s viscid neck with a content sigh. “Your turn, mister!” she exclaimed with a rosy tint in her cheeks. The carrion-man did not appreciate his calling of that honorific, but Oilliphéist seemed to quite enjoy this shroud of discomfort that now clouded its backside. Quickly, the masked man launched himself up onto the thick tail of the creature, holding on with shaky arms as his beak now pointed down towards Oilliphéist’s slippery flesh. The girl laughed at this. Here, a guttural purring emanated throughout its serpentine stature, nearly knocking the carrion-man off its jagged tail. “I think it likes us,” the girl chippered. ‘It reminds me of our field kitty. But I’m not sure if Oilliphéist enjoys chasing crickets, or not.’ The carrion-man clicked his tongue, while Oilliphéist craned its neck to bare its fangs and smirk through its slimy snout. “My body is not privy to versatility, but I do enjoy watching little rodents cower and squirm,” it remarked, staring down at the man who was holding on for dear life. He’d had enough. “Let me up, Oilliphéist, or the wolfsbane will wilt!” “And let it!” Oilliphéist bellowed. Not startled by the water-creature’s sudden encroachment, the little one suddenly stretched out her smooth arm, reaching for the carrion-man as she grunted a huff of discomfort. “Take my hand, mister! Oilliphéist’s backside is certainly tricky to stay seated on!” The serpentine monstrosity laughed with thunderous applause. “Only when a poison lurks near my scales, little one.” “Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man bit back. Immediately, Oilliphéist’s scales rattled and peaked, and its flesh grew quickly frigid in the bog. The carrion-man’s cruel slick of his tongue had finally penetrated the creature’s tough scales; here, it hoisted its tail out of the water to allow slippery passage to its backside. “We will travel across the marsh, to the bed of wolfsbane. There, we will dance until dawn.” And then, Oilliphéist set off through the murky water, gliding silently downstream as the three passed many sunken trees and odd creatures that cackled and hummed as they all met eyes. But Oilliphéist’s strokes through the bog soon slowed, as a ribcage of rotting trees and fir ancestry depressed inwards. Here, a cascade of violet flowers began to twirl down from their decaying branches; many kissed at the little girl’s cheeks, while they fell furthest from the carrion-man. She took notice of this immediately, sliding down the hump of Oilliphéist to reach him. There, she fell down against his chest, bracing herself as her arms wrapped around the crisp cloak of the carrion-man. “Why aren’t the wolfsbane nipping at you, mister?” She looked up at the daunting serenity of his beak. Quickly, he pulled her close—holding her to his silent chest, as he grabbed a gentle pallet of golden hair. With a whisper, he spoke: “Because they know only life.” Oilliphéist came to a steady halt as the wolfsbane began to fall from the trees in a mere maddening waltz, obscuring the girl’s vision as the carrion-man pulled away from their still embrace. Then, he slid off the creature’s scaly tail, before extending a gloved hand to her. “I think my feet hurt, mister.” But the carrion-man reached his arms out to take the little girl in his own, being careful as not to drop her into the abyssal stream of the marsh below. Oilliphéist reared its head to look down at the both of them, with a dismaying amount of ashen smoke circulating its gaping nostrils. “Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man spoke with a slow nod. “I thank thee, as usual. Until the next dance, may we meet.” Oilliphéist dropped its head to conjoin with the carrion-man’s height, before whispering in its thunderous tone: “Go n-ullamhuighe an diabhal teinne dhuit.” And the serpentine water-creature set off into the dank and dreary marsh, its verdant shine disappearing quickly into the thick mist. The little girl watched with her hands balled together against her flat chest, nodding farewell to the creature with an uncertain grin. At this, a reclusive chuckle left the carrion-man’s throat. “Tell me, now,” he whispered gently, “how supple are those soles ye bear?” And she grinned like a toddler as she pinched the silky hems of her dress and kicked up her feet from the frail mulch. “I use them to dance,” she exclaimed. He took her right hand, smoothing over the faint beginnings of youthful veins with his large, leather thumb. “Naturally so, little one. Then, would ye fancy a dance around my glorious pyre?” “Yes! Oh, yes, mister, I would love that!” With his hand still in hers, the carrion-man nodded down at the little girl, leading her by the hand as their shadowless figures disappeared into the forest. No birds were present to chortle hopeless birdsong for a dawn that would never come; still, the wolfsbane fell silently in tandem with a ghostly wind, taking on the figures of saintly songbirds in the little girl’s eyes. Upon sifting through pointed sprigs and mounds of dead leaves, the pair reached the grand, sultry heat of a pyre. Immediately, the little one ran off towards the encroaching heat, which, to her surprise, did not sway the blonde hairs on her arms; because there, prancing around the convivial rocks and logs, were tens of cattle with thick tufts of fur and limbs, all intact. No fire was to be found, but the bleating of cattle filled the air in a much friendlier manner than flame, crackling in the little girl’s ears as she eagerly fell into line behind a stout cattle—while one of gangly stature pranced at her rear. They didn’t speak. Only hundreds of beady eyes fell upon her, horizontal pupils stretched thinner than a raisin, as they stared into the front and back of her golden locks. Still, they danced in their large circle, now hobbling to their hind legs. The little girl quickly wound her arms around the two cattle beside her, flicking her ankles upwards as she pranced along the soft mulch. “Those antlers complement those golds just beautifully! O, it is only in my nature to fall envious!” the stout cattle spoke. The little girl’s eyes widened as she watched the animal’s pale muzzle align perfectly with the chipper, feminine speech. “Really?” the gangly cattle added. “I thought they were the fangs of some rapacious hog!” The little one swiftly shook her head, laughing as she caught her breath from the intricate dance. “It is an honour to speak with you both! I’ve always dreamt of talking with such strange creatures.” Immediately, the gangly cattle reared its head back, bleating loudly with a snort. “What a preposterous accusation, young lady!” “Strange?” the stout cattle blurted out. The third voice that followed was from that of a male cattle. “You, too, dance thrice sunwise around the pyre. Do you not?” “You’re right,” she replied. “You are not strange. Across the marsh, none of you are afraid to dance around the fire. Back home, nobody dances thrice sunwise.” Standing, arms dangling stiffly at his sides, stood the carrion-man with his splintering beak and soulless gaze; for a man with no eyes to look into, nurtured no soul. His cloak rustled against the ground, as countless leaves were whisked away from its virulent drag. Quickly, he fell in line with the cattle dancing opposite of the set sun, to which the little girl’s hand disappeared within the dark leather of his gloves. “Across the marsh, they aren’t afraid to dance!” she shouted over the bleating. He looked down at her brittle antlers. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She nodded along. “Oh, yes, mister. I think I quite enjoy it across the marsh.” Carefully, he slipped more wolfsbane behind her ears. “Thank ye for passage, little Niamh,” he whispered. Then, without a moment to puppeteer her smile any further, she collapsed into his arms. The first peak of the new dawn began to shine through the twisted and cruel branches of the woodland, causing the cattle to fall out of line and bleat amongst one another. A light grey now seduced Niamh’s fair skin, twisting her youth into rot and decay; but the wolfsbane remained untouched, tucked far behind her ears. The very sight of such a pretty thing nipped bitterly at the carrion-man, and he leaned back in solitude as Niamh’s face grew sunken and dry. Slowly, he cradled her in his arms, stalking towards the abandoned pyre. Here, he placed her down against the dark mulch, allowing the Earth to taste her fair skin for the first time. The dirt parted for a moment, inching back from the girl in its distaste, before the small wolfsbane fell from her ears to the ground; it was quickly swallowed up by the leaves, to which the ground then took Niamh into its motherly embrace. The carrion-man, of course, never learned of the little girl's true name; Niamh had been prodding at his throat from the moment he had first handed her the wolfsbane. He suspected that the gold of her hair and the divinity of her youth had placed that name upon his bill; and perhaps learning of her life across the marsh would have sullied the grace of her being. But that was the dutiful call of the wolfsbane, and the carrion-man swiftly shed his deathly mantle, scurrying into the final, remaining shadows of the new dawn. There, beside the amalgamated twist of branches and leaves, remained the abandoned pyre, wrapped around a bed of youthful wolfsbane; and in the middle of it all, were the slender sprigs of two, makeshift antlers poking out from the mulch. They complemented the pyre beautifully. Dani Arieli is a published poet and lover of weird, dark, and archaic literature. She has multiple works published in B222 journal, and two forthcoming publications in Beyond Words and The Familiars magazine. She is currently working towards her Honours Bachelor of Creative Writing and Publishing degree at Sheridan College. During most writing sessions, her black cat sits atop her lap while she fervently taps away at her keyboard; she very much enjoys having a writing partner who can meow. You can visit her website, daniarieli.com for further authorial information.
- The Falling People
Some have begun to wear parachutes when they sleep, for fear they’ll join the falling people. Others carry benzodiazepine spray to shoot up their nostrils. Whether that would even work as they reach terminal velocity is at best uncertain. Most just hope they stay hardbound to the earth. There are, of course, those who don’t believe it’s happening at all, that the "world government" is trying to deceive them. There have always been people like that. I know for certain it’s real because my wife was among the fallen. Sometimes, people say they wish a hole would open up in the ground and swallow them. And in a way, that’s precisely what happens except that it reopens somewhere different, a mile or two above the ground. My wife Sandra and I were walking down the North Circular Road, keeping enough distance so our hands would never brush. “What time’ll you be home this evening?” she asked. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “It wasn’t a difficult question.” “You know this is a busy time for me.” “Like always, Matthew. Just like always.” “I’ll get a bite in the office if that’s what you’re asking; don’t worry about making me dinner.” I knew she suspected I had another woman. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was on the verge of losing my copywriting job and it was hard to be around her. I had myself braced, ready for the next bitter word. But six or seven paces later and there was only the sound of traffic. I looked to the place where she should have been, fearful she was crying. She was nowhere. It was just around the spot where we parted each weekday morning, often amidst an argument, right at the junction with the Rathdown Road. I began to turn in a slow circle. Perplexed. “Sandra?” I said. Where had she gotten to? A line of cars stutter-stepped by on the North Circular Road as I cast about for a glimpse of her light green rain-jacket and red hair. There was a double-decker bus a hundred yards ahead of me and I wondered if she jumped aboard without me seeing. When I looked closer though, I could see that its rear sign read "out of service." I stepped out into the centre of the Rathdown Road peering down through the canyon of linden trees, a robin ever-so-soft-chittering on a branch above me. A Prius taxi prowled around the corner behind me, its horn startling. “What the fook are you at, you clown?” the cab driver roared through the open window, his cigarette dropping ash to the patchwork road surface. “I’m sorry,” I said, though he was gone too quick to hear me. It never occurred to me that Sandra was, at that moment, tumbling at a velocity of perhaps two hundred and forty kilometres per hour towards a canal-side street in the Castlefield area of Manchester. Just as she thumped the ground, a car veered to avoid her, and crashed into a black cast-iron bollard. The driver was a woman called Amanda Gilchrist. Her nose was streaming blood after she was hit by the airbag of her Volkswagen Golf. She stepped out from the vehicle and saw what remained of Sandra before leaning over and vomiting, so that it ran like liquid in the grooves between the crooked cobblestones. One thousand, four hundred, and seventy-seven people have fallen so far on every continent except Antarctica. The smart people of the world have been unable to find a pattern. The less smart claim they have right up until the point that they are proven wrong. A man vanishes in Canberra and falls in Sacramento. An eight-year-old child disappears from a street outside Gare Montparnasse and comes down three Métro stops away in Denfert-Rochereau. Sandra? She was reconfigured in the sky, 166 miles, more or less, as a herring gull might fly eastward from Dublin. Manchester was a city she never visited. Was that of some significance to her down falling? The questions we ask expecting answers. Several times on the day we parted, I keyed out messages on my iPhone only to delete them without sending. I’d no reason to suspect anything had happened to her; there were fewer than a hundred fallen people at that time. It was only when I got home from work that I began to think something might be amiss. I wondered if I should call her sister Barbara or her mam Anne, but I didn’t want to scare them. And if it was that Sandra had finally left me, she’d hardly want to speak with me. I was drinking a long glass of Baileys, brim-full with ice, the only liquor Sandra allowed in the house, when the doorbell rang. Was I surprised to see two uniformed police officers? Frightened, yes. Surprised, I’m not so sure. “Are you Mr. O’Sullivan?” the female garda asked. “Mr. Matthew O’Sullivan.” “Yes.” “Would it be OK if we came in for a minute?” I’m not sure if they could have handled the situation any better and I wondered if some officers were chosen for this duty because of their manner and sensitivity. I couldn’t think of anything to ask because I knew they had no solutions. They told me a close family member would have to travel to Manchester to identify that which was left. I was never one for airplanes but nothing two milligrams of Valium would not solve. The idea right then though, of ascending into the sky, crossing the water suspended high above the clouds, this profound fear I might fall, or worse again, see someone falling, I nearly shook. “You’re going to take the boat?” the policewoman asked when I explained my plans. “I have a fear of flying.” The two officers looked at one another. As I shut my front door, I could not shake the feeling that handcuffs might yet be produced, that I would be bowing my head as I was ushered into the back seat of their unmarked car, hoping the neighbours were not watching. When a woman dies in odd circumstances, who is usually to blame? When that couple’s relationship is frayed like an old dried-out elastic band; case closed, one might say. But how could you ever close a case that was beyond comprehension? Early the next morning, I boarded the ferry that would take me to the port of Holyhead before the long train journey to Victoria Station. I tried a few times to read but could not concentrate. Mostly, I looked at the sea, thinking of how many times I wished Sandra was gone, but never like this. It’s strange how years can pass, and relationships get so difficult to disentangle. A joint mortgage, an arthritic red setter, three expensive paintings, and a much-loved Chesterfield couch. I remember sitting in the waiting room of the hospital mortuary. It had been tastefully decorated with comfortable sofas and ersatz impressionist pictures, but the clinical undertones could not be painted over. A victim support officer sat at the other end of the couch, sneaking occasional glances at me, renewing that nagging feeling like I was under observation. A medical orderly came through swing doors, approached the officer and whispered to her. “Are you ready, Mr. O’Sullivan?” she said, softening even further her gentle Mancunian voice. “I think so.” “It’s a formality,” she said. “And they have done their best to make things easier.” On the mortuary slab, Sandra lay, everything but her face enclosed in the body bag. It made me think of the Wicklow Mountains, and a night spent camping up there when we used to love each other. Curled up in our sleeping bags, I found it next-to-impossible to sleep, could feel every bump in the ground beneath me. We never did it again; turns out I was a four-star hotel-kind of person. “Mr. O’Sullivan; can you confirm that this is your wife, Sandra Murray?” the coroner said. “Yes,” I said. I don’t know why I expected some interrogation, or why the idea of sudden arrest kept leaping into my mind. “Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan,” said the coroner. “Would you like to spend some time alone with Sandra?” “Yes,” I said. But I knew I had nothing to say. I moved my lips as if in prayer, but all I did was count to one hundred and one. That felt like it was enough time before I could leave the dead room. There was nobody waiting for me outside and I was grateful for that. Sandra’s father had passed, and her mum Anne had suffered a stroke the previous year—my sister-in-law Barbara stayed home to mind her. Walking back out of the hospital, it was impossible to shake the oddness of being stuck in a place you did not want to be and with nothing to do. I had booked the ferry for the following morning, thinking my gloomy business would take all day. The very idea of going for food, or something to drink, seemed a dishonour to Sandra’s memory. I thought a moment of going back to my hotel to sleep but I knew I’d be examining the ceiling. There was a bus passing headed towards the city centre, so I jumped aboard and tossed a two-pound coin into the fare machine. I got off near Piccadilly Station and walked along the canal. It was a warm Friday afternoon, and the streets of the Gay Village were already abuzz beneath the rainbow bunting. I so envied the crowd’s ease, the frivolity of beer, cocktails, cigarette smoke, perfume and aftershave, a thousand laughs, and the evening’s infinite potential. I kept walking along the towpath, past the old Hacienda and up by Deansgate. The place where Sandra died was nearby—somewhere in between the industrial braid of rusting viaducts and decaying brick bridges—and I could have easily found it if I’d wanted. But I had this dread like I might come across a lost fragment of bone or a tooth that had been missed by the street cleaners. I just kept going and came at last to the Lowry, where I sat worn out on the quay as a single scull rowboat glided by a coupling of swans in the still water. Sandra came home in the hold of an Aer Lingus plane as my ferry sailed past the twin tower chimneys of Poolbeg. There was a removal. A funeral mass. A burial. Sandwiches, tea, beer, cider, and whiskey in the Castleknock Hotel. So many people shook my hand and too many mourners put their arms around me. I dutifully did what I was supposed to, anxiously awaiting the day when people would just leave me alone. For the first time, it gladdened me that we didn’t have children, couldn’t have had children. In the weeks after, panic took a grip on me and metastasised until there was scarcely a bodily or mental function that was untouched. Acid rose in my throat from a gurgling stomach beneath tension headaches that made my skull feel as if it was cinched in a corset. It was impossible to sleep at night and hard to stay awake by day. Each time I stood up from the couch, my head whirled so that I’d have to lean against the wall to regain my equilibrium. I became so sensitised to noise that when a door slammed, or a hammer sounded, I would fully expect to see a broken body nearby. Worse still was any sudden movement, a bird swooping into my eyeline or a helicopter overhead, so that I was certain another person was falling to earth. I found my eyes drawn towards the clouds. I wasn’t the only one and so many others began to look to the sky instead of the screens of their mobile devices. All this talk of multiverses, a tear in space-time, quantum entanglement, string theory, and relativity. I understood none of it, and I don’t want to understand. The only thing we know is it’s happening more often. Is the growth exponential? If it happens ten times a day now, will it be a hundred next week, a thousand by next month? Then came a day that rattled me out of my inertia, when dashcam footage of Sandra’s disappearance was leaked to a newspaper and uploaded to the web. The police had already asked me if I wanted to see it, but I couldn’t bear to. Watching it loop on Twitter, how innocuous it was, like an amateur filmmaker had been experimenting with jump cuts. I let it play back and forth, to scrutinise the moment she passed from sight. But there was only the before and then the after, no dissolution or disintegration, just a cheap sleight of hand. Now you see her, now you don’t. And I began to think maybe it was not such a bad way to glide out from this life, especially if you knew that it was happening. There would be that moment of realisation, the terror, the free fall, and an unquestionably quick death. Was it any worse than lying in a hospice bed with a morphine drip attached to your collapsing veins? My life began to decomplicate. The mortgage of our semi-detached house just off Blackhorse Avenue was cleared. Sandra had far more savings than I’d known, runaway money perhaps, and who could blame her? The boss who weeks before seemed about to fire me was now overly sympathetic, saying I should take a couple of months of bereavement leave. “You don’t need to come back until you are right and ready,” he said in his grating public school English accent. I pretended to be mulling over what he said. “Maybe coming to work’d keep my mind occupied,” I said. “Well, I would like you to take at least a fortnight. And then you see how you feel. No pressure.” Walking out the door of the voguish office on the Burlington Road, knowing I would never walk back in, I felt liberated. I packed a suitcase and, steeled by Diazepam, took a flight to Istanbul, travelling by train back across Europe to London. It took me two months. I had in mind to write that unpublishable novel I’d long thought about but got no further than the third page. All around the world, people kept on falling but I paid little heed to TV, radio, newspapers, or social media. When I arrived in England, I took a short-term let on an apartment in Kennington—unsure if I would ever return to Dublin. “And that I suppose is how I find myself here,” I said as I looked around a small parish hall in South London. “Matthew, thank you so much for your honesty,” said Rebecca, the chair of that evening’s session of the support group for the family, friends, witnesses, and victims of the Falling People. “I can’t lie to myself anymore,” I said. “This is a good step to take.” The heads of the other participants nodded like the hands of a lucky cat in a Chinese restaurant. “I’m sorry for talking for so long.” “Not at all,” Rebecca said. “We can only let go when we open ourselves.” I closed my eyes a moment. And when I opened them, Rebecca’s seat was empty. Ken Foxe is a writer and transparency activist in Ireland. He is the author of two non-fiction books based on his journalism and likes to write short stories of horror, fantasy, SF, and speculative fiction. Previous Stories: www.kenfoxe.com/short-stories/ Twitter: www.twitter.com/kenfoxe Instagram: www.instagram.com/kenfoxe
- It's crushing
It’s crushing but slippery, like a birth but better but worse; there are eyes on you, through you, but you can’t summon any numbers to your mind that make sense. There are too many—for the daylight—and not enough—for the nightmares. A brush against the back of your neck, the rise of your hip. It might be a breath, slightly sour with a metallic glint, and ghostly fingertips that never fully land. You could fight it. You could turn around and look—but you can’t, can you? You’re not ready to face this, this monster that refuses to settle into your brain long enough to become a singular, precise fear. It’s every fear, all the fear, all the cold in your bones and your mother’s bones and her mother’s bones. The slick roll of wet, oily shadow across your shoulders brings you out of your mind and uncomfortably into your body. You fit, but barely; your skin feels smaller, like you’re sharing it with someone—some thing . Something else is in there with you. It’s in your finger bones and in your eyes. It smells like sweat and grease, but a little crisply burnt. You have never smelled this in your life but you smell it in the back of your throat like it’s coming from inside you. It is, of course. If it can unravel you by pulling at your edges, it will. You feel the nausea of bile in your blood, the staccato of your heartbeat, controlled by a thing that has never had one. It was not alive until it took you, and inch by creeping inch, the parts of you that are you begin to erode. It devours you, erases you, becomes you. Breath after breath. Slowly. Slowly. Slower still. You are drowning in air. Your mind is fading, reduced to the sensation of all the hair on your body standing on end. The powerful wrongness is eating at your very soul and you know you cannot stop it. You feel it pull back your lips in a crude, ugly smile. Your teeth are slick, your tongue is cold. You taste the rank decay this thing carries with it. You can’t scream, not anymore. It’s too late for that. It has taken your throat, and it laughs. Kaille Kirkham is a queer American poet living in Tokyo. She is the single mother of a rescue cat and a rude conure. By day, she teaches English literature at a secondary school.
Other Pages (5)
- 7th-Circle Pyrite | A literary journal celebrating worlds beyond
7th-Circle Pyrite A literary journal celebrating worlds beyond Issue 7: Nov. 16 2024 "We have to do something with all this sulfur ." 7th-Circle Pyrite is a celebration of all that transcends the physical or mundane. Spirituality and religion, paranormality, magic, horror, occultism, and the macabre all have a home here. The 7th Circle of Hell as represented in Dante's Inferno is reserved for those who have committed acts of violence. In the world we live in—where violence runs rampant—sometimes we may feel Hell is already here. And if that's the case, let's take the dregs of life—sulfuric as they may be—and turn them into something more beautiful. We are an inclusive publication. Diverse viewpoints are always welcome, and we do not discriminate based on race, gender, age, sexual orientation, religion, spiritual ideology, health, physical appearance, or any other aspect of a person's identity. We publish original poetry, short fiction, essays, and artwork. You are invited to submit your work! Click here to view our submission guidelines. News & Updates Newest 07/20/24 05/18/24 03/16/24 01/20/24 11/18/23 10/15/23 Submissions are open! October 15, 2023 7th-Circle Pyrite is a brand-new online literary journal and anthology. We're looking for dedicated authors and artists to become early contributors to the journal, helping shape our foundation! If you have reviewed our content specializations and would like to make a submission, please visit the "Submissions" page for more details. Issue 1 of 7th-Circle Pyrite has arrived! November 18, 2023 We are excited to announce the publication of the inaugural issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite ! Due to the overwhelmingly positive support of a wide range of talented contributors, we have been able to achieve this milestone for those who have been following our developments. To view the content in Issue 1, click on the cover art in this announcement. We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, short fiction, essays, and visual art for upcoming issues slated for March 2024 and May 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 2 of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now live! January 20, 2024 The second issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite has arrived! We are excited to begin 2024 by sharing an eclectic assortment of works created by our skilled and dedicated contributors. To view the content in Issue 2, click on the cover art in this announcement. We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, essays, and visual art for upcoming issues slated for March 2024 and May 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Additionally, be sure to check out 7th-Circle Pyrite 's appearance in a recent installment of the New Lit on the Block series hosted by NewPages! Click here to view. Issue 3 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and new Gorgon card added March 16, 2024 The third issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now available! We want to extend our warm and sincere thanks to all of the contributors who have helped build this wonderful issue. To view the content in Issue 3, click on the cover art in this announcement. Also, take a moment to check out our new Gorgon card , which represents a category of submissions that supports fantasy and adventure. A big thanks to Nyx for her artistry! We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, essays, and visual art for upcoming issues slated for May 2024 and July 2024. Short fiction submissions will reopen on April 1, 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 4 of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now live! May 18, 2024 The fourth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now live! April 1st marked the date our short fiction submissions reopened and also the start of National Poetry Month in the US, so the submissions we received for this issue showcased a tremendous amount of talent from writers all over the world. We thank all of those whose work appears in this issue, as well as those who have continued to support our journal with their wonderfully creative submissions. To view the content in Issue 4, click on the cover art in this announcement. If you feel inclined, we also encourage you to read an editor interview with Keiraj M. Gillis, featured here on Duotrope . We are continuing to accept submissions in all categories for upcoming issues slated for July 2024 and September 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 5 of 7th-Circle Pyrite is available now! July 20, 2024 The fifth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now available! We continue to assert that our contributors are the most important element of our operation, as without them, we would be unable to provide our readership with our favorite works from around the globe. We also are honored to be one of the first publication credits in many of our contributors' portfolio! It is a privilege to give a platform to the spirited works of writers at all stages of their respective careers. To view the content in Issue 5, click on the cover art in this announcement. We are continuing to accept submissions in all categories for upcoming issues slated for September 2024 and November 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 6 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and 2025 literary award nominations September 21, 2024 The sixth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is here! We hope you enjoy the vibrant assortment of gems that is our latest curated collection. And for those who celebrate, we'd love for you to find a few pieces in this issue that complement the lead-up to Halloween! To view the content in Issue 6, click on the cover art in this announcement. We also want to take the opportunity to notify our readers and submitters that 7th-Circle Pyrite is a nominating publication for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize . These awards are designed to recognize exceptional contributions that have been published in smaller, independent literary publications and presses. Nominees submitted this fall have the potential of being awarded through publication in the Best of the Net and/or Pushcart Prize anthologies slated for 2025. We plan to share our nominations in the announcement for our next issue, but if your work is nominated, you will receive an email from us ahead of that announcement. To learn more about these awards, please follow the links above! We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, essays, and artwork for our November 2024 issue. Short fiction submissions are temporarily closed as of the date of this announcement, but will be reopening on December 21, 2024. Please see our submission guidelines for more details.
- SUBMISSIONS | 7th-Circle Pyrite
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.
- CONTACT | 7th-Circle Pyrite
Contact Please direct all inquiries to the following email address: 7thcirclepyrite@gmail.com Keiraj M. Gillis Editor in Chief 7th-Circle Pyrite NOTE: The tarot-style artwork that appears on this site was created by special commission by Nyx exclusively for 7th-Circle Pyrite . For inquiries specific to the use of this artwork, please contact the email address above. To view more of Nyx's work, please visit this page .