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Before the first strike of the chisel, she was stone. Ten sweat-grimed men worked quickly cutting into the ribs of a mountain that held more graves than most. Their rusted winch snapped dragging her out of the quarry, killing two and injuring a third. Eventually the foreman, a bow-legged man forever gnashing at his cigar, coaxed new workers into hauling her the final few feet. Then, heaved onto a truck, she was driven to a warehouse in the city she used to overlook. “What d’ya think of her?” Cigar slapped her flank. A young man in a misbuttoned waistcoat stepped forward, his lips parted. “Beautiful.” Droplets of humidity from his breathless panting settled onto her rough surface. “Good. Now pay me for lugging her ass outta there. Killed two of my best men.” The young man reached deep into his trousers pocket and extracted a billfold. His pale, thin hand proffered a selection of notes. “If they were your best, why are they dead?” She remained there, absorbing talk and exuding moisture, for two days before the thin, disheveled young man collected her. Chills coursed through her at his tentative first touch. “I’m Arthur,” he murmured, his cheek laid gently against her. “I’m a sculptor.” He traced a line down her side; the fingernail scraping at her. A tiny shard came away. He flicked it to the floor. “I’m going to make you magnificent.” Arthur’s studio, once she arrived, felt cool, though the men straining to move her sweated in the afternoon sun. Finally ensconced in the middle of the empty room, the men laughed and slapped her with damp handkerchiefs. She groaned, shifting her weight imperceptibly. Then, they left. For days. Time fragmented here. Not one seamless transition from morning to afternoon to evening and beyond, time was punctured, and punctuated, by the sharp clops of horse hooves and the whining grind of car engines. She felt the sun weakly, through grimy windows set high in the walls. Metal roofing repelled the elements. When Arthur returned, alone, he carried hammers and chisels. He accepted delivery of a table; the accompanying stool arrived a week later. Pencils and paper moved about endlessly as he sketched, capturing her in both her current form and the one he dreamt for her. “Would you like to see what I am going to make of you?” Arthur held up a sheet roughly lined with a woman’s form. She shrank from the sense of what he was showing her. The lines were brash and arrogant, thick tumbling scratches vying for dominance. He tacked the drawing on the wall and began to sweep. Then he sharpened his tools. Finally, he seemed bored of preparations. He struck. She perceived no pain. Instead, she sat amazed as chunks of her former self piled around them. Listening to the hammer strike the butt of the chisel, she became aware of angles and curves, lines and planes. “Your brow will be high,” Arthur murmured, “And your chin strong. You are to be defiant. But you will be beautiful, my darling.” He stroked her with the back of his hand. “I will make you extraordinary.” As he chipped and chiseled away, casting more and more of her to the floor to be swept away into the refuse pile behind the warehouse, she felt herself slipping away. The one she had been, in the mountain, under the water, was gone. She would be new. The spirits she carried ran in fright from this unfamiliar thing. And to frighten the ancient ghosts, she must be terrible indeed. The sun left and when it returned, Arthur stumbled in retching on his own doorstep. He sank to the floor, his back against the door, his jacket soaking in bile. “I hate that man,” he muttered. “My little piece. That’s what he called you, my love. My little piece.” Arthur rolled into the room, smearing vomit across his shirt. He landed flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “He asked me, ‘Son, what is your little piece to be called?’ Do you want to know how I answered?” He paused. “Of course you do. You are waiting with baited breath,” Arthur snickered. “I said, ‘Father, dear Father, my little piece will be called Medea.’” Arthur craned his neck to look at her. His bleary-eyed stare clung to her like algae. He rose, stumbled, careened to the cabinet. He yanked the doors open and, having pulled too hard, followed the momentum and fell to his knees, giggling. Every move reverberated through her. Digging around, discarding rags and papers, Arthur produced a bottle of sherry that he held aloft. “Huzzah! A lesser quality than Father’s but so be it.” He tugged the cork out and drank deeply, spilling some down the front of his stained shirt. He gulped, coughed. “That’s you, my love. Medea. Do you know the story? Angry with her husband for running around with another woman and killed their children. That’s it. An old story.” Arthur swung the bottle around him by the neck then placed it to his lips and guzzled the rest. She shrank from him. He dropped the bottle with a clank and a crack. His arms swung out wide; he dropped his chin to his chest. She, now Medea, thought he’d fallen asleep, crucified by drink. But then he began to laugh, a deep rasping erupting from his chest. He lifted his head. Tears snaked down his face. Then, a small jig in his hips, a movement that she nearly mistook for a step toward her. He inhaled, sucking through his mouth, and he leapt. Landing on his toes, he leapt again. And again. He whirled, winding a trap of stale breath and stink until she was surrounded. She felt him, rage bleeding from his mouth, grief welling like a river behind a dam. He laughed harder, the sound hardening, becoming a brittle cackle. The cackle became a scream. Arthur collapsed to the floor. Medea wished she could do the same. Another trip of the sun and a young woman burst through the feeble door. She clicked in on heels like knives. Arthur lay curled around his vomit-soaked jacket on the floor. A broken bottle lay at Medea’s feet. The young woman, a parasol gripped in her fist, tapped his forehead with the toe of her shoe. “Get up,” she commanded. Arthur snored. She rapped his temple with her foot. Once, “Will.” Twice, “You.” Thrice, “Get.” She delivered a hard kick to his shoulder. “Up!” Arthur snorted. Rolling onto his back, he reached for her. “Ugh, Arthur!” She pranced backwards, avoiding the grubby hands. “This is ridiculous.” She slapped the sides of her dress with her gloved hands. Medea watched her eyes dart in disgust landing, finally, on Medea herself. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen from you, Arthur.” She sneered. Medea groaned. Arthur sighed, forced himself slowly to his knees, then his haunches. He crouched there, his blood-shot eyes staring balefully at his creation’s feet. “Margaret, she’s not finished yet.” His voice scraped out of his throat. Margaret sniffed, yanking her gloves tighter. “It’s heavy, coarse. The stone is mottled, not a good quality. There is no finesse, no artistry. And worse, I feel nothing when I look at her. No rage, no passion, nothing.” The words spewing from Margaret’s mouth washed over Medea. “She’s not finished yet, Margaret.” Arthur’s teeth snapped as he bit off her name. Margaret shook her head, the feathers of her elaborate hat swishing side to side. “It doesn’t matter, Arthur. You are far enough along. There should be something there.” Arthur grunted. “Shut up, woman.” Margaret clicked her tongue. “You’re an imbecile. Or mad.” She caressed a ribbon tied to her dress, flattening it against her skirt. “In any event, I won’t marry you.” Arthur lifted his face. Heat rose through Medea’s feet, through the folds of the garment carved into her legs. She wanted to twist away. But she had nowhere to go; nothing to relieve the pressure she felt. Arthur rose, his eyes fixed on those of his fiancée. Margaret slipped a ring off her finger and held it out. It sparkled in the dusty beams of light filtering through the room. Medea pulled herself in, away. Arthur snorted, turning his back. Margaret dropped the ring to the floor, a shard of sunlight flashing off the metal as it fell. She strode through the door, slamming it shut behind her. Arthur picked up a hammer. When he was finished, Medea had a face. The cleaves and hews were sharp, cutting against the humid air surrounding her. She felt stung, her stone weeping. The harsh sandpaper he took to her next forced more of her to crumble. He gave up when the dust began to irritate his lungs. Throwing his tools at her feet, he barged away, not bothering to lock the door. Medea exhaled. But she could not settle. Striations of rock vibrated. Minerals throbbed as they forced their way to the surface. No longer her old self, she couldn’t control her own rock. Those pieces, mixed in, vied for their own shred of sunlight, should it ever come again. The next morning, Arthur sanded more gently. “You see my love; you see how they treat me?” Sober, refreshed, he had come dressed in clean clothes and smelling of lavender. She remained rigid. The air in the studio hung rank and stale, though the front door stood wide open. She swelled in the humidity. Yesterday’s emotion hung in the air, its own cloudscape. Medea absorbed it all. “I am but a pawn to them.” He wiped dust from her eyes. “They think I’m stupid, a fool, laughable.” Arthur took a short rasp to her chin. “They think I’ll get this out of my system. Finish my little piece, work for Father. Or take up the law, God forbid.” Arthur gently stroked her cheek. Medea felt a prickliness at her surface. He continued, “Mother cries that her boy is obstinate. She raised me better.” Arthur peered into the eyes he’d shaped. Medea stared back. Moonlight crept through the windows that night. The shadows thrown onto the floor chased each other, melded together. “Marble is quite soft, my darling,” Arthur had told her once, his hand draped over her shoulder, “that’s why it’s so easy to shape.” But he’d carved severity. Medea stood upright; poised to step. One arm hung by her side; the hand gripped a knife. The other reached, fingers outstretched, palm open. Her shoulders were squared, her chin set firm. He’d cut lines around her eyes, forcing her expression into one of anger, menace. “Shall I paint you?” Arthur caressed her cheek. “Perhaps jewels?” He laughed. “Something that sparkles.” He told her the story of Medea again as he polished her with a cloth. Told her how she’d tried to fool Jason into thinking he was forgiven; that she’d wanted to kill him too. When he got to her face, rubbing gently over her nose and cheeks, she allowed her eyes to follow his hands. It amused her that he felt it, jumping, startled. That night, she marveled at the power surging through her arms and shoulders, the energy in her legs. She examined the strength of her back, found herself tall, proud. She noted the defiance in her jawline. She felt the intelligence behind her eyes. The next morning, something in Medea’s breast fluttered when she heard Arthur’s key jerk into the lock. He yanked the door open. “There you are, my dear. Sleep well? I did. I did, yes, thank you. How do I look?” He twirled in front of her. His new coat flaring out just above his knees, the thread glistening. Medea admired him, her sculptor. The flutter quickened and a pulsing throb spread from the center of her chest outward into every line and curve carved into her. As she gazed at him, the bright patent of his new leather shoes sending shards of light in every direction, she thought, for now she could think, of dashing herself to the floor, setting free the thrashing being trapped within cold rock. “I have a meeting now, my love, a very important meeting.” Arthur giggled. He ran a fingertip down her arm. “Your new master is buying me lunch.” The creases around Medea’s eyes deepened. She watched as he gazed into her face, seeing nothing. In the center of that pulsing throb, a hole opened.  “Yes, my love, you are to have a new home. What do you think of that?” He placed his cheek into her outstretched hand. His delicate skin warmed her. The flutter seized, spasmed. Her gaze moved with him as he stepped back. Ice from the harshest winter wound down her back. Her throat, a piece of anatomy that until a moment ago merely lacked air to cry out of its own accord, squeezed shut. “Ah, my love. I’ll visit.” His gaze, pride knocking against her, fed the rage already etched into her face. He lifted his hand to her cheek, pressing his warm palm against her. His face loomed closer as he brought his lips, chapped and smothering, to her own. She felt the kiss, meat against stone, and a shudder surged through her. “I am ridiculous.” Arthur breathed into her face, a moist breeze settling over her. “Well, my love,” Arthur pushed away from her, “I am off. When I get back, I’ll have your new owner ripe and ready. Do make an effort.” He smacked her hip and scurried out, banging the door behind him. Medea remained in the center of the room. Arthur’s excitement buzzed through her, every crystal vibrating. She fought the emptiness opening wider, deeper. She moaned, minerals grinding. A great wrenching feeling overwhelmed her and Medea found muscle and sinew. She twisted. The arm shackled to her side tore free. Arthur spun back into the room. “So sorry, my love, forgot my umbrella.” He waved. Her arm rose. The knife lifted; its point sharp. He raced back, heading for the door, brandishing his umbrella like a sword. Medea groaned forward. Her body stiff, cumbersome. Fingers tightening around the knife she could not put down. Arthur stopped, eyes growing, jaw working. His umbrella fell to the floor. Medea ground toward him, grasping, rock springing free. A voice, older than the fury scored across the planes of her face, asked her to stop. She could not. She would not. Resistance at the end of the knife. Man’s skin a thin barrier to his stomach. His blood warmed her hand. Janel Konzer is a fiction writer living in Michigan. She drinks far too much coffee and knows far too few crows. Her hearing is terrible, a good thing considering her house is very loud.

wisps of my mother’s Latin  haunt my head while  my fingers caress the water’s surface and I cross myself  In the name of the Father, the Son   et Spiritus Sancti in the sanctuary, old women  peppered across cedar pews rosaries wound round their knuckles  chant to our Lady  making grace bloom in my dusty heart though I never belonged here as a child, I prayed to the moon and now leave witches’ ladders  to unravel back into the earth in the ivy patch behind my shed yet the quiet feeds me musty incense cool granite pillars  still whisper a little like  the divine in the tiny girl  corners of my mind God is not the building and is enough to get me through with some kind of peace  until evening Jeanette Barszewski received an MFA in Poetry from Brooklyn College. Her poems and short fiction have appeared in Literary Mama, Cooper Street, O-Dark-Thirty and  Elixir Verse .  Jeanette is a queer writer currently residing in Hamilton, NJ with her family. She enjoys old-lady hobbies like gardening and making art out of pressed wildflowers. You can find out more about her at www.jeanettebarszewskiauthor.com

“Jimmy!” Grant whispered. He grabbed his sleeping brother’s shoulder and shook him. “Jimmy, wake up!” Jimmy groaned. He opened one eye and looked at the Darth Vader clock next to his bed. It was 3:05 AM. He rolled over and pulled his Star Wars blanket up over his head. “Go away,” he mumbled. Grant yanked the blanket away from Jimmy’s face and shook him again, with both hands this time. Jimmy planted a hand on Grant’s chest and pushed him away. “Stop, I said!” “You have to get up!” “Why?” “Something’s wrong with Mom.” Jimmy sat bolt upright in bed, immediately wide awake. His heart slammed against the inside of his rib cage. He reached over and turned on the lamp, squinting against the sudden brightness. “Again?” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Grant nodded solemnly. His lower lip quivered. “How do you know?” “I got up to pee, and I saw her.” “Where?” Grant pointed at the ceiling out in the hall. “Up there.” Jimmy pressed his cheek against the door frame, edging just close enough to the opening to see sideways into the hallway outside. “Is she there?” Grant asked. Jimmy shook his head, then closed the door. He turned to his little brother. For the first time, he noticed that the sleeves of Grant’s Spider-Man pyjamas were two inches too short. He was growing up so fast. He’d be seven soon. “Are you sure you saw her?” “Yes!” “Okay. I’m going out. You stay here.” Grant’s eyes went wide. He shook his head. “Uh-uh. I’m coming too.” “You know what can happen when she’s like this.” Grant nodded. “And you still want to come?” Grant hesitated, then nodded again. “Okay.” Jimmy put his hand on the doorknob, then paused. “And you know what to do if–” “I know, Jimmy. Let’s just go, okay?” Jimmy took a deep breath, then opened the door. He stepped quietly down the hall towards their mother’s room. The hardwood floor was cold under his bare feet. Grant stayed two steps behind him. He had grabbed the stuffed Spider-Man doll from his bed, which he now clutched tightly to his chest with both arms. Jimmy kept his eyes on the ceiling as he walked. He glanced sideways into the shadows of the stairwell. There was nothing there. Nothing he could see, anyway. A floorboard creaked under Jimmy’s foot. He froze, listening. There was a faint rasping sound coming from the direction of their mother’s bedroom. It sounded like breathing. Grant reached out and tapped his brother’s shoulder. Jimmy drew in a short gasp and spun around. “What?” “What if she won’t come down this time?” “She will.” “But what if she won’t?” Jimmy put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “She will.” Grant nodded. Jimmy turned and continued slowly down the hall. Grant followed. The door to their mother’s room was open. The moonlight from the hallway window softened the darkness just enough for them to see to the foot of her bed. The covers were tossed on the floor. Jimmy crept up to the door, then turned to Grant. He lifted his fingers to his lips. Shhh.  He pointed at Grant, then to a spot on the floor, against the wall outside the door. You. Stay. Grant nodded. He stepped back against the wall, to the spot where Jimmy had pointed. He hugged his Spider-Man doll to his chest even tighter. Jimmy leaned into the doorway. His eyes scanned the ceiling. There was nothing there. He relaxed a little and stepped into the room. The bed was vacant. A single pillow was in place on one side. The other side was empty. Jimmy tried not to, but he couldn’t help but look at the wall at the head of the bed. It was crisscrossed with paint roller marks, from a recent paint job. The work looked hurried and careless, like whoever painted it was more concerned about covering something on the wall than they were about aesthetics. “This is all your fault,” a voice whispered. Jimmy spun around. It was his mother. On the ceiling. Just like Grant had said. She was pressed into the space directly above the bedroom door. Jimmy had walked right underneath her. She was laying on the ceiling just as effortlessly as a person might lie on the floor. It was as if gravity had inverted itself. As if the world had been turned upside down. But just for her. Her back was against the ceiling. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, with the soles of her feet flat against the wall. Her arms were spread wide like a crucifix. Her fingers were cramped into claws, fingertips digging into the plaster. Jimmy could see the veins in her arms. They stood out against her pale skin like rivers winding through a winter snowscape. Dark liquid pulsed through them, as if her blood had been replaced with crude oil. The same thick black lines branched upwards from the neck of her t-shirt, climbing her neck and spidering into her cheeks and temples. Even the blood vessels in her eyes were black. She was clad in nothing but an oversized Yankees t-shirt. It was worn thin and faded with age. Jimmy recognized it immediately. It had been his father’s. “Mama,” Jimmy said, his voice steady. He held his palms out in a calming gesture. “It’s alright. It’s just me. Jimmy. Come on down now, okay?” “ALL. YOUR. FAULT!” she growled through clenched teeth. Long drips of spittle dangled from her blackened lips and dripped on the floor. Grant’s face appeared at the edge of the doorway. Jimmy made a subtle gesture, a quick flick of the wrist. Stay out.  Grant drew back into the hall. “I know you’re upset,” Jimmy said. “But it’s going to be okay.” His mother’s lips drew back from her teeth in an animal snarl. Her gums were black too. “He never wanted you.” A warm flush heated Jimmy’s face. He shook his head. “Daddy was sick, Mama. And you are too.” “NO!” she shrieked. She thrust her legs against the wall, propelling herself across the ceiling until she was directly above Jimmy. The speed and suddenness with which she moved were startling. Jimmy stumbled backward, falling hard on his bottom. The back of his head hit the nightstand. Out in the hall, running footsteps receded into the distance. Jimmy rolled his head sideways. He could see under the bed, past the dust bunnies and lost socks, straight through to the open bedroom door. A tiny masked face was looking back at him. Grant’s Spider-Man doll. It was on the floor in the hall. Jimmy rolled his head forward again. He was on his back, looking directly up at his mother as she hovered against the ceiling overhead. Her eyes blazed with irrational fury. Every blood vessel in her face oozed with black liquid, fracturing her visage like the face of a shattered china doll. “Get out of here,” she seethed. Rapid, hot breaths whistled in and out of her mouth. Jimmy climbed to his feet. “Mama? I’m going to reach for you now,” he said. He slowly raised his arm towards the ceiling, fingers open. “I want you to take my hand.” “No,” a small voice said. “Don’t touch her.” Jimmy looked to his side. Grant was standing silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, clutching something small and black in both hands. A gun. It was their father’s revolver, the .38 he had kept in his nightstand in case someone tried to break into the house while they were sleeping. It was meant to protect the family. It didn’t. After their father was gone, their mother had moved the gun downstairs, to a box in the hall closet. She couldn’t bring herself to discard it, despite what he had done. It was the last thing he had held in his hands before he died. It was all she had left. Jimmy and Grant weren’t supposed to know where the gun was hidden. But they did. Grant pointed the gun up at their mother. The weapon looked huge and heavy in his tiny grip. Jimmy kept his one hand extended to the ceiling. He held the other out toward Grant. He kept his eyes on his mother. “It’s okay, buddy. You can go back in the hall. She’s going to come down.” “I don’t want her to.” Grant’s voice wavered. He tightened his grip on the pistol. “I want her to be gone.” “Then do it!” she spat. “What are you waiting for?” “No!” Jimmy said sternly. “Grant, don’t do anything. Just go out there and let me handle this.” Grant put his finger on the trigger and took a step into the room. “It’s her  fault Dad’s gone. Not yours. Not ours. Hers .” “It’s nobody’s fault,” Jimmy said. “He was sick.” He reached his hand further towards the ceiling, almost on his tiptoes. He wiggled his fingers. “Mom, come on. Take my hand.” Tears spilled from Grant’s eyes. “Don’t. Please. What if you get sick too?” “I won’t,” Jimmy insisted. He turned his head and looked at his brother. “Look at me. I’m not lying.” Grant looked at Jimmy for a long beat. His brother’s gaze was steady and sure. Grant’s grip on the gun slackened. His arms relaxed. He lowered the weapon towards the floor. “Good,” Jimmy said. He looked back up at the ceiling and raised his arms back up to his mother. “Mom? We love you, okay? Both of us. Me and Grant. We’re here for you. Come on. Come down.” His mother’s face changed. The fury in her eyes slowly flickered out. The black liquid began to recede from her face. The color of her lips faded from black to grayish-blue. A sob racked her chest. She reached down from the ceiling towards Jimmy’s outstretched hands. Their fingertips brushed, then intertwined. Jimmy gently pulled his mother down from the ceiling. She descended slowly, horizontally, as if being lowered by strings. As she came down to his level, he turned her and guided her onto the bed. Her head settled onto the pillow. Her breathing relaxed. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. The bedsprings squeaked as her full weight sunk into the mattress. It was over. Jimmy brushed her hair away from her face with his fingers. Her skin was cool to the touch. The black liquid was gone from her veins. Her lips were pink again. Jimmy planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. Then he walked over to Grant and took the gun from his hand. Grant let him. “Let’s put this away,” Jimmy said. “For next time?”  “There won’t be a next time.” Jimmy put his hand on Grant’s back and guided him out of the room. He pulled the door closed quietly behind them. It latched with a click. Jimmy bent down, picked up Grant’s Spider-Man doll, and handed it to his brother. “Don’t forget this.” Jimmy led his brother back to their bedroom. Grant climbed into his bed. Jimmy pulled the Spider-Man blanket up under his brother’s chin. Grant yawned, then looked at Jimmy. “You’re sure there won’t be a next time?” Jimmy smiled, then nodded. “I’m sure.” Grant smiled back, then closed his eyes. He rolled over to go to sleep. Jimmy straightened up and looked down at his brother. Behind Grant’s ear, there was a tiny spiderweb of black veins. A trickle of black liquid leaked from Jimmy’s nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve, then lifted the gun. Warren Benedetto writes dark fiction about horrible people, horrible places, and horrible things. He is an award-winning author who has published over 260 stories, appearing in publications such as Dark Matter Magazine, Fantasy Magazine , and The Dread Machine ; on podcasts such as The NoSleep Podcast, Tales to Terrify , and Chilling Tales For Dark Nights ; and in anthologies from Apex Magazine, Tenebrous Press, Scare Street, and many more. He also works in the video game industry, where he holds 50+ patents for various types of gaming technology. For more information, visit  warrenbenedetto.com  and follow @warrenbenedetto on  Twitter  and  Instagram .

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 .

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.] 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.

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.)