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Part I: Their ship wasn't meant for oars, but they brought them above deck anyway. They tied the sails down, securing them with ropes to the yard above. Nautes fumbled with the ropes, the knot he was supposed to be tying became clumsy. The older men, those who had made this journey before, didn't comment. In another part of the ocean, they would have shoved his shoulder with wide smiles and teased him for his inexperience. Here, they were solemn and focused. Their movements were tinged with a hurriedness instilled by fear. They floated past a large rock, the landmark, just as they finished tying off the sails and preparing the oars. The captain yelled for them to put the wax in their ears. Around them, the wind died. Nautes stuck the wax, warm from his pocket, into his ears. Shoving it in so far, he was half worried he wouldn't be able to get it out completely. Still, he'd rather not be compelled to throw himself overboard. The captain, with his own honey-colored wax, checked the entire crew’s ears before they began rowing. Nautes had been allowed to simply watch during his first time passing Anthemusa. The closer they got to the island, the calmer the water got. The only current was initiated by their boat pushing itself through the sea. Nautes made his way to the side of the ship. The Sirens' song hadn't even begun, but he already felt the need to approach the island. He gripped the wooden railing as the island came into focus. A plateau in the middle of the sea. The tall, steely cliffs were so high they dominated his understanding of the island. Though rumor had it that above the cliffs was a meadow. In that meadow was a pile of corpses with flesh still hanging off their bones. The island might have been beautiful if not for that horrific image. His Egyptian mother, when hearing of the risks, had invoked the ba-bird. Part of the soul with the human’s head on the body of a hawk. He hadn't understood the connection until his mother had made him promise to do whatever it took to avoid becoming a Siren. Perhaps thinking that the Sirens were corrupted ba-birds who couldn't travel between the realms of the living and the dead, his mother worried they inflicted that on other bau, souls. His mother had misunderstood the Sirens, probably, but she had rightfully assumed they would bring death. Transform him into his own ba-bird. He had taken her talismans, the ankh and wedjat made of blue stone. She had tried to give him more. Except when his father had noticed the talismans were ones primarily placed on dead bodies, he'd stopped her by saying their son was not yet dead. It had been a sobering night, but the next morning his mother had been calmer. Perhaps his father had told her of Odysseus’ crew, who had put wax in their ears to block out the Sirens' devastating song. He must have told her that sailors regularly used this method to protect themselves. Perhaps a tried routine to cheat death had assured her. He still wore the talismans. Before leaving, Nautes had prayed for safety with his father to the goddess Demeter, who had punished the Sirens. As they got closer to the island, an unavoidable risk due to the rocky waters, Nautes began believing that the talismans and prayers had worked. There was no sign of the Sirens. No shadows crossed the boat, no song filtered through the haze of the wax, no one threw themselves overboard. They were so close to the island, Nautes could have swum to the cliffs in minutes. The crew held their breaths, even as they exerted themselves to row faster. The men kept their heads down. Nautes looked up. Standing on the cliff's edge was a girl with large wings sprouting from her back. A Siren. Her wings, golden at first glance, appeared to be rotting. Shining plumage gave way to sparse patches of withered, gray feathers. The wings’ anatomy was nearly hand-like, a poor copy of a hawk’s wing. He touched his talismans. This far below, he could only make out the vague impression of her face, her expression more than her features. She tracked them. Rocking with the boat, he sensed a deep melancholy emanating from her. An apathy that stung and pierced the soul. Where passion and ambition should have been, a hole sucked everything else from his heart. For a second, he feared the wax did not work. That her song was pulling his soul from him, lapping away at it like the tides that had disappeared from the island. His panic dissipated when he registered the sight of her mouth. Her closed mouth. She was not singing. She was not even trying. Alone on the cliff face, she stood silently. It was said that the Sirens’ knowledge – details of the battles no one lived to recount, letters of texts lost to time, desires the kings and heroes never expressed – granted them great power. But as she watched him, silent and impassive, he could not help feeling they were ungenerous to the Sirens. She had not been freed by prophetic knowledge. Her cold eyes, watching the latest but not the last boat to pass her island, seemed far away. Trapped out of time. Held purposeless in this moment, knowing her power had dissolved. Sailors rowed by her island with wax in their ears, and she watched them with a closed mouth. Nautes thought of his mother and father. Of his ambitions and future. He could sail to wherever he wanted, he could forge himself a purpose. Despite the song that made men throw themselves into the sea, he felt sympathy for the Siren. As she rustled her decaying wings, he wondered if she knew how trapped she was. He thought she did. Part II: Peisinoe sat on her pile. Her remaining sisters found it revolting, thought it disfigured a lovely meadow. But the corpses energized her. In a world of constant disrespect, only this pile of their victims brought her a sense of power. Magic around the pile of corpses kept the air clean and flowery. Peisinoe didn't know how it had happened, only that when she'd begun pulling the sailors from the water, their corpses never smelled. They rotted and decomposed without the help of maggots or vultures. Their bones naturally shone like polished ivory. Peisinoe took it as a sign. The corpses were her divinely ordained compensation. When she didn't have the satisfaction of watching boats and bodies crash upon their cliffs, she had her pile. It hadn't always been like this. Before the monotony, before the dead sailors, they had accompanied the goddess of springtime. The lovely, young Persephone who had woven them crowns of leaves and picked flowers to fill their pockets. They'd sat together by crystalline streams, dipping their toes into the sweet water. They'd danced with beautiful nymphs, who laughed like birds. Ligeia and Leucosia had been bright then, following the footsteps of their mother, the Muse of Dance. Thelxinoe had written happy stories, full of beautiful sister-maidens like themselves. Raidne and Aglanoe had learned to braid hair under Persephone's enthusiastic instruction. Then. She remembered it with bitterness, though Thelxinoe insisted it hadn't felt that way at the time. Her levelheaded sister described the warm breeze against their faces, the wind in their golden feathers. Flying above the rolling meadows they'd danced through and the streams they'd bathed in. Peisinoe remembered the wings forming from the bones in her back, growing unnaturally until they pushed through the once beautiful skin, and the sound as they cracked into place. Raidne, still so impossibly young as to have not bled yet, clawing at the ground and screaming as her body tore itself apart. Demeter had given them their golden wings to find her daughter, their beloved friend. They'd searched, flying across the world twice over. They'd searched, but they'd failed. Then Persephone revealed herself to be underground, enjoying her new power as Queen of the Underworld. Demeter had lashed out. Banished them. Raidne, too forgiving, never spoke against Demeter. She was delusional. She forgot no one loved them. Tracing the half-dissolved cartilage of a corpse's nose, Peisinoe considered its beauty. The exposed bone, white despite the grime on the skin centimeters away, was more precious than a pearl. The withering flesh that had once been strong thighs, the callouses that had fallen from hands, the hair that was stringy and thin no matter how well it had been cared for in life. Death restored everyone to their simplest form. Her sisters thought they didn’t understand, but even their own once golden wings now dropped patchy feathers from graying flesh. When the world came crashing down, they – like all people – had looked for simplicity. They sang men into the sea and relished the power. Stopping the sailors who could go anywhere and mingle with whoever; Peisinoe knew the retribution fed her sisters too. Their voices, so beautiful and full of promise, had created a reliable outcome. For a while, it had kept them healthy, stalled the decay. Peisinoe had started collecting corpses after the contest against the Muses. Hera, a cruel goddess in shining satin, had whisked them from their island. At the base of Olympus, they were thrust into a competition against their mothers. Though, for all the welcome they'd received, none could have guessed the relations. Afterwards, Raidne had asked if Calliope was really her mother. This was the first time Peisinoe had seen her mother since her transformation. Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy, had her sword on her hip and tragedy mask in her hand. Staring at her face, Peisinoe had seen layers of twisted grief and dread beyond the passive expression. Hope had surfaced in the moment before she realized those feelings weren't directed towards the Sirens, nor were they feelings at all. Melpomene held her mask because she didn’t need it, her purpose had melded into her being. Peisinoe's rotting wings twitched uncomfortably whenever she recalled this. The Sirens had sung to the Muses. All their pain regarding their abandonment and isolation poured into a melody unlike anything the Greeks had ever heard. The song had carried a depression throughout the land until their old mistress had returned with springtime. Even Hera had wept quietly behind her hands. The Muses had been unimpressed, and when they sang, the Sirens understood why. The Muses plucked melodies from Achelous’ river, from the breezes graced by Hermes, from the flowers bloomed by Persephone. It had been beautiful. Until it wasn't. The Muses were so proud. They had strummed their lyres with sticky superiority. Their coy smiles were so small they had easily slid into their masks of concentration. They were better, and they knew it. Suddenly, the perfection became ugly; beauty drowned in their egregious pride and disregard. When Hera had declared the Muses the winners, they had the audacity to act surprised. Humble in their graceful thanks and generous in their bashful bows. The act would have been perfect too, if obnoxious, had their eyes not flashed in cruel triumph every time they had looked at their daughters. From that day on, Peisinoe considered herself the daughter of that evil and ugly musicality. The rage remained, but the mystery disappeared. She understood why the Muses had abandoned them. They couldn't live up to their mothers' legacy, and if they did, that would be even worse. Their pride wouldn't allow for either option. The Sirens returned to their island with a new understanding, and a new resentment. Their songs were meant to kill. Then things went wrong. It had started with Orpheus, who drowned them out like the Muses had. Must be a family trait, Peisinoe had remarked bitterly. She’d regretted the comment when Raidne had asked how he was family. Thelxinoe had had to tell her that he was Calliope's son, Raidne's half-brother. Then there was Odysseus, who truly brought their world down. The cunning man had been the first to defeat them without magic, and worst, he had made sure he wouldn’t be the last. Their wings had started to rot as soon as he was out of range. Ligeia and Leucosia had plunged into the sea hours later. Aglanoe had left soon after. The corpse pile had gotten too big, she'd claimed. She’d flown across the sea, out of sight, patchy wings barely able to support her. She was going to ask for a place in the household of their Muse mothers. As another daughter of Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy, Peisinoe doubted that had gone well. Once, Peisinoe had preached that the sisters could only rely on each other. Their mistress had abandoned them, her mother had betrayed them. Their own mothers had fought and refused to support them. They could only rely on each other, as sisters who had never been anything but committed. Now, Peisinoe knew even that was a falsehood. She couldn't blame her sisters. Despite all the knowledge their shrieking song promised, the Sirens had never listened to themselves. It was either plunge into the sea, or sit on a pile of corpses making crowns of bone. Part III: Raidne stood on one of the island's many cliffs. By now, the callouses on her feet prevented her from bleeding on the sharp rocks, but the old bloodstains were still visible. She used to leave crimson footprints in their grassy meadow. Maybe she understood why Peisinoe had started collecting corpses; spilling blood had sustained them for a while. Her eyes, sharper since her childhood, tracked the ship. It made fast progress through the glass water. The boat moved rhythmically, pulling itself forward then rocking back as the sailors brought their oars around. The crew kept their heads down. Even with wax and oars, they wouldn't acknowledge her. Except one young man, on the bow, who stared up at her. His eyes sparkled, a deep brown that matched the hull’s wood. Around his neck, amulets glinted in the sun. The symbols carved from blue stone were unfamiliar, given to him by a loving hand. She swayed. Her body couldn’t decide if she wanted to dive after the young man or hide from him. His people understood the magic that stopped boats. Understood their song that brought men to the edge. They had prepared for every peril they could offer, and would rule the world because of it. Why sing to them when they had wax in their ears? Her sisters would no longer humiliate themselves. Raidne had no energy left to try. Should she plunge into the sea, following her sisters? Perhaps that was the only thing left for their song to accomplish. When Demeter had lost her daughter, the fear in her eyes had come from the ground. Her golden dress of stalky fibers had whipped around her as she screamed. The earth had shaken and turned itself over. Crops had died, crushed under tidal waves of soil or withered in drained fields. Even King Hades must have felt his kingdom shake from Demeter's rage. When Raidne lost her sisters, she felt the same earthly fury. The seas had battered their island for the first and last time. The clouds had coalesced into an impenetrable darkness. Beyond time and space, they were one with Demeter in their loss. Daughters lost mothers. Mothers lost daughters. Sisters lost sisters. Her sisters were lost yesterday, and years ago, and months from now. Ligeia and Leucosia plummet into the sea instead of dancing in springtime. Aglanoe flies away to live with her unaffected mother. Peisinoe is being consumed by her rage on a pile of bones. Raidne herself, is lost to time that swallows her now and then and later. Only Thelxinoe spent time with her anymore, even though Raidne’s distant mind couldn't have been much comfort. As a Daughter of Tragedy, perhaps Thelxinoe was better equipped to deal with their lives. Raidne was too consumed. Her mind, her eyes. Every ship she saw, she couldn't tell if it was one she had seen, was seeing, or would see. She tried to ground herself as Thelxinoe advised. Feel the rocks beneath her feet, the sun on her aching wings, the air in her lungs. The ship passed below. Through the haze, through the eerie tug of something that pushed her away and drew her near, she returned to the young man. His expression was strange to her. His eyebrows were furrowed; he wasn't angry. His parted mouth wasn't curled up in fear. Was that awe? Was that the compassion Peisinoe criticized her for? She watched him watch her. The Siren and the sailor. Enemies. Passive observers. When the sun set on her island today, yesterday, tomorrow, she would describe his dark hair and sun-varnished skin. Thelxinoe would write it down in a book Raidne would never be present enough to read. As she rested her head on her pallet, Thelxinoe would recite her descriptions while she fell asleep. Peisinoe would come into their cave, stinking of flowers. Yesterday, maybe tomorrow or today, Raidne didn't know what she would remember. Perhaps she'd see the sailor again. Isabella Frederick is an emerging writer from Seattle, Washington. She has been writing stories for her family from a young age and has always wanted to be an author. She is currently studying creative writing at Seattle University. She loves writing sci-fi and fantasy, especially when she can use those genres to explore issues in the real world.

Everyone is called here once in their life. Some die on the journey; rarely will a person die before the feeling consumes them: the wicked, and their deaths are a message to the world, a threat, for It is a stern God. Their deaths are Its warning to avoid evil — you will never recognize the voice of God in the life beyond if you don’t first hear it in this life. For thousands of years our scholars have debated the nature of the Cube — whether it is a manifestation or merely an instrument of the Divine. Of course, the argument is pointless, for It is in either case holy, and the fact that the matter still stands unresolved after so long shows its unimportance. We learn nothing from their hollow reasoning. In fact, all we know of the Cube we know because of questioners — the occasional heretic who, denying God altogether, dares to examine the Cube — to treat It as an object, devoid of all significance. The Cube stands waist high. Even as we rediscover science and our abilities increase, not the slightest imperfection in Its dimensions has ever been detected. Nor in Its surface — five millennia ago the Cube fell out of the sky to this rocky ground, yet after five thousand years of wind, storm, and sun the Cube is still smoother than any glass, reflecting no light, Its five visible black faces unmarred by any streak or smudge. It is immovable; the ground cannot be dug from beneath it. But only questioners would need to subject the Cube to test and observation. For the rest of the world, history alone provides any proof necessary to bolster faith. It is said that before the Cube fell, the wicked abounded over the world, thousands of millions. But the Cube brought with It war, murder, plague, and starvation. In only a few years, not one in ten thousand remained; science and technology had been swept away; and the world was pure. We had been made pure. Scholars argue, too, whether in that time God acted through mankind or if man only reacted to God’s presence. This is of somewhat greater import, for it speaks to free will, and hence, ultimately, the very nature of God. But it is again a subject of interest only to seekers after the obscure; for most of us it matters not how God compelled our ancestors to cleanse the world, merely that It did so. Some say as many as a million people walk the world now, but we hear of not more than a single crime each year. The consequences are too terrible — punishment, swift or lingering, at the hands of man or directly from the God, still means just one thing: that It will not heed you in the life beyond. So the God controls us all, and we submit to Its rule and consider it an honor to do so. Is not a life of fear better than an eternity of suffering? It is this very question I have found myself asking in the three weeks since I heeded the Cube’s call. To every person — sometimes sooner, sometimes later in life — there comes a dream, or a series of dreams. Upon waking, the need to journey to the Cube is overwhelming. I left my wife to care for our baby son alone. Her father lay on his death-bed; by now he must be dead, but I could not stay behind. I know he understood my absence — as does my wife — for this is a part of everyone’s life. Still, I had to wonder why the call had to come now. I wondered why I had been called now, and I wondered why I had heeded the call without even taking time to say goodbye to my family. We make every sacrifice God asks of us, and we make them all gladly. But do we make them willingly, if the alternative is too terrible to bear? Fear coerces our obedience — and can we be serving Its will truly if we do so for selfish concerns? After a lifetime of rejecting questions, so many stirred my mind in the course of my journey. I know it is wrong, even though I meant no challenge to God. I hoped only that when I stood before the Cube I would hear in Its voice answers that would strengthen my faith and hold me closer to God. And so when I stood on the plain yesterday morning, it was with the hope that on my return home my heart would be lighter, that my family would receive a man renewed in faith and free of doubt. My turn came; I approached the Cube and I waited to hear the voice of God. I waited for a long time, until the day gave way to nightfall, and until day reclaimed the world once more. And I am still waiting. James C. Bassett’s fiction has appeared in such markets as Splonk, Coffin Bell, Amazing Stories, and the World Fantasy Award–winning anthology Leviathan 3. He co-edited the anthologies Zombiesque (with Stephen L. Antczak and Martin H. Greenberg) and Clockwork Fables (with Stephen L. Antczak). He also is an award-winning stone and wood sculptor. www.jamescbassett.com

i.  Templum Having spilled spells over wine-slick lips, the skies divide. The augur marks the passing of each avian pilgrim. From their cries and their avenue, he draws portentous omens. ii. Chiromancy Tracing lines, caressing each fold of skin: swellings, valleys and plains. Their mechanical arrangement render predictive enlightenment. Destiny lies in the palm of the hand. iii. Arcana Seventy-eight cards combined, divided, arranged. The interpretations are endless: initiatory, magical, Cabalistic. The clairvoyant defines, reveals affirmation, provides synthesis. Between Meaning and Chance: Finding significance in the tarot, We gain an insight into ourselves. Lee Clark Zumpe, an entertainment editor and movie reviewer with Tampa Bay Newspapers, earned his degree in English at the University of South Florida. His poetry and short stories have appeared various publications, such as Tiferet, Zillah, Weird Tales, Modern Drunkard Magazine, and Main Street Rag. Lee lives in Florida with his wife and daughter.

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! We do not accept work that includes prejudicial, inflammatory, or disparaging content aimed at a specific racial or ethnic group, gender, sexual orientation, age, or religious group. Additionally, 7th-Circle Pyrite is opposed to the use of artificial intelligence (AI) for the creation of literary and visual art. Submissions that use AI in any capacity will not be considered for publication. ​ 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.)

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 of 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.