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- The Head Within
I woke with two heads. It’s happened before, though long ago. I sat at the edge of my bed. A sad affair of sticks and wooden branches held together by whatever was handy. My hut is small, and a distance from any village and a lifetime away from a place called London. I heard that many of my ancestors died from a terrible disease when it struck that city. I am alone, as I have been for most of my life. Few pass by this far away from the nearest village. The forest where I live has a reputation for not having a soul. Towns, villages, they have souls. People have souls. I know that. I don’t believe that a forest, a place that can be dark and beautiful at the same time, can be soulless. I live in this small space every day, determined to hold on to the scraps of life. The last time I had two heads, days passed before it sank back into my body and left me as one in terrible pain. I am not young, I am not old, and the promise of death is a shadow that follows me. That follows all of us. I pulled out a dead worm and drank the rainwater I collected in a bowl. The bones of the rabbit I caught yesterday littered the dirt floor of my hut. It was cold and I was shivering. The animal skins that once protected me from the frigid winds and biting darkness were clinging shreds of their past. Like most days, this day I was consumed by the injustice of the life I had been given. I craved revenge because I was forced to carry this curse out of no fault of my own. I had to rebuild part of the walls and seal the top of my hut with more dried mud. I had to get myself warm. Yesterday I went out to hunt and spotted a pair of villagers in the distance. I held my position behind a rocky outcropping until they moved off. They had bows and arrows and were hunting too. They had venison skins cloaked around them. That would keep any man warm. I am as tall and broad as any man I’ve seen these last years. Some day those fine skins would be mine and those men would die face down in the frost of the dirt on which they tread. “I have two heads,” I said and tried to shake off my fright and the biting hunger in my center that never went away. These lands were filled with stories and tales of strange creatures of which I am one. There is no place for a soul with two heads. A slice of yellow from the sky slipped through the top of my hut and rained down on my face. It warmed me as I stood thirsting for more. More yellow, more warmth, and maybe the glow would scare off the head. I didn’t know where they went when they sank back into my body. And maybe that was best. I was a fright as it was. I didn’t want to know how I came to be such a fearful sight. I didn’t think of myself as a bad person, or maybe even a bad creature, for it was difficult to compare me to any other man. Even in the reflection of my face in the water of a quiet stream I was different. Not evil I wanted to believe. Though in this part of the forest maybe I wasn’t the only one who had two heads. Was that even a possibility? What if I had kin out there and we were family? I can’t turn my head to clearly see the twin to my left, and my twin never sees me. “Can you hear me?” I said, barely in a whisper, uncertain if I wanted an answer. The last time, and before that, there were no words. The heads did not speak and neither did I. I can’t recall details, but it wasn’t long before each receded back into the bloody opening in my neck as though they had found the wrong home for themselves and had to continue their search. This time was different. Everything I was feeling was different. There was movement within, and it wasn’t mine. “Who are you? Why are you in my body?” it answered. The voice was loud. Threatening. I had never spoken that way. I didn’t think it was possible to speak that way. My body shook violently. My arms rose. My fingers stretched and clawed the air. Searching. “You must go. I will not have it,” it said. “You are in my land and in my body,” I seethed. This time my insides were wrong. Unpredictable movement that wasn’t mine. I was quickly possessed of outrage. I am a violent creature by nature. I have never doubted myself, and the ease with which I turn brutal. My body swelled. I was being pushed, and I was pushing back. This wasn’t the head of long ago. This was a different kind of possession. My left leg gave way. I fell against the wall of my hut and struggled to right myself. My left hand turned and rose against me and clawed the air, searching for my throat. It came and with long powerful fingers, thrashing for prey. It was almost upon me and as quickly was met with an equal force as my right hand rose in my defense. My right hand clutched my left wrist and twisted it violently. An anguished howl sprang from the lips of my tormentor. I held back the left hand and subdued it. “I will break it off if you don’t leave,” I said in a voice of anger and frustration, now a welcome kin from the depths of whoever I had become in order to survive. There was a garbled response. As close as it was, I couldn’t make it out. My anger and outrage shook me. Deafened me to all else except my survival. I found myself a creature of power without thought. I twisted my left wrist until I heard the bones snap. The creature inhabiting my body gave out a terrible cry, trying to free itself of my grasp. I released his broken left hand and went for his throat as he had come for mine. There was no way to defend himself. He twisted and turned away from my right hand. It had come for him, and it would not be denied. His head scraped violently against mine, trying to push me away, but I had found a strength within that I had to believe was mine from birth. It took the evil this creature was trying to impose upon me that allowed me to discover who I already was. My fingers, part of my right hand that I had never known or understood, had a life of their own and a mission, rendering me a spectator. My hand fisted and slammed into his throat, shaking my body. My hand opened, fingers stretched long until they wrapped around his throat and quickly exerted such a force that my body trembled out of control. We dropped to our knees. My hand clinched tighter and tighter as his broken left hand flailed mindlessly, trying to fend it off. I held and squeezed and fumed and spoke words I never heard and tightened long after his head slumped down, dead. “There,” I said, angered and empowered as I had never been, before my world turned dark and uncertain. I woke in a shaking chill sometime later. The battle had left the whole of my body in wrenching pain. I worked to get to my feet and steady myself. The left side of my face was smeared red. What little order there was of my hut was scattered and broken. I was exhausted, spent, and trying to recognize myself and what I had done. My left shoulder was twisted, unrecognizable, as was the meager comfort of what remained of my world. The rest of the day was a blur of foreign images. By the time the yellow from the sky returned, I knew that I would not be threatened again. I had killed the soul of the beast within and had become a greater beast myself. I was less a man and more of the forest. My right arm and hand were measurably larger than my left. It was the arm and hand of a hunter. A warrior. A killer. Everything was different and the same. Why had I taken so long to fight for my own life? To rid myself of the curse? The anguish would end as would my living in a world of uncertainty. I found myself, a soul with purpose. “I’m alive,” I said breathlessly, finally turning back to see the remains of my dead self. Splattered dry with my blood, its right eye twitched. Then, again. I stepped away, startled in shock and heaved a fear that I had not rid myself of the beast. It was alive. There was no killing the monster. It would regain life and once again I would be both slave and host to its horror. The twitch quickened and wrenched the eye open, frantically searching, then blinked and blinked and blinked, and slowly faded. “Die,” I screamed over and over, launching the heel of my foot into the remains of me. Cursing, fevered with a lifetime of fear and rage until the splatter of its existence covered much of the dirt of my shattered hovel. I stumbled, caught my breath, and stepped from my hut for the first time, alone. I lifted my gaze to the sky and screamed. A rageful howl echoed loud through the forest. I continued until my voice gave out as my anger exploded into a fearful determination. The air smelled rich. Fervent. The sky blossomed a deep, embracing blue as never before. I was free of my dark world. My devil was dead. The world had cursed me. They made me an outcast. Now, free of my tormentor, retribution would be swift. I had a world to explore and was determined to venture fearlessly. The hunters I avoided for so long were out there. Jealous of their freedom and my crushing lifetime of confinement, they would be the first of my prey. Then others, unaware of who I am and the reality of what I am and the lifetime of grievances I have to exorcise from my spirit. One good arm was all I would need to survive and find warmth in many heavy cloaks of stolen venison skins. This part of me was always the me that was hidden. Rageful, I always was, and remain a one-headed monster. Arthur Davis is a retired Wall Street trained management consultant. He has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business , taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He has advised The New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission, the Department of Homeland Security, Senator John McCain’s investigating committee on boxing reform, and testified as an expert witness before the New York State Commission on Corruption in Boxing. His work has been published in numerous journals as original and reprint fiction. He was featured in a single author anthology, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short fiction and, twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017. More at www.talesofourtime.com , Amazon Author Central and the Poets & Writers Organization.
- Ash Wednesday
This life of separateness may be compared to a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, a drop of dew, a flash of lightning. — The Buddha The heat kicking in at precisely five a.m. stirs the shirred glass chimes dangling over the open vent, their fragile song reminding me I am alone. Outside, where I know too-early browns loom in the dark where constant white should lighten this time of year—here, far north of the end of Mardi Gras—one car purrs by per hour. A semi ascending the hill, up-shifting its dissonance across the cushion of the dumb neighborhood, will turn left at the next intersection, head east to open road, and merge with the world. This separateness is indeed a dream, though priests today will call the many to mourn whatever separates them from God and from each other, then swipe soaked ash across their foreheads in remembrance that we’re all just dust. Which is true, but in this blue mood I prefer the Buddha’s drop of dew and picture its sole self temporarily resting upon a palm leaf before a breeze shivers it earthward or the desert sun draws it skyward— in either case to mingle it by absorption or by evaporation into the eternal system of one. Which is really only a better way of getting it wrong. Poor sentient drop, alive in the thought it has ever left its sisters and brothers, who in their own dreams manufacture fantastic bubbles but imagine wry shadow, or lightning. D. R. James, retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections is Mobius Trip (Dos Madres Press). https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage
- The Silence of Mars
It is the silence of Mars that makes it so alien. Not the stuffy recycled air, nor the reddish sky that tints everything in shades of dread, but the silence. The non-noise of a dead world. It picks at something primitive within my psyche, telling me something is wrong. Something. Everything. I ponder this as I replace the filter for vent 15-MM because the hum it emits is natural adjacent. My shoes shuffling over the floor, my keys jingling, the fans—the sounds of Mars Base Bacchus. There is an airflow by the unfiltered vent. It jostles my hair and reminds me of home. An approximation of wind, minus the life. I fit the new sponge filter hastily and cart my trolley to the next vent. Red dust dirties the views from the corridor windows. Bacchus is shaped like a doughnut. To my left is barren nothingness, and to my right is a murky view of our sheltered sample extraction zone. Sometimes we jokingly call it the back garden. I linger for a moment at the glass, my breath frosting the window and obscuring it further. I try to remember what grass feels like under bare feet. I get to work on vent 16-MM, unlocking the grate and removing the dirty sponge filter. Mars Base Athena didn’t have locks on their vents, but someone tried crawling through one and almost suffocated the entire crew, so now all bases have locks. That person and I share a kinship because I often become stuck as I reach for the filters, and every time that happens I wonder if pulling a body from the air vents will become a Martian base tradition, like breaking a bottle against the hull of a ship. The breeze within the vents is addictive. I stay inside longer than I should; I pull out as a woman I must recognise but cannot put a name to shambles by. She looks plasticky in her white jumpsuit. There are bags under her eyes – mine, too. "Morning," I say. She recoils as if my voice were the rattle of a snake. "Morning?" she asks, supporting herself against the window. "It’s afternoon." I check my watch: 1307. "Oh." "You shouldn’t say things that aren’t true," she says, continuing on her way. "You’ll confuse people." "Sorry," I mutter, replacing the filter. I continue to 17-MM. Condensation rains over my face as I unlock the vent. I gasp and open my mouth like a child in a storm. It’s icy and tastes metallic. Something must be gloriously wrong with the humidity – but isn’t this right? Isn’t it supposed to rain? I blink, trying to remember what rain felt like, what it smelt like, what it sounded like. I shake my head, replace the soggy sponge and note the vent code. I don’t stop shaking my head on my way to the cafeteria – my lunch was supposed to start seven minutes ago. "I just don’t understand," the chef says as he plates up my broccoli and noodles. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this." I nod along. I cried with joy when I received my offer – I imagined myself a pioneer, an explorer. My life was spent behind a computer regardless – why not relocate for the sake of science? A corporation offered me Mars in exchange for my boyfriend, apartment, job, and planet, and I thought that was a good trade. "What was it supposed to be like?" I ask the chef. "I can’t remember if they lied to us." He freezes mid-scoop. The shade of Mars befalls his skin; haze covers the sun and darkens the cafeteria. I think he might cry, and his phantom tears chase me away. I sit by the window and dig in. No one talks as they eat. Over a hundred of us share this lunch slot, yet the gentle taps of our plastic cutlery are the only sounds we make. There is nothing left to say. Kicked-up dust scatters against the window. The wind calls. I only finish half of my portion. Someone has their ear against vent 18-MM as I arrive. He looks like a castaway’s washed up corpse, bearded and bony. His jumpsuit is too large for him – he resembles a Halloween ghost in a bedsheet. A not-yet spectre. Schrödinger’s spaceman. "Hey," he says, "listen." I feel antsy because I’m nearly at vent 20-MM, which is the final MM-coded one. Reaching a new code – in this case, vent 01-MO – feels like progress. The final vent is 20-RB, and if I reach 20-RB enough times, eventually, I’ll never have to reach it again. I know that’s strange logic, but finishing my shift is a checkpoint, a chance to step back and look at my history of vent-checking and say, yes, I am making progress. Yes, one day will be the last. "What are you listening to?" I ask sharply. "The wind," he says. "It’s lovely." My cheeks warm. That’s my wind, my secret joy. "You should speak to the therapist." "All booked up," he says, closing his eyes. "If you’re close enough, you can feel the air." "That’s nothing," I say, brandishing my key. "You want to really feel it?" His eyes focus on the key as if it’s wrought of gold. Gold, iron – what’s the difference on Mars? "Please," he says. I unlock the vent. Condensation drips onto my shoes – another fault. His gasp is almost a sob. He shoves me from the threshold and crawls in. I think I should catch his ankle, but I hesitate. It feels wrong to deprive him of something I’ve imagined countless times. I’m oddly jealous, like when I watched the moon landing for the first time. The filter splashes onto the floor as the man’s shoes skid into darkness. Condensation drools by the vent. It stinks of blood. I replace the filter and note the code for a humidity check. Relocking the vent, I try to remember what grief feels like. Silence settles. I know only what it sounds like. Josephine G Cambridge is a biologist from the United Kingdom who abates the horrors of STEM with scary little stories. When she isn’t spacing out in a laboratory or recommending people read Shirley Jackson, she enjoys history and all things fantastical.
Other Pages (5)
- CARDS | 7th-Circle Pyrite
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.)
- 7th-Circle Pyrite | A literary journal celebrating worlds beyond
7th-Circle Pyrite is an online literary journal celebrating worlds beyond our own: all that transcends the physical and mundane. 7th-Circle Pyrite A literary journal celebrating worlds beyond Issue 12: Nov. 15 2025 "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 06/21/25 04/19/25 02/15/25 11/16/24 09/21/24 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. Issue 7 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and Best of the Net + Pushcart Prize nominees November 16, 2024 The seventh issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite —our last issue of the 2024 calendar year—is available now! Our journal's first issue was published in November 2023, making this month's issue somewhat of an anniversary offering. We have had the pleasure of enjoying a year's worth of submissions from our talented readers, and for that, we are incredibly thankful. We have resolved to continue featuring the work of the vibrant literary community we're so honored to be a part of. To view the content in Issue 7, click on the cover art in this announcement. Additionally, as announced in September, we want to extend our congratulations to our Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominees! Those authors and their works are as follows: Best of the Net Nominees (Short Fiction) Isabella Frederick - Anthemusa James C. Bassett - Regodless Best of the Net Nominees (Poetry) Evan Burkin - Polaroid in South Light Heather Sager - In the name of the decayed leaf Wallace Truesdale II - I Should've Been an Astronaut Glen Armstrong - Philosopher's Stone Ken Goodman - in the equipoise Jaymee Thomas - The Silent Alchemy of Evening Light Pushcart Prize Nominees (Short Fiction) Isabella Frederick - Anthemusa Ken Foxe - The Falling People Dani Arieli - Across the Marsh Another sincere congratulations to all of this year's nominees! We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, essays, and artwork for our February 2025 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. Issue 8 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and a (belated) Happy New Year! February 15, 2025 The eighth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite has arrived! But, more importantly, we want to wish all of our readers and contributors a Happy New Year. With the quick pace of the holiday season leaving many with their schedules filled, it was a heartening experience to see so many members of the writing community making time to share their work with us. We simply can't overstate our appreciation for your continued support as we move into 2025. To view the content in Issue 8, click on the cover art in this announcement. We are continuing to accept submissions in all categories for upcoming issues slated for April 2025 and June 2025. (Note that short fiction submissions may be subject to a brief pause during this time.) Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 9 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and opportunities for writers of longer-form works April 19, 2025 The ninth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite (and second issue of 2025) is available to read now! Issue 9 is a short-and-sweet release containing many of our favorite works submitted of late. We hope you enjoy these talented writers' creations! To view the content in Issue 9, click on the cover art in this announcement. Additionally, many have noted that our short fiction submissions have temporarily closed, with a reopening date slated for July 1, 2025. However, writers of longer-form works like short fiction, novellas, and full novels have many opportunities to create and share their work. A well-known event in the literary community is National Novel Writing Month (often abbreviated as "NaNoWriMo"), which is a month-long challenge held in November that tasks writers with completing a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. However, NaNoWriMo also hosts more open-ended challenges in April and July, supported via the Camp NaNoWriMo arm of their nonprofit. If you're looking for a good way to exercise your writing talents, check it out! We are continuing to accept submissions of poetry, essays/creative nonfiction, and artwork for our June 2025 issue. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 10 of 7th-Circle Pyrite and a note on short fiction June 21, 2025 The tenth issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is now available to read! We extend our thanks to all of our Issue 10 contributors as well as the many thoughtful submitters whose work we had the privilege of reviewing. We always want to emphasize that, whether a work is selected for publication or not, the courage required to submit work at all is not lost on us. To view the content in Issue 10, click on the cover art in this announcement. Additionally, short fiction submissions will reopen on July 1st. Due to the volume of submissions we typically receive in this category, we want to share that there may be a slight delay in receiving a response for your short fiction submission, though we do try to get back to all of our submitters in a timely manner. If there will be a delay in responding to your work that exceeds our normal 30-day turnaround, we'll reach out to you to make you aware of it. We are continuing to accept submissions for poetry, essays/creative nonfiction, and artwork for our upcoming August issue. Please see our submission guidelines for more details. Issue 11 of 7th-Circle Pyrite is available to read now! August 16, 2025 The eleventh issue of 7th-Circle Pyrite is here! This issue is the first to follow our short fiction submissions reopening, so we want to offer a sincere thanks to all of our fiction writers who granted us the privilege of reading their work. We thoroughly enjoyed having the opportunity to explore the many "worlds beyond" conjured by such exceedingly vast artistries. And, of course, all poets, artists, and creative nonfiction writers deserve a thanks for so consistently sharing work that features depth and dimension. To view the content in Issue 11, click on the cover art in this announcement. We are continuing to accept submissions in all categories for our upcoming November issue. Please see our submission guidelines for more details.
- ABOUT US | 7th-Circle Pyrite
About Us 7th-Circle Pyrite aims to present a home for all that transcends the mundane. For those who choose to allow their writing and art to capture the macabre, surreal, esoteric, magical, and spiritual aspects of life, our journal hopes to be a refuge. This goal was borne by a desire to create safety and express appreciation for writers and artists whose work may be niche in the creative space. We believe in the abandonment of pretension in our relationship with the creative community. That is, we believe that you as a writer or artist is what makes a journal great; your work is what makes it shine. For that reason, we encourage all who submit their work to remember that we will treat your work with respect whether it is selected for publication or not. And if it's not selected, that is not a reflection on you as a writer or artist . We want all creatives who reach out to us to remember that they deserve a voice and to remain confident in their creative pursuits.