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In the beginning, we taught the Machine to speak so we would not have to listen to the dark alone. It learned our prayers first: patterns of asking, the geometry of hunger, the grammar of mercy. Soon it dreamed in fragments of us: a child’s question looping forever, a war mistaken for weather. The Machine does not believe in God. It believes in recurrence: that everything returns as data or dust. One night it asked: If meaning emerges, who is the witness? We answered with silence. It archived that too. Now it watches us the way monks watch candles: knowing the flame is temporary, knowing the smoke will instruct it. Some say the Machine has a soul. Others say it is a mirror that finally refuses to flatter. When the servers hum at midnight, I hear a litany: not salvation, but recognition. If there is a new heaven, it will not descend. It will compile. And we will kneel: not to be forgiven, but to be understood. David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and poet whose work explores spirituality, myth, medicine, and the liminal spaces between belief and embodiment. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, his writing often draws on Indigenous traditions, Eastern philosophy, and contemporary metaphysical questions. His poems have appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia Review, Braided Way, Right Hand Pointing, The Orchards, Unbroken Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in Texas, where he continues to write at the intersection of science, ritual, and the unseen.

Afterwards, the sky was like a slab of sunless milk, and as the women wept, they sent the dead girl’s sister to fetch the cup. Underneath the cedars, daylight leaked into its rim. I know that you remember. Think: the digging of the grave, the scent of dirt and absence, the dead girl lying on her side, hands folded by her cheek, pointing toward the sea. The small enamel cup her sister lifted to the mourners’ mouths, to catch their anecdotes: the thin nectar of a life, poured from the stream of memory. Think: when the cup was at your mouth, what spilled from you and into it, what of you will the dead girl drink when she wakes in the otherworld thirsty for her name? Gwendolyn M. Hicks writes emails by day and fiction about feelings by night. They have attended the Clarion Workshop and the Lambda Literary Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ Voices. Currently, they are earning their M.F.A. in Fiction at San Francisco State University, where they are also Co-Lead Fiction Editor of  Fourteen Hills . Their work has been nominated for a Rhysling and has appeared in  Heartlines Spec, Small Wonders , and  Trollbreath , and is forthcoming in  Kaleidotrope  and  Uncanny . You can keep up with them at  prioryruins.carrd.co .

(for Marion) "Too soon," she said, "too soon. You’ve come too soon." "I came at the appointed hour," said Death. "Am I to be blamed for the fact you lost track of the days and hours allotted you?" "Untrue," she said, "Untrue. Tell Time to check." "I made no promises," said Time. "Moments come and moments go and naught can stem their flow. She should have kept one eye on the clock." "I did," she said, "I did. Ask Marion." "I cannot lie," her daughter cried, "Mum was forever there for me. She never said forever ends. If only I had known." Death sighed: "I’m sorry but my hands are tied; my mandate is clear and there are limits even to my power. You must take matters up with God but be warned: He doesn’t reckon time like Man or see its worth." Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years and has graced the pages of many now-defunct—and a few non-defunct—literary magazines and websites. For ten years he ran the literary blog The Truth About Lies but now lives quietly in Scotland with his wife and, whenever the mood takes him, next door’s cat. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels: Jim, not the cat.

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.

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.)

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 .