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They said an angel lived in the belfry. It was a strange tale to those who hadn’t grown up with it. A rumor that drew either the most faithful or the most desperate to the source of the claim. Still, it was hard to ignore when the bells rang. One's thoughts would drift among the echoes and chimes, wondering what might exist at their heart. It was a sound and thought familiar among the rolling Tuscan hills. From the farmers in their fields to the monks in their cloisters, all were reminded of the divine entity inhabiting San Philippi with every melodic peal, and those who believed sought it out. The tale had spread far and wide, passed along by lips both pious and sinful, its message outreaching the echo of the bell. This was how Piero had first heard it, shared by pilgrims on their way back home. Their eyes bright with fervor, their fingers repeatedly making the sign of the cross, and their lips frozen in ecstatic smiles. With every word spoken the young man was convinced that the abbey had to be the most blessed place in the world. In the end, he insisted on taking the cloth in order to see this miraculous sight, and to escape the monotony of the fields which he tended with his family. When Piero finally arrived at San Philippi, it became clear what a useful tale the story was, for the abbey had little else to offer pilgrims. No Saint's bones or reliquaries were held here, nor ancient texts or eloquent speakers. The monastery only carried a hint of divinity hidden away in the belfry and whispers of blessings that might be possible. Piero had mulled it all over many nights before when he couldn't sleep. This evening added one more to that list. The young monk stood in the small garden hidden away by high brick walls, a pail of water in his hands. Though he’d rather have left the drudgery of physical labor behind, neophytes were expected to do such work. Above him, the full moon glowed with a serene pale hue, the few thin clouds like strands of wool stretched across the black sky. Piero stared at something else. For between himself and the heavens stood the bell tower, dark and silhouetted, but in his mind commanding more authority than the lunar halo behind it. Only brother Ludovico, the abbey’s singular campanologist, was allowed up to ring the bell. With all the tales of the angel, it had been decided to make the position of ringing the bell a special one, or else hordes of postulating monks and pilgrims might race each other up the old stairs for the glory of standing in the presence of the divine. Yet the clear view of the belfry proposed a conundrum for some, both layman and priest. If an angel lived there, shouldn't people be able to see it? Was it a Seraphim, one of the archangels, or perhaps the mirror image of a Saint? If the people couldn't see it then did they lack piety? Were pilgrims and monks supposed to cast their eyes downwards in order to avoid possible disappointment? Or was it too divine for the mortal eye to comprehend? Many answers had been proposed. Few had been definitive. For now the subject remained in limbo. Who were they to question God's will on the nature of a visiting angel? Still,  Piero wondered. “What’s the angel’s name?” Piero asked Brother Bonadeus when he first took his vows. “We don’t know,” the brother had replied reluctantly. “It hasn’t told us. And we dare not name it incorrectly lest we raise its ire. Thus it remains nameless.” “What does it do?” “It watches over us, noting our conduct. What must it do? I ring the bell. You gather water. Simple tasks compared to the work of angels.” “I came here to escape simplicity. I came here to learn.” “Pray your search for knowledge never becomes a burden, lest it destroy you.” Brother Bonadeus died that autumn of an unknown wasting disease. As Piero stared at the belfry, his mind deep in rumination, a sudden surge ran through his body. He dropped the pail of water into the grass. It took a moment to understand the sensation, he was slow to believe it himself. Yet as the moon had passed behind the tower, he had seen something. Something had shifted. A sliver of light not there before. A breeze where none could be felt. At first Piero wasn't sure what to do. His legs had taken root in shock. Perhaps he had only imagined it. Or perhaps he had been blessed with a vision. The spilled water only showed the reflection of the tower. It was a sign. Was faith not a step on the path to understanding? He had to know what waited up there, halfway to Heaven. Piero scurried back into the abbey, careful to ease the old wooden doors open and closed. His footsteps were soft along the cold stone floors, hurried on by faith and silenced by the fear that his brothers would think him mad. Thankfully most were asleep, and those that were awake were too preoccupied with their own dull chores. Besides, it was easy to avoid his brothers in the labyrinthian hallways of San Philippi. The stonework of the abbey shifted the further he ventured. The foundations of the walls grew older the closer he came to the base of the bell tower. Piero prayed that the enlightenment he sought waited for him at the end of the twisting hallways. Where once he had questioned if an angel truly did live in the belfry, now he wondered how he was supposed to approach it. Every life of a Saint included the moment where they dropped to their knees in prayer and submitted themselves before the power of God. But one did not approach the divine truth shuffling forwards on their knees. Piero supposed he must at least hold his hands together in prayer, but in his excitement he couldn't calm them. Fingers threaded themselves around endlessly like the rats in the many little tunnels of the abbey. Once the thought of meeting the angel had been ensconced foremost in his mind, the monk wondered what would happen to him afterwards. The thought nipped at him, scratching at the back of his brain. Would he be canonized for such an event? The excitement began to grow, hurrying his feet on. Was it a sin to feel pride at such a possibility? At such an opportunity? No, it couldn't be. Why would it be a sin to follow his faith to the natural conclusion? Perhaps afterwards, when others asked him for his experience, for his blessing, he would have to play the stoic. Act the part of the Saint. But for now, down here in the bowels of San Philippi, pride was what guided him on; pride, excitement, and faith. Carefully he opened the door to the small room at the base of the bell tower. It was here that brother Ludovico slept. The chamber was dark except for a small candle burning low, the flame nearly drowning in liquid wax. On one side of the circular room, at the base of the stairs that twisted upwards, were a set of keys hanging from a nail. Piero silently neared them, hands outstretched, fingers trembling. It was like grasping at the keys of Saint Peter; Heaven and its gate just a few steps beyond. Surely this would be a sin if he had not been on a divine mission. “No more, please,” a thin voice croaked behind him. “Leave me be.” Piero nearly fumbled the keys, a soft jingle escaping into the darkness before they were muted between his palms. Peering over his shoulder he found Ludovico in his small bed, turning back and forth in his sleep. The monk made sure he had not woken the old man before starting up the wooden stairs, careful not to let a sound slip from his grasp. Looking down at the sleeper, Piero couldn't tell if he felt pity or envy for the old man. He was, perhaps, the holiest brother at San Philippi, having been chosen and trained by brother Bonadeus to properly ring the bell. Laying in his sheets, the monk was thin and wan, nearly nothing but bones and liver spots. Rumor had it that he was only forty. Continuing up the staircase, trying to pry his gaze from the small man below him, Piero remembered how disappointed he’d been at the revelation that a mortal man rang the bell of San Philippi. Rumors had sprouted from the pilgrim’s tales that the angel rang the bell with its own hands or inhabited the clapper in spirit. Some thought the peal emanated from the angel itself every Sunday. Others believed that the bell rang on its own, having been blessed by Saint Andrew in Constantinople and ferried from the besieged city by the angel that now remained at the abbey to watch over its charge. Maybe one of the tales was true, and Ludovico was simply around to keep up appearances. Piero had to know the truth. “Please,” the old man wheezed down below, “Please, for the love of God.” Piero finally reached the hatch that opened up to the belfry. Groping around in the gloom he placed the keys in the lock and turned, feeling each tumbler click one by one. His beating heart seemed to slow in order to match the momentary rhythm. With a soft squeal the hatch opened wide, the monk climbing out to stand in the belfry. The sky remained dark. The full moon hung high. Around him the Tuscan countryside stretched out in every direction. Rolling hills, plowed fields, and in the very distance lay a lonely village only visible to those who knew where to look. Yet Piero's attention remained purely on the bell. It was twice his size, formed of a smooth, undecorated copper. The monk wasn't sure exactly what he'd expected. Up here all was still. The moon remained fixed where it had been, the clouds hovered on the horizon. Only the slightest hint of dawn stirred in the east. The soft whisper of a breeze could be heard, but none was felt. Piero realized that he was holding his breath, which meant that something else breathed. A divine breath. “Hello?” he asked, nervously looking around. Wandering around the cramped belfry, Piero placed a hand on the bell. It was cold. Ice cold. The bell shuddered. Not a chime, but a soft metallic groan. A finger slithering across copper. “I do not know you,” a voice, monotone and distant, echoed from within the metal shell. Piero instinctively dropped to one knee. The other remained standing and so he found himself in an awkward crouch. Looking around he could see no change in the belfry. But he had heard the voice. It was real. He'd been correct. “Know me?” he stammered, “Lord, my name is Piero. I've been in your service for five years now.” “You are not the expected supplicant,” the voice replied. “But I saw you. You showed yourself to me.” A silence passed between them. A silence that gestated with every conceivable damnation of Piero's immortal soul. Had he said something wrong? “O Lord, I didn't mean to presume. I didn't mean to trespass. I didn't mean to understand your will. I only meant to know the truth. The truth of your nature, the truth of my faith, and the truth of myself.” Still the silence persisted. Piero dropped his other knee, prostrating himself until his forehead nearly touched the wooden floorboards. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw something coiled within the lip of the bell. “Lord?” he asked. “The expected supplicant must withstand,” the voice noted. “Even now he writhes day and night. You would only break.” “Lord, I only wish to understand. Break me if you must. If that's your will, then let it be so. I fear no torture nor death as long as I ascend. Please, enlighten me. I beg of you.” “Enlightenment?” “Indeed, O Lord. Teach me what you showed the prophets. Teach me the nature of mortality. Lift the veil from my eyes. I’ve come so far for this.” “Enlightenment is to break the bonds of mind and body. The revelations will not leave you unchanged.” Something long and thin descended from the bell, dangling just above the floor. Piero barely gave it a glance. He feared the angel might disappear if he stared at it. “Raise me, O Lord. Raise me above the busy work here. Fetching water. Tending the fields. Sweeping. I’m better than that. Aren’t I?” The words hung in the still air. Piero’s doubt escaping for just one brief moment. Long enough to prove himself false. “Very well,” the voice finally replied. “You are unprepared but you will suffice. You have come too far to refuse me.” “I would never think of it, O Lord. Not with your gifts. Not when I'm so close to the truth. Not when I’ve desired this for so long.” “Very well.” He could feel the long angelic fingers, slick and cold, run across his hands. They curled around his wrists, tightening along his arms, but Piero feared no pain. Still, even in the moment of ecstasy, the touch of an angel wasn't what he had expected. More and more fingers, boneless and prehensile wrapped around his ankles, slithering up along his robes, looping themselves in the folds of his cassock. He could feel himself being pulled, dragged across the floor at first before being lifted off the ground. He couldn't help but smile. Here it was. The divine touch of an angel. Enlightenment. Revelation. “Amen!” Piero gasped, his eyes welling with tears, “Amen!” Suddenly the fingers coiled around his throat, tightening like a noose. Their strength squeezed the air from his mouth, his eyes fluttered open to bulging. Forcing him to look upon the angel. There from within the bell spread countless long, grey tentacles that wound themselves around and around the monk. In an instant he couldn't move a single muscle in his body, only his head uselessly flopped from side to side. At the pitch black center of the bell's mouth glowed a collection of gibbous red eyes, emotionless and piercing. Scattered across the shadows like a constellation, they seemed to stare at, around, and beyond Piero as though they didn't exist in the same reality. As he was pulled closer, a viscous, drooling maw appeared among the eyes, a deep well of needle-sharp teeth, opening wider and wider until it matched the lip of the bell. “Have your truth,” it said. And there Piero stared upon the angel with a hundred names. Upon the saintly ascension that awaited him. Upon the understanding he had desired for so very long. “O Lord...” Marsden Lyonwahl studied creative writing at the University of Washington before returning to his native Los Angeles where he cooks in order to fund further creative endeavors.

The doctor who admitted me didn't believe in ghosts. He believed in delusions, in misfiring synapses, in the chemical architecture of madness. Not in the pale women who walk through bedroom walls at 3 a.m., trailing grave-moss and whispers. "Auditory and visual hallucinations," he wrote in my file. "Paranoid ideation." He didn't ask about the bees. My father kept hives behind our house, white boxes stacked like miniature mausoleums. After he hanged himself from the apple tree, the colonies collapsed one by one. But the bees didn't die—they migrated, seeking a new home. They chose me. First in dreams: my mouth filling with honey, my lungs with wings. Then while waking: a constant buzzing beneath my skin, as if my bones had become hollow and resonant. Finally, with purpose: they built their hive inside my chest cavity, just behind my sternum. I could feel their precise engineering, the perfect hexagons of comb stretching from clavicle to diaphragm. The hospital walls are the color of institutional despair—a shade between moth-wing and abandoned hope. At night, they breathe. I've timed the intervals: inhale (seven seconds), hold (three seconds), exhale (ten seconds). The rhythm of something ancient learning to pass for human. "You're experiencing anthropomorphism," Dr. Keller explains during our Tuesday session. "Projecting life onto inanimate objects." But I've seen his eyes flicker to the walls when they exhale. I don't tell him about the queen who whispers to me while the Thorazine dissolves under my tongue. I pretend to swallow, but hide the medication in the secret space between cheek and gum. Later, I'll press the half-dissolved tablets into the mortar between bathroom tiles, building my own honeycomb of chemical secrets. The queen has my father's voice but a woman's knowing. "The living are the real ghosts," she says, her words vibrating through my ribcage. "Walking around believing they're solid when they're mostly space—atoms pretending to touch but never truly connecting." In group therapy, we discuss coping mechanisms. Ruth cuts herself to "let the darkness out." Michael hasn't slept in six days because "they come for you through dreams." Hannah sees her dead twin in every reflective surface. I don't mention the bees, or how I'm certain we're all experiencing the same thing from different angles—the world's thin veneer peeling back to reveal what writhes beneath. At night, the pale women visit one by one. They perch on the edge of my bed, corpse-cold and curious. They've been watching humanity since before we crawled from the oceans. They find us interesting but ultimately disappointing—so much potential, so little vision. One trails her fingers through my hair, leaving frost patterns on my scalp. Another presses her mouth to my ear, sharing secrets in a language that tastes like copper and electricity. "You're special," they whisper, their voices synchronized to the buzzing in my chest. "You've been chosen." I know this is textbook psychosis. I've read the DSM-V sections on schizophrenia, on dissociative disorders, on the mind fracturing under pressures it can't bear. I understand the neurochemical basis for hallucination, for paranoia, for the sensation of insects beneath the skin. I know my father's suicide triggered this breakdown. What I don't know is why the bees are building something inside me. Why they vibrate in warning whenever Dr. Keller approaches with his paper cups of oblivion. Why the pale women have started bringing me gifts—small bones, perfect spirals of hair, teeth so ancient the enamel has turned translucent. "You're making progress," Dr. Keller tells me in our Friday session. "The new medication seems to be helping." I nod, docile as a domesticated animal. The queen stirs behind my sternum, annoyed. The walls hold their breath, waiting. That night, I dream my father climbs down from his apple tree, neck still bent at its impossible angle. He opens his mouth and bees pour out, carrying scraps of his final thoughts on their wings. "It's time," he says, voice thick with honey and decay. I wake to find the pale women gathered around my bed, more than ever before. They've brought a final gift: a crown woven from bee wings and cobwebs, hospital bracelet plastic and dried flowers. One places it on my head, her touch gentle as winter light through stained glass. "The hive is complete," they whisper in unison. I feel it then—the fullness in my chest, the weight of something finished, perfected. The bees have built their new home, cell by meticulous cell. Not honey this time, but something darker, sweeter, more potent. A new kind of colony. In the morning, the nurse finds my bed empty except for a perfect honeycomb in the shape of a human heart. The walls exhale one last time. The hospital records will call it an escape, then a suicide when they don't find my body. They won't think to look for me in my father's abandoned hives, now pulsing with renewed life. They won't recognize me in the pale figure who walks the grounds at night, trailing moss and whispers. They won't understand that I've become the new queen, my subjects buzzing between worlds, building bridges between what is and what waits just beyond perception. After all, Dr. Keller doesn't believe in ghosts. He believes in delusions, in misfiring synapses, in the chemical architecture of madness. He still doesn't ask about the bees. Dana Wall traded balance sheets for prose sheets after years of keeping Hollywood's agents and lawyers in perfect order. Armed with a Psychology degree that finally proved useful when creating complex characters and an MBA/CPA that helps her track plot points with spreadsheet precision, she ventured into the haunted halls of Goddard College's MFA program. Her work, which has appeared or will appear in Intrepidus Ink, 96th of October, Fabula Argentea, Summerset, 34 Orchard, Eunoia Review, The Shore Poetry, Dreams and Nightmares Bright Flash Literary Review, and Sykroniciti, confirms that words are more reliable than numbers, though occasionally harder to balance.

for every letter of the alphabet especially for the fuchsia fairy Sing to reading and rereading every single page Sing to staying out as long as possible each summer solstice trying to spot just one Sing to knowing  they were all hiding just beyond sight Sing to fairy houses constructed in schoolyards and parks Sing to increasingly complex camouflage trying to hide sand and twig and leaf dwellings Still the other kids destroyed them each day Destruction always follows Creation follows Destruction we built another for each fairy cottage kicked apart Sing to forgiveness of youth Sing to belief Sing to clinging Sing to insisting  swearing  knowing  magic  could  should  does  exist Sing to putting fairyologist on my resume still my specialty even now Sing to I believe in fairies Sing to believing so hard it becomes true Sing to growing older but never wiser Sing to flower fairies Natalie C. Smith works outside as a mail carrier in Colorado. She leans into the meditative aspect of walking her route to consider turns of phrase and finds inspiration while being surrounded by nature during her day job. Natalie is a poet, spoken word and studio artist. She is a creator in many mediums and loves to dabble. When not creating, she enjoys rock climbing and hiking.  Natalie draws poetic inspiration from the works of Walt Whitman, Mary Oliver, Hala Alyan and Amy Kay (@amykaypoetry). Natalie participates in National Poetry Writing Month or NaPoWriMo every April and has been heavily inspired by Amy Kay’s daily prompts and the poetry community that has rallied around her account.  Natalie’s poems have been published in several publications including Beyond Worship: Meditations on Queer Worship, Liturgy, & Theology, Michigan's Best Emerging Poets, The Poetry Lighthouse, and The Aquinas Sampler .  Find her on Instagram @Natalie.C.Wordsmith

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 10: Jun. 21 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 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.

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.] Fiction is currently closed; reopens July 1, 2025. 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.

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.