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“Please choose your heaven,” said the ethereal voice in my head. I looked around but I couldn’t see anything—everything was a shifting, blinding white. I winced at the shining brightness. “Would you prefer darkness?” said the voice, “I wasn’t quite sure when assessing your life preferences and experiences. Sorry about that.” The bright light then changed abruptly to total darkness. I felt more comfortable, though still confused. “Now,” said the voice, “Please choose your heaven.” “Choose my heaven?” I responded, “What the fuck are you talking about?” “We need to know where to send you,” said the voice, “You have to select your afterlife.” “I’m dead?” “You are indeed,” said the voice. “It happened while you were sleeping. You probably didn’t really notice.” “Oh.” “Yes,” said the voice, “Now, choose your heaven. Please.” “How do I even do that? What are my options?” “Your options are literally limitless. There are heavens innumerable. Usually, we provide a selection of options based on the subjects’ beliefs and life experience, but at the end of the day—no pun intended—it’s up to you.” The shapeless voice chuckled at itself. “You have a weak sense of humor,” I said. “Don’t chastise me,” responded the voice, hurt, but in a voice incapable of expressing anger. “I never get the opportunity to talk to people in light-hearted situations—only after they’ve died. I try my best with the jokes.” “I’ll bet you’ve used that one before,” I said. “That’s none of your business. Anyway, it can be difficult to wade through so many possibilities, so it's probably best to choose something you’re comfortable with. That seems to work for most people.” “Good point,” I said. “Here are some afterlife selections I’ve picked up by examining your personal beliefs and life experience. It seems like you were heavily subjected to the Christian worldview early in life, which is common these days, so you can choose that one if you want.” “Wouldn’t I go to hell? I never prayed or went to church other than when I was a kid.” “That’s up to Jesus, I guess. You probably would. I haven’t spoken with him in a while though—he changes his mind about things as the followers of his religion change their views. Needs to keep his numbers up. So who knows? You may yet sneak through the pearly gates.” “Are they actually pearly?” “I have no idea.” “Oh. What are my other options?” “You could go the Hindu route and be reincarnated; you seem to have been interested in that option during your adolescence. Though I must say—you weren’t a very enlightened individual, so you may not like your new form. You may come back as a slug, a bat, or a plant." “A bat sounds nice,” I said. “You do like the darkness. You could also choose the Ancient Greek tradition, which I’m noticing you were intensely interested in.” “Down the River Styx?” “Indeed. It’s not so bad as it seems, I don’t think. It’s as good as any other option, I suppose.” “Can I create my own heaven?” “You can—that’s actually our most popular choice outside of Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Judaism—but I wouldn’t recommend it; creating your own world is both difficult and exhausting; most of the time it turns out badly. And once you’ve created it, you’re stuck with it. It’s not easy being a deity. Even Jesus—currently the most successful deity in terms of numbers—gets really flustered with the whole thing sometimes, and he was far better prepared than you; he began creating his own heaven well before he had even died.” “Damn,” I said. “Yeah,” said the voice. “How did you get your job?” I said. “Me? I chose this job! After I died, I made a choice to be the voice which helps deceased souls choose their heaven. I died young—crashed my moped oner night after leaving a bar in Bangkok. I think my everlasting soul was still somehow riding the beer buzz when I was asked to choose my heaven, so my loud mouth chose this option. It wasn’t a bad choice, though—I got lucky. Maybe I could have done better, but who knows? I sure as hell don’t.” “Didn’t you have to steal someone else’s job?” “Yeah. She seemed happy about it, though. It’s rare that someone gets the opportunity to move to a new afterlife once they’ve made their selection, so it was probably an incredible surprise for her.” “Would you like it if I took your job?” “I wouldn’t really care either way. I didn’t die all that long ago—I’ve only been doing this for a couple decades; haven’t had the chance to tire of it yet.” “I guess I won’t do that, then. Can I choose something fictional?” “Of course. Everything is some combination of fiction and nonfiction, anyway. Makes no difference whether you go to Valhalla or Jahannam, whether you choose Wonderland or Middle Earth. I must warn you, though, that there seems to be a problematic nature to those who choose culturally accepted fictional realities for their afterlife.” “Problematic?” “Yes. With major worldviews—whether religious, philosophical, scientific, or political—there is a more complex interconnection between inhabitants. Souls, to some degree, know what to expect, and can coexist in that afterlife more communally. In intentionally fictional worlds, it gets a bit dicey because the existence of the afterlife itself is based around whatever those who inhabit it think up about it. Essentially, it’s based on its inhabitant’s interpretation of the world itself, which is constantly changing as new members join. It’s a real mess, honestly. It gets quite a bit less shifty if the creator of the world joins—I know HP Lovecraft joined his own afterlife community; he was too horrified to try anything else—and that has really helped to codify that world. It’s a terrifying place, the afterlife of Cthulhu, but at least it has structure. Most fictional afterlives don’t, other than those from major worldviews.” “Damn,” I said, “This is some complicated stuff. Can I just be a ghost? Can I haunt my former house?” “Of course. Why do you think ghosts exist in the first place?” “They do?” “Yes, they do. It’s actually a popular choice. I don’t think I would advise it, though. Most souls who choose to become a specter soon lose interest in it once they realize how difficult it is to make contact with the living. It’s a lonely existence. There is the rare occurrence in which two souls will choose to be ghosts together in the same location, but that isn’t common—it usually requires some pre-death planning. Pre-death planning is really the best way to secure a comfortable afterlife—the religions did get that part right—just ask Jesus, or Mohammad, or Buddha. Hell, you could even ask Satan! He seems about as content as you could expect from him.” “Your jokes aren’t getting any better.” “I’m trying my best.” “How much time do I have?” “Time?” “To make my decision.” “Spacetime doesn’t exist here. Nothing exists here; it was weird place! So… I guess you have as much time as you would like.” “Aren’t I wasting your time though?” “I just told you that time doesn’t exist.” “Oh.” “I understand what you mean, though—I haven’t been dead that long, like I said. No, you’re not wasting my ‘time’. I have literally nothing else to do. You’re not the only person I can guide through their decision, anyway. It’s not like I’m really in a ‘place’ or spending ‘time’. I’m in nothing, and I’m spending nothing. I’m ushering numerous other souls into their afterlives simultaneously while also dealing with you.” “My head hurts.” “You don’t have a head.” I chuckled at that. “Okay, that was a good one.” “That wasn’t supposed to be a joke. It was just a statement of fact.” “Facts can be funny.” “I guess that’s true. So, what are you going to choose?” “I have no idea. Am I being difficult?” “You are less sure of yourself than many others. People uncertain of the nature of reality in life tend to likewise be uncertain in death. It’s natural, and like I said, I have nothing else to do.” “I think I’m going to choose The Big Lebowski.” “Really? LA in the 90’s?” “I’ve never been to LA, but it’s my favorite movie. I’ve watched it probably hundreds of times. I feel like, if I have to stay somewhere for eternity, that’s as good of a place as any. I like bowling.” “Good point. Make sure to take care of your toes. So that’s your final decision?” “Yes. Final decision.” The pitch blackness shifted abruptly to a flashing brightness, the blinding invisibility quickly taking shape into the form of the fictional Los Angeles from the movie. I felt muggy air blast into my face. I opened my eyes further, feeling the hot asphalt of a cracked street under my feet. A beat-up Ford Gran Torino with a shattered windshield sat outside a dingy apartment building. A tumbleweed bounced across the street. I was confused, but I knew where I was. Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been accepted for publication at The Horror Zine, the International Human Rights Art Festival, Allegory Magazine, Litmora, The Horror Tree, JAKE magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Night Shift podcast, Libretto publications, White Cat Publications, Culture Cult, Savage Planets, Short-Story.me, White-Enso, The Ana, Soft Star, Aphelion, Tall Tale TV, The Corner Bar, Super Present, Red Rose Thorns, Lovecraftiana, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Schlock!, Black Petals, Inscape Literary Journal of Morehead State University, Yellow Mama, Apocalypse-Confidential, Mystery Tribune, Iron-Faerie Publications, Blood Moon Rising, and The Green Shoes Sanctuary, among others. His first novel, titled Abry, was published this spring by Offbeat Reads. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, his daughter, Rowan, and his pet rabbit, Achilles.

I am the devil’s anvil he beats on me daily it doesn’t hurt all that much you get used to it and the pounding drowns out all the white noise of all those people yammering even though you tell them to keep still they haven’t caught on to what I know – that to shorten a conversation, just agree to whatever people say no they are a little thick-necked in that regard but him he knows he just keeps his trap shut and pounds away like there’s no tomorrow Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Missouri Review, Literary Orphans and other lit mags.

How many borders exist within a single universe…what is the one true, crucial border? —Jenny Erpenbeck Close to my house, a five-story apartment is being built on a former Halloween pumpkin patch, one side faces a homeless encampment. Across the street, there’s an entrance to the freeway where the oldest trailer park in Oakland is on the same side of an outdoor beer garden. I am told to be on the lookout for early signs of dementia, for confusion and depression, for time and places escaping into a spotlight where I play the leading role in a surrealistic rendering of my life, for signs of road rage where an abandoned car is pocked with bullet holes and a cat catches an eyeball in the gutter. Gunshots heard around the lake. A body dumped a half mile away. Babies killed in car seats as the air vibrates with helicopters. Elsewhere, men wake up to gunfire and bombs, crowd into boats, their arms capsized with memories. No work permits. Housed inside tents and church basements. Families stitched to the border. Lenore serves as the Associate Creative Nonfiction (CNF) Editor for the Mud Season Review and lives in Oakland, California with Zebra the Brave and Granola the Shy. Her environmental novel Pulp into Paper is forthcoming from Atmosphere Press. Her blog resides at www.lenoreweiss.com..

The steps to the basement are dark. The basement itself is even darker. Something scurries across the damp floor. Most likely a rat. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. The kitchen is bright enough. But, as a creature slips in and out of the cranny under the stove, I see only its shadow. I thought I saw a tail. If only I’d seen the whole thing, my mind would not be racing with such possibilities. The walls of my bedroom are hollow. My attempts at sleep are filled with much scampering. More rats. At least, I pray they’re rodents. On this cold night, the bed is warm. But I’m not alone beneath the sheets. Something is in here with me, darting up and down my leg. Gnaw on my toes, if you must. I’ve got ten. But I have just the one soul. And there are beings extant that will take liberties John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.

She was angry with her mother. The boys were going to Big Creek to swim and she wasn’t allowed. She was ten. It wasn’t fair. The only thing her mother would say was that someone had written on the bridge supports “I want to pet your pussy” and it wasn’t safe. So there was a cat down there. She wasn’t afraid of cats. She liked cats. Pouting, she flung herself down on the front porch swing hard enough to make it fly backward into the siding under the porch window. If granddad had been around he would have come out and made her cut her own switch so he could leave red stripes on her calves. But, he wasn’t, so she pushed with sandaled toes against the concrete floor of the porch looking at nothing and hitting the siding again and again. Behind closed eyes she could picture Big Creek with the almost smooth river stones cutting into her city-soft bare feet, the dragonflies strafing the water, frogs making summer noises and the water striders whose feet barely touched the surface of the creek. The porch swing had a cushion and if she stretched out end to end, she fit perfectly. One leg hung over the side of the swing and meant she could make it go with a nice creaking sound. The heat and somnolence of Des Arc in summer stifled. The paper bag tied up and hung from the porch ceiling to look like a hornet’s nest wasn’t moving at all. She wondered if it really frightened away the wasps from making nests. A lot of things were like that. People said something was supposed to help, but could you really tell? The fake owl on the front porch was supposed to keep away snakes, but how could you tell? Grandma said there weren’t any snakes, so it was working. But, she wondered even more about what the boys were doing now. She wanted to run where they were and do things that broke the rules. She settled for picking loose the stitching on the porch swing cushion, at least until she could find a better rule to break. Her mother called her to lunch at the big table on the screened in back porch. Her grandma and mother talked over the top of her head. One of the local boys had shot his eye out by looking down the barrel of his BB gun. She wondered what it looked like. Even with a shot-out eye, he was probably at the creek. She was still being ignored for being difficult about wanting to go swimming without an adult so it wasn’t a good idea to press them about whether the hole went all the way through his head. She had made short work of her lunch and was beginning to eye her mother’s. As she cooled her face with one of the cardboard fans with a face of Jesus on it – taken from the church, and walked back every Sunday – she noticed movement of a noodle on her mother’s plate. The two women didn’t seem to notice that it had horns, or that it moved on its own. They were still engrossed over whether the boy that looked down the barrel of a BB gun would have to wear an eye-patch for life. The noodle looked at her. A mouth appeared smiling and it said, “I’m Satan. If you let your mother eat me you will be damned forever. Do you know what that means?” She didn’t, but she wasn’t thinking fondly of her mother just now. She was thinking of the boys moving their limbs through the silky smooth water of Big Creek. She said nothing as the noodle with the mouth smiled and her mother’s fork scooped it up and swallowed it down. She jumped up so quickly her chair flew over backward hitting the floor and calling down the wrath of her mother and grandmother. She ran out the back door making sure it slammed shut hard. “Stupid girl! Stay in the yard!” followed her out the door. She was headed on flying feet to the creek. With burning lungs she went as fast as her legs could pump. She was soon scrambling down the gravel access road that led to the creek. But, where were the boys? She couldn’t see or hear them. Just her luck, they were off having some other kind of fun that she wouldn’t have been allowed to do either. Her sandals slipped but she quickly made it to the water’s edge kicking them off and going in clothes and all. Shorts and a cotton shirt weren’t much different than a swimming suit. Looking back, she could see the words that offended her mother scrawled on the bridge supports. The figure of a young man came out from behind a pillar. “Hey, there,” he said, walking toward her. “Hey, there,” she said back. She squinted at him trying to see if he was one of the boys she had gone down the slide with at the school playground. Nope, he was taller. “Where’s the cat?” she asked. He was getting closer. His response was, “You’re the only little pussy I see down here.” That didn’t feel right. She felt like she needed to get away and she looked behind her to the main channel of Big Creek. This time of year it really was just a big creek but it had a little channel in it about six feet deep. A black snake was gliding across the top of the water there, between her and a brush covered bank she knew was too steep to climb. She looked back at the young man smiling at her, waving, saying “Here kitty, kitty.” She moved toward the snake and away from the boy. The water moccasin opened its white mouth, came incredibly fast toward her and bit her hard on the face. “Stupid girl,” it said and smiled with its wide, pale mouth. She was screaming and clawing as the blood ran down her cheek. She felt like her face had been placed against a hot skillet and then someone had hammered a nail into it. The young man gasped, turned and ran, never looking back. Neither did the snake as it undulated away over the top of the water. She struggled but was unable to find the bottom, getting weaker, going into shock, sinking lower until only a stream of bubbles marked where she had gone under carried by the current gently downstream. Then it was quiet again and the striders were lightly touching the clear water. Peggy Nalls was formerly a copywriter and technical writer. She is now trying to find her voice in the middle of Missouri.

His one kidney failing my friend each night saw visions, unknown creatures, forms half human, ghosts, circle his bed as always tiny soldiers worked with tools inside the clock’s green face to take off the emerald hour and minute hand. Glowing still now they’ve fallen to the darkened floor. Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and editor. His fiction received the James D. Phelan award from the San Francisco Foundation, and his poetry the Prospero Prize from Sharkpack Review.

‘Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay, las hay’ (Galicia’s cruel saying) There was a thief that a bad luck set him on the way to your house; a rapist that someone drove his madness’ eyes and his insane desire to that dear friend of yours, or, who knows, the weight of evil, even to your beloved daughter. A runaway truck that went around, didn’t catch you, but wrecked a car with your friend’s sister, also destroying her life and her family’s. An irate driver who picked you up in traffic, for, without any motive or reason, to overflow all his hatred towards this world we live in. That drug dealer who once saw at your son a certain hopelessness of youth and guided him, without pity or hesitation and with all wickedness, on the sordid path of addiction. That one you thought your friend but directed you, with false truths and promise of great gains, for a business he never had money or courage to. That stranger (maybe even a friend), who, hidden from you and from due respect, set eyes of malice and sin in your wife. That sullen and unpredictable man, let loose on the streets, instead of locked up in a bughouse, who can, on the outbreak of the moment, just take your life. So are some ways generated by witches you never knew, nor had never wished to know, who, for free and pleasure of wrongdoing, also for envy, collide daily with your brothers and sisters, and are always looking for you too. Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 80 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement from a bank. Since then, he counts 190 poems published, in 300 different publications. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and his first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – was launched in London in 2018. His second, Joie de Vivre, has been launched in April 2022. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

We make him dress up, hooded cloak, scythe and skull, the Grim Reaper, put a name to it sinister slapstick to cover the skeleton he is. Furtive footsteps, heard but not seen in the wooly uncertain night, in the darkened hospital ward, in your last agony; he's always eager for our passing to sate him, bate the restless life around him; his petty noise in your delirium, the ghost of sound, echoing against old men’s ears, against the baby's tiny shell of an ear, against the nightingale's sweet voice, captivating; all these and others competing for your last glimmer of attention on your way out. When he comes, when he comes, the soft schuss of a shot skier, making his lone descent. These sounds and your last movements, pure and simple as moonlight and the trees bending in the wind come together, foretell the end, one way or another peaceful, resigned, painful, brutal, in our midst, death, like clockwork, regular and familiar as the morning sun. Even in the last extreme hardly ever do we say "enough!" and mean it, grasping for one more day, one more blink of an eye, one more good green spring, we continue to hope, until cut to the quick, stopped cold, we hear his voice say come and away we go, leaving all we know behind, departing for whatever eternity holds of emptiness, of death, of nothing, of even less than nothing. Limitless, hidden beyond horizons the gape of the unknown; at the end of the road undisclosed forever what fate that fearsome spectre, voluminously berobed, that everlasting mystery holds for all of us in his bony emphatic hand. Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.

7th-Circle Pyrite is a fledgling journal whose first round of publication is slated for November 18, 2023. If you are a writer or artist who is interested in having your work appear in our journal, we encourage you to visit our "Submissions" page for submission guidelines. If you are a reader who enjoys content detailing the themes our journal supports, be sure to check back soon!