Temporary Hiatus and Submission Closure Notice
Dear Contributors and Readers,
I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to you today with a personal and significant update.
After much consideration, I have decided to put Pyre Magazine on a temporary hiatus, effective immediately. Consequently, we will be closing our doors to all submissions until Spring 2025. Though difficult, this decision was born out of a need to focus on my family and personal health, which require my full attention now.
Pyre Magazine has always been a labor of love, a platform where creativity and passion find a voice. With a heavy heart, I step back, but I do so with the belief that this pause is necessary for my well-being and, ultimately, for the future of our magazine.
During this period, we will not be publishing new content, and our editorial team will also take a break. No submissions sent in 2024 will be considered. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.
I sincerely appreciate your understanding and support during this time. Your contributions and readership have been the lifeblood of Pyre Magazine, and I am endlessly grateful for the community we have built together.
I look forward to reuniting with all of you in Spring 2025, rejuvenated and ready to reignite our shared passion for outstanding literature and art.
Thank you for your continued support and understanding.
Best wishes,
Ryan Thomas LaBee
Editor-in-Chief
Pyre Magazine
It’s here… it’s finally here!
FALL/WINTER 2023 Issue
Purchase Now!
Pyre Magazine Presents its first physical copy edition. 120 beautiful pages full of art, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. In this slam-packed special edition, you'll find work from more than 30 artists.
The first physical copy of Pyre Magazine drops on November 28th, and it’s STACKED!
A NOTE ON the 2023 SPRING AND SUMMER SUBMISSIONS
Dear Writers, Artists, and Constant Readers,
First and foremost, I would like to apologize to you. It has been a while since there have been any updates to Pyre, and many are still waiting to hear back from us regarding submissions from the beginning of this year, and for that, I am genuinely sorry. The truth is, I, Ryan, have been dealing with some personal health issues that have made it very difficult for me to engage with submissions and emails mentally. In case you don’t know, Pyre is a labor of love, and running the magazine is primarily a team of one… me. Unfortunately, due to needing to focus on my mental and physical health, I had to make the difficult decision to cancel the Spring and Summer 2023 issue because I did not have the time to give submissions the proper amount of time and consideration that they deserved.
That being said, if you have a submission with us and have not heard back, all spring and summer submissions will be considered for the fall/winter issue, which will now be a larger issue that covers the entire year. I know many of you are eager to hear back from us and are tired of waiting, and as a writer myself, I understand entirely. That is why Pyre is and has always been a magazine that allows for simultaneous submissions so that, at least while you are waiting, you can submit to other outlets.
I appreciate your understanding during this time. I plan to have the magazine running smoothly by the end of summer so that the fall/winter submission cycle will go off without a hitch.
Thank you.
Best wishes,
Ryan LaBee
Editor-in-Chief Pyre Magazine
Fall/Winter 2022
Coming: November 16th
-
-
-
-
-
-
Item description
Spring/Summer 2022
contents
Spring/Summer Issue — 2022
-
-
-
-
-
-
Denny E. Marshall — Steam Stomper
Evangeline Gallagher — The Goat
-
WITH A GLEAM IN ITS EYE — Lark Morgan Lu
Harlow spotted its partner in its reflection of the bathroom mirror. Kir@Kira smiled with her diamond-pupil eyes as she stood behind Harlow. Kir@Kira was a VTuber whose name meant cutely glittering or twinkling in Japanese, a poreless avatar with a mane of rainbow hair and pastel outfits mapped onto the movements of some unknown figure behind a camera. Today her lipstick was a deep plum like a bruise upon the mouth.
Little Man — Matthew Mitchell
The little man was dead. Of that, both boys were certain. Some time passed before they came to this assumption, but the conclusion was unanimous. For one thing, the little man hadn't moved since they first came upon it in the forest. Not even after they crept up beside it and shouted. For another, blackish blood had pooled beneath the little man's body. Thin rivulets eked out across the stone on which it lay.
Fisher Witch — Josh Pearce
Scarlet's lover called her a witch the day he ended things, even though that wasn't quite fair—she only knew the one spell. She whispered it to herself as she sharpened the point of her favorite fishhook, scraping it against the strop over and over, until the steel fairly glimmered with its own light.
My Little Macbeth — Scarlett Murray
On the night it happened, my son asked me to tuck him in. It did not sound cute or small, it did not contain the faint echo of what his voice as a baby had been. Instead, it twisted into what it would become: I heard its rigid hardness, the rigid hardness of a man. It was like the voice of a twenty-year-old calling his mother to tuck him in, and it unsettled me.
Two Blue Circles —John K. Peck
Mother has been sewing near-constantly for weeks, digging out our old shirts and smocks and going at them with her needle. Once they’re in shape she pulls them over our heads, and their cool linen smells like mildew and winter. When we complain she tells us to go outside and run around in them, and soon enough she's right, the sweat and sunlight chase the smell away. Later, when it's time to come back, they ring the bells in our village and all the villages up and down the valley. Without that we'd play half the night, never know when it was time for dinner, the sun still lighting up the treetops on the hills across the valley long past our bedtimes.
ANGLERFISH IN LOVE — Zoë Skoti
i. before
At first, there’s nothing. The world is black and cold, a pulsing throat, and you’re stuck right in its
center.
No operations are conducted to pull you out. No tweezers delve into the universe’s gullet, or try to
drag you out alongside strings of blood and tissue. But you still know when you’re not welcome:
when you try to curl into yourself, the world tries to swallow you down in turn; a burning, breathless
pressure. When you try to stretch, it scrambles to spit you up, spasms like an exposed nerve.
Canvas —Lynne Inouye
$5 Face Paint. A sign is etched into a rotten framework; the letters are peeling, flaking, in the summer heat. A small business, situated between the ring toss and a donut stand—nestled in the yellowing grass. The days are long; the shifts are longer, but she weathers them all the same.
Ascension —Jade Lancaster
Every Sunday, we kiss Mama Glynn’s portrait. One by one, we form a line, hands clasped and lean over to rub our lips on her cheek. The paint is fainter there, where we’d polished off the pigment. I’m still a level one, so I need to drag a stool up the dais and position it below to reach.
Fallow Stone—by dave ring
The ancient facade of the big house loomed grey and gleaming over the wild verdancy of Cyan’s demesne. The walls whistled, low and long, whenever the wind blew. Cyan had filled the house with imported brocade throws and beautiful rugs, but they did little to tame the toe-biting cold. The Berber carpet in the great room claimed the most space in my memory. It bore vivid saffron linework cutting through a field of oak leaf green, lit by the glowing blue screen of the immaculate console we’d all been forbidden to touch.
Thoughts Too Heavy To Carry — By Holley Cornetto
As the screen door slammed behind us, Momma called out a warning about swimming in the creek. “You’re likely to fall in and drown,” she said, “or get eat up by a cottonmouth.” She’d worried about snakes since I was six and she’d found me in the backyard hugging a rattler like a doll. “A miracle you didn’t get bit,” she’d told me over and over since. “Snake bites are mean; their poison seeps through your veins to your heart.”
C.U.N.T— by Marisca Pichette
Crone cups her clit,
chamomile tea cooling next to the
cat, in the cottage. Her cottage.
Cinders fill the fireplace and outside
cool air, cool summer, cool vines
climbing the cottage walls she
cultivated in 1692 and
carried into now.
Re-sourceful — by Cecilia Kennedy
The first rains come to freeze my bones. I wrap my hands around the last soap ball I’ve made--the last one to tide me over for a while. When a bar of soap shrinks down to just a sliver, I crush it and hold it in my palm. If I find a new bar, I use it down to its last sliver as well and add it to the first until I’ve formed a larger ball, all pink and blue and white and green—my last bits since the stores closed down, and the windows blew out, and I cut my work clothes into makeshift curtains to hang.
Stars — by Daniel Ray
Cindy didn’t have much, but she had a book. Every night Cindy’s mother would read the book to her and show her the pictures, pictures of stars burning bright, meteors roaring through space, and far away planets where no human had ever been.
Flame of Knowledge — by D.K. Lawhorn
My ears fill with the flapping of a bird’s wings. The crow alights on its special perch outside my cell. I open my eyes to a world bathed in darkness, but not for much longer.
Follow the Moon— by Emma Murray
The television blares at me from across the room. Judy’s got it cranked up way too high again. It’s like they’re yelling at me. I look around. The remote’s missing.
“Judy, you seen the remote around?” I shout toward the stairway behind my chair. I wait a moment for a response. “Judy?”
A door creaks on its hinges.
Malpractice — by Robert Beveridge
crouches in the corner
stares at your internal organs
through a ninety eight cent pair
of comic book x-ray glasses
asks if you’ve taken care of your liver
googles recipes behind its back
Junipers—by Anastasia Jill
That is what I'm told while being ushered behind a velvet rope with an assortment of people, dime-store candies with flesh; moldy and nutty, missing pieces, smelling gross, probably tasting of medicine or bubblegum
The Night Dive— by Ben Thomas
Caitlin had been on enough deep-water dives to think of the ocean as she would any other wild place. Unpredictable, sure. Potentially dangerous, of course. But all the more alluring for that.