Opon a somer soneday se I þe sonne Erly risinde in þe est ende; Day daweþ ouer doune, derk is in towne, I warp on my wedes, to wode wolde I wende.
Wiþ kenettes kene þat wel couþe crie and conne, I hiede to holte wiþ honteres hende. So ryfly on rugge roon and raches ronne þat in launde vnder lynde me leste to lendeAnd Lenede.
editor in chief TESSA COLEMAN
editor of prose WYATT UNRUE
editor of poetry EVEREST CLAUBERG
editor of art
JANIE WRIGHT
publication designer MILENA PAUL
©2026 annum arcanum vcu student media center
p.o. box 842010
richmond, va 23284
annum arcanum is a workshop and annual publication by and for vcu students. check us out online at annumarcanum.org
As someone who’s been a part of Annum Arcanum since its beginning, I’m incredibly proud to see the ways that the publication has grown in just a few years.
None of this would be possible without the creativity, passion, and persistence of the editors, contributors, and everyone else who worked to help make this year’s edition the fantastic book that you’re holding in your hands.
It’s been an inspiring journey to see everyone at the monthly workshops and events, and to see people’s ideas and pieces evolve over the course of the year. We’ve had the most submissions that we’ve ever had this year, which I’m so excited to share with you all!
- tessa coleman
by wyatt unrue
ACHERON
by tessa coleman
by c reyn
by brooke fox
OVERGROWTH
by janie wright
CICADA MOIRAI
by tessa coleman
THE ENCOUNTER | SIDE A
by wyatt unrue
AESOP ‘S FABLE
by g bobburii
TOMORROW COMES
by gabe quinteros
RUIN
by tori chapel
by jena salem
HANDSHAPE
by tessa coleman
DISPLACEMENT
by herbert steet
by ulysses granger
by kenny bills
NOTHING, PARTICULARLY
by wyatt unrue
UNTITLED (CONGRUENCY)
by britt abel
HEY VALENTINE
by wyatt unrue
ANNUM ARCANUM STAFF
47 61 65 69 73 77 83 87 99
BY WYATT UNRUE
I am thinking of leaving soon, soon, soon to the moon behind the trees, trees, trees housing fleas and flies bite bite biting, biting, bite bite bite.
You see it’s only a stone’s throw away away along the river path I think I should find him, bind him, bind bind bide my time Until I am ready to leave for I am thinking of leaving soon.
I know not where, don’t bother Asking, try Asking, go bother the Man in the Moon he tends to know these things Tends to know where I go When I am going, Going, going and gone again (it’s only a stone’s throe away).
I am thinking of leaving soon, I am thinking of leaving soon, I am thinking of leaving soon, soon, soon to somewhere soon.
BY TESSA COLEMAN
BY C REYN
watching the silver moon, i fell in love with the idea of hope, for the moon, despite ever changing, offered its consistency. gazing upon my fellow stars as they dance to silent music in the night, you comfort me with a patient glow, moving through drifting clouds and midnight heartbreak.
the moonlight moves gently, soft and serene, a quiet pull in the blue waters of chaos. while i, a scatter in the never ending cosmos, burn bright in search of where you rise. you create the tides, the push and pull of the ocean, chaotic and yet predictable. there is no need for words, for my soul knows your light.
i orbit close, yet never reach out to your surface, for it's not often that the moon connects with the stars. the moon is not always present, disappearing over the horizon as the sun overpowers my glow, and yet when you return, i can shine just as bright.
i constantly feel as though i am reaching, searching, pulling toward you, for stars and the moon can't always connect the way i wish.
but still, i shine alongside you, holding out for the moment we cross paths once more.
BY BROOKE FOX
BY TESSA COLEMAN
BY JANIE WRIGHT
BY WYATT UNRUE
It was a peaceful day, like usual. Dull, as usual. A little droll, even. Maybe even a bit drab. Maybe. Perhaps. The suburbs tended to be a bit drab, a bit droll, a smidge dull; always peaceful though.
Livia wondered if things could even be dull without being peaceful. She then wondered if things could be peaceful without being dull. That felt easier to imagine, be it by just a slim margin.
She rolled off her bed, the sheets trailing behind and wrapping around her body as she hit the bedroom floor with a thud.
That was fun.
A passive thought, thought up simply to have thunk it. She thought about making her bed, her mom would be happy, but she just didn't feel like it at the moment.
How tragic.
Maybe she could go outside, it was definitely nice enough for it, but she had practically done everything out there for a child her age to do.
She unwound herself from the freshly made linen cocoon, tossing its remnants back onto the bed. She took a breath, then another, perhaps to make sure she had taken the first one right. Then, she went back to the agonizing dilemma of how to spend her time. As she mulled over her many, many options, she found herself outside, nonetheless.
It was a nice day. Dull, but nice. Perhaps nice in the sense that only a dull day can be. The sun casted down a light that wasn't quite its usual, gentle gold; it was more akin to antique bronze, the color her doorknobs were made of. She liked the color of her
house's doorknobs. She meandered, wandered, strolled, sauntered, rambled, ambled, and roamed; all the while still unsure what to do. In fact, it was getting to the point where she'd have been spending more time considering what to do than actually doing anything. Livia groaned, twirling about before crumpling to the ground.
She sprawled out on the grass, staring up at the sky. She heard the City had gotten a new sky, but she didn't really know what that meant. She also didn't particularly care, except when she did, but that was beside the point. The clouds stretched into thin wisps above her, right on the cusp of tearing apart, like cotton balls when you stretch them too far.
She looked at the empty, grassy expanse around her. Nothing but subtle slopes and fade-away flowers. It was dull, droll, drab; not lonely though, surprisingly enough, despite hers being the only home to be found in miles.
I'm bored, she thought.
I am incredibly bored.
Livia sat up and blinked. She let out a short, happy whistle. The wind had begun to blow through the densely packed trees that clustered around the neighborhood. She sprung to her feet, spreading her arms to keep herself from falling down again, and began to explore, as children so often do. It was definitely a nice day, peaceful. Cicadas began to scream somewhere out in the woods behind her home, out near the creek, probably.
They're loud.
Livia hummed along with the chirping as she climbed the fence around her house, spindly arms and spindly legs made it fairly easy, then keeping her arms parallel to the ground as she walked
across the railing. One step forward, then another, and another. Two steps forward, then another, and another. Four more steps forward, and then a singular step back, and right above her head was a tree branch just thick enough to hold her.
The cicadas had quieted down, their screams becoming more of a murmur as she swung from branch to branch. The trees were packed close enough together that she could easily jump between them. She felt like a wild-man, raised by the jungle. Like Mowgli, she thought. She had liked that book, having read it all in under a week after finding it in her attic. It was an old book, the fauxleather cover peeling away, and the pages were a bit crumbly at the edges, but it lasted long enough to be read through a few dozen more times.
As she continued brachiating, Livia hit a large cluster of leaves and thin branches, two of the trees having been knotted together in a thick, green wall. She placed her hand on it, giving it a small push. It gave a little. She pushed a bit harder, and it gave more. She could see some light coming through from the other side as the leaves rustled.
If she had been just a bit older, maybe she would have taken a moment to consider if pushing against a wall of vegetation, while roughly two stories off the ground, was a good idea. Tragically, Livia was not a little bit older, and so after taking a small step back, she hurled herself at the wall. The brambles that had been tying the branches together snapped apart.
She noticed how the leaves drifting around her looked like emeralds, with the way the light hit them. She noticed the hundreds of broken branches and twigs scattering across the sky She noticed the small red flecks that soared between them. She
noticed she was very, very high up. She noticed she was about to hit the side of a house.
How tragic.
Then she blinked.
There was a window, right above where she was about to crash. It was open, probably because it was a nice day. Leaves continued to shower around her. She reached out as far as she could as she flew through the air. She caught the ledge, just by her fingertips. Spindly arms and spindly legs.
She pulled herself up, and heaved herself in. Now, of course, she wouldn't have just barged into someone else's home under normal circumstances (probably), but this would have been excusable (probably). She took a deep breath, looking back out the window for a moment, before a stifled whimper caused her head to snap back to the inside of the room. The wind picked up behind her, causing another bout of loose foliage to rip from the tree line. A single leaf managed to blow in through the window, flitting right past Livia, and landing precariously on the boy in front of her's nose.
The kid was trembling like the branches outside, wide-eyed and gobsmacked. No one could blame him though; a complete stranger had just burst out from the trees and into his room. Any child his age would be frightened.
Livia thought he looked rather funny, with his big ol' brown eyes, and the leaf balancing on his nose. Like a puppy, she thought to herself. A sudden sting on her face, followed by another, and another, and then even more on her arms and legs, reminded her she had just jumped through a large wall of woven brambles and branches.
While most other children would have started to cry after processing the fact they were hurt, Livia merely shrugged it off. After all, it wouldn't have looked very cool if she had just fallen to the floor sobbing in pain. No, she would tough it out, she'd read The Jungle Book and Tom Sawyer (there were a lot of old, crumbly books in her attic).
She grazed one of the cuts on her cheek, letting the resulting sting shoot through her body as she beamed at the kid across from her. The boy stopped trembling. It's a natural talent for children to make friends with one another. "Hiya! Your room's really cool, what's your name?" She asked.
The leaf slipped off the boy's nose, drifting down to the crayon covered paper he had been drawing on before this stranger had broken into his house. "M-Mi-" he faltered; Livia continued to wait patiently for an answer. The boy gulped, hoping to get rid of the sawdust that had suddenly formed inside his mouth.
"Milo," he (a bit weakly) replied.
Livia stood straighter, cupping her wrists behind her back as she tossed the name around in her head. "Milo," she repeated back. She tried it out a few more times, both in her head and aloud, much to the confusion of the boy himself.
It sounds like a name for pets.
She glanced around the room. A neatly made twin sized bed, a closet, a dresser, a few toys, and an entire wall filled with drawings. She skipped over to it. "What's this?" She asked, reaching out and grabbing one of the doodles.
It was made with markers, bright and cheery. A rocket ship. The boy didn't respond.
Livia placed it back, "I like it," she hummed, spinning back around to face Milo. The sun outside beamed a ray right through the window, the two children casting long shadows against the wall as another gust of wind rustled through the trees. It was a very peaceful day.
"Oh, right," she laughed, taking a few hops closer. She smiled a bit brighter, "I'm Livia."
BY G BOBBURI
work your fingers into your locks, tease them this way and that. your hair is so thick you could run a comb through the coiff and leave it there.
your dad used to tell you how, when he was in college, his mullet was so curly that his friends would stick pencils into his hair and they would stay, trapped.
you have his eyes. you swallow and watch your throat convulse. a tiny animal suffocating in your gullet–a daughter, a mouse. you grew up quietly creeping around the lion in your home; round ears pricked, naked tail clasped in your paws, worried at.
the lion was not a violent animal, you understand. but boy, was he loud.
when you were 14, you stole a tie out of his closet and fumbled with it around your neck. he was not there to teach you. you never asked. you cut your mane to his length and when you showed it to him, he just stared. quickly, you were learning there wasn’t enough space for two big cats in the house.
the closest you felt to your dad was when he taught you how to take care of your short hair. but you knew that he hated it all the same. he was never quiet about that. it was not in his nature. your nature has been changing for years, and his hackles are raised.
a lion devours whole, and a mouse curls into itself. in the mirror, the lion tucks his tail between his legs while the mouse beats against the inside of his throat.
BY GABE QUINTEROS
BY TORI CHAPEL
BY JENA SALEM
In an unassuming, derelict shed, which stood in the heart of Salem’s dense woods, five girls were huddled together over a miracle. Cradled atop of little Pauline’s palms was an obsidian sphere filled with an inky blue liquid. If the beholder tilted it just right and peered through the little window, a geometric shape with many sides and corners would drift into view. Written on its surfaces were the word of God, or perhaps, another supernatural deity. Pauline moved away from the center, parting the circle and then turned to face the others. She furrowed her brow, casting her eyes back down at the sphere. “Father Abbey never spoke of such a relic during his sermons,” said Pauline. “What do you believe we’re meant to do with it? Could it truly be sacred?”
The rest of the group remained silent as they considered her question. Agnes spoke up first. “I believe the answer is quite clear. We must present it to the church and seek their guidance.” Regina, the eldest one, shook her head slowly. “That is a horrendous idea.”
Agnes narrowed her eyes, confused. “How so? The best thing to do is wash our hands of this before it comes back to bite us. Do you understand what they may do to us if we’re caught?” “And that’s precisely it! Think for just a moment, Agnes. Suppose we were to go before the church. They will inquire about how we came across it,” Regina pointed a finger at Pauline. “If we tell the officials that it was Pauline who discovered it by the brook, they will take her away.”
“So we shall claim it rolled over from mean old Mrs. Brown’s yard,” Winnifred suggested. “She already witnessed us with the sphere, and I fear that she will accuse us first otherwise.”
“And no one will take her word over ours,” Pauline added. “That wench’s ugly reputation precedes her.”
Agnes’s face wrinkled with disgust. “You both are content with lying under the Lord’s roof?”
Winnifred opened her mouth to respond but was swiftly cut off by Regina. “They will see through our fabrication regardless,” she reasoned. “You forget that they’ve been taught to compel the truth from one’s soul.”
Joan scoffed loudly. Until now, she had been listening quietly from the far end of the shed. Regina frowned in her direction. “Well, then! What resolution do you propose, O’ Wise Joan?” Paying no mind to her friend, Joan pushed off of the wall she was leaning on and approached. “If I may, do you think it possible for it to be a holy messenger rather than a work of the Dark One?” The room fell silent again as the girls looked at one another. Without waiting for an answer, Joan stepped closer and scooped the sphere from Pauline’s hands. Everyone surrounded her instead, watching with anticipation. Joan cleared her throat. “Do you come in peace?” She lifted the window to her eye and looked into it. The shape was nowhere in sight.
“Alas, the shape has disappeared. It has nothing to tell us.” Joan declared. Regina rolled her eyes. “You are to shake it before questioning. That is how Pauline communicated with it before.” Pauline hummed in agreement. Joan asked again and shook it vigorously. The group drew tighter together and waited for the oracle to appear. It tumbled around the casing for a moment and then settled in front of the looking glass. As the tiny, indigo bubbles dissipated, the girls were able to read their fortune:
IT.
“My turn!” Pauline chirped, snatching it back. “Shall I marry before any of the others?” Regina clicked her tongue disapprovingly, which was met with a mischievous grin from
Pauline. “We’re to handle the oracle with prudence. ‘Tis not a toy.”
“Marriage is very serious!” Pauline pouted. “What is a lady without potential suitors?” “Well, we know the answer to be me anyway,” said Agnes. “I am to be betrothed to Samuel in two springtimes. It has been promised.”
Pauline smiled coquettishly. “Let us see.” She gave the sphere three hard shakes and turned it face-up.
Disbelief took over Agnes as she grabbed the oracle to confirm the truth for herself. Pauline bursted into a fit of giggles.
“Your beloved Samuel shall flee from thee at the altar!” she gloated.
A furious Agnes chased her around the space. Pauline squealed when she seized the hem of her dress and attempted to trip her.
“Enough!” Regina separated the two and confiscated the sphere. “This is no time to quarrel amongst each other.” She glared at Winnifred, who was stifling her laughter. The youngest smiled apologetically. Agnes moved next to Regina. “I would like to ask the next question.”
Regina held up the sphere. “Speak.”
“Are you heaven-sent?”
She jostled it around. The oracle bounced from wall to wall until it came to a halt.
CANNOT PREDICT NOW.
An uncertain hand covered the window. It belonged to Agnes.
“Perhaps we should cease any conversation with it,” she said. “If it cannot tell us of its origin, surely these messages do not come from God.” “How can you be so certain, pray tell?” Joan protested. “Who is to say that the Lord is not testing our faith?”
“And who is to say that engaging with this relic is not witchcraft?” Agnes retorted. “We will be in such trouble if the church deems it so!”
“Be still! Do recall our patron saints, the very saints we learned about in Sunday school,” said Joan. “They, too, faced assertions of heresy when spreading the Gospel. Shall you cower from your mission in fear of public scrutiny? Quite pitiful.”
“Sinner! Bite your tongue at once.”
“You cannot silence an anointed soldier. ‘Tis against His will,” Joan said matter-of-factly.
"I march to His rhythm, and when the day of reckoning arrives, the angels shall carry me to Paradise on my shield.” Joan stole the sphere from Regina. “What are we meant to do with you?” The liquid inside sloshed around, sweeping the oracle back and forth.
OUTLOOK NOT GOOD.
Agnes timidly peeked over Joan’s shoulder. She postulated what everyone else refused to confront. “Are you of the devil?”
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW.
The entire shed erupted into chaos as the girls gasped and clamored over the oracle’s words. All, save for Winnifred, who observed them anxiously from the outskirts. She hastily squeezed through the group and took center stage. Realizing no one else
would diffuse the situation, Winnifred cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “QUIET!” as loud as she could. The cacophony of overlapping voices and arguing came to an abrupt stop. Every girl turned their head, startled. It was uncharacteristic of Winnfried to yell, given that she normally spoke softly with a sweet lilt.
“Cease this bickering! It is unbecoming,” she scolded. “Are we not fair ladies? Must we not take care to resolve this matter civilly?”
Winnifred waited for a rebuttal, but none came. Her friends nodded or muttered sheepishly, all looking ashamed. The youngest relaxed her posture, drawing another breath. “Now, if you are willing to listen, I’ve hatched an idea.” Winnifred waved over Joan, who reluctantly passed her the sphere.
“We know not of where this entity hails from. Heavens, we hardly know if it is divine,” Winnifried glanced warily at it. “Before we alert any official, we must establish if the sphere is truly conscious. I shall pose several queries, and if it responds with candor, we may learn the truth.”
Winnifred pondered her first question as her eyes landed on Pauline. She let them slide shut. “O Divine Messenger, hear our prayer. I beg of you to forgive our audaciousness, as we must quell the doubt which agitates our spirits. If you dwell within this case, do enlighten us,” A beat passed as Winnifried opened her eyes. “Is Pauline the friend most dear to my heart?” She lightly shook the sphere. The oracle swished about until the ink stilled.
YES.
A warm feeling bloomed in Pauline’s chest. “Gracious! How sweet.” Winnifred smiled. Tilting her head in thought, she spoke again. “Is it true that we reside in Salem, Massachusetts?” The oracle swirled.
YES, DEFINITELY.
Winnifried’s fingers tingled beneath the sphere. She felt uneasy. “I see. One final question, if you please.” She wanted to make this one trickier, so as to confirm if it really can see them. It came to her when she caught sight of Agnes’s cream-colored blouse. “Is Agnes’s blouse a lovely rose color?” Winnifred shook it one last time.
MY REPLY IS NO.
Her breath hitched. She rotated the sphere to show the others. Agnes paled at what it said. “Lord above, may you protect us from the forces of evil,” she whispered. “I rebuke any impish creature that might lie in Winnie’s hands. Have mercy. She knows not what she does.”
Winnifred set the sphere down and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Agnes, please k–” Agnes jerked away. “Unhand me! Stay back!” She tucked herself into a corner, gripping the cross pendant dangling from her necklace, and continued praying.
Joan scowled at Agnes, stalking over and grabbing the sides of her face. “Get a hold of yourself! You have no reason to worry!” Agnes looked wildly about the room until Joan forced her to make eye contact. “The Lord is with us. He rests in our friend’s hands.” Her voice lost its usual edge. She took both of Agnes’s hands, pulling her onto her feet.
“Soon, you all shall see. Whether we choose the path of God’s oracle will be a testament of our faith. This is our opportunity to become canonized. Have you ever wondered what it is to be a saint? To live by the sword and be willing to die by it? And, if necessary...spill the blood of swine?” “Nonsense! You quit that sort of talk, Joan!” demanded Regina.
“You dare deny Him?”
“Nay, we merely deny you.” Pauline said, arms crossed.
Joan spun around. She stepped closer until they were inches apart. “Is that so? How rich.”
“Oh?”
“T’was you who brought about this foreign item, yes? Foolish girl, you think He didn’t appoint you to be his vessel?” Joan stared at Pauline. She was silent, only offering a bewildered expression An epiphany washed over Joan as she looked the other girl up and down. “Unless...you’re possessed by something else.”
Pauline stiffened. “What is it you’re implying, Joan?”
“Thou hadst been participating in witchcraft.”
Not a sound could be heard in the shed. Regina studied the two carefully. “That is a grave accusation, I hope you know.”
“I’m very aware. It appears we have a doxy who must be punished righteously. ”
Joan shifted her attention to Agnes. “What say you?”
Agnes swallowed, eyes wandering to the floor. “We must not make allegations so hastily. If we are to do anything, we shall leave it in the hands of the church.” Her fist closed around her pendant. “Agnes, there is no Bishop nor judge in our wake. We know all too well how her inquisition would end. If thou wishes to live lasciviously, then I shall assist in reuniting the girl with her maker who stirs below the earth.”
Sensing the building tension, Regina positioned herself between Pauline and Joan. “Let us take a moment to cool our tempers, shall we?”
“I will do no such thing.” Joan brushed past Regina as if she wasn’t there. She jabbed her finger sharply into Pauline’s sternum. “Confess at once, Pauline. Admit thou hadst danced loosely with Lucifer himself!”
Pauline blinked owlishly at her, then cackled. “Have you partaken in too many communions, my dear? I never took you to be a bumbling drunkard.”
Joan’s mouth twitched. Before anyone could react, she lunged at Pauline and tackled her to the ground. Her hands clamped around her throat.
“Harlot! Out with it!” she screamed. Regina and Winnifred rushed to break up the fight. Agnes was frozen. She couldn’t bring herself to intervene. After the girls managed to pry Joan off of her, Pauline sat up, coughing and sputtering.
“You are a mad woman, Joan Anderson!” she croaked.
“Silence, heretic! I shall put an end to this right now!” Joan picked up the sphere. Its shell pulsed under the pads of her fingers, breathing, surging with what could only be the sublime. Never in Joan’s life has she ever harbored so much power. She craved it more than anything, although she would rather die than admit that. Now, God has rewarded her for being his perfect mortal spirit. One chance to act on the unsavory urge she has always suppressed. A single opening that granted her permission to draw blood if it protected the sanctity of Salem. “Do you, divine or cursed messenger, find Pauline Dupont guilty of witchcraft?” She rattled it so hard that its liquid leaked down her arm.
WITHOUT A DOUBT.
With a satisfied grin, she threw it at her feet. The sphere split in
two. Blue liquid splattered onto Pauline’s apron. “Then it is decided! In the name of God, I will cast you out of his world, foul beast!”
A look of fear flickered across her face. She tipped her head up to meet Joan’s eyes. “You have it wrong. Please believe me. I am no witch.”
Joan laughed bitterly. “Believe me. I take no pleasure in what I am about to do.” She reached for the letter opener lying on a woodworking table. Pauline immediately understood and scrambled to hide behind the other girls.
Winnifred let out a shriek, catching Joan’s wrists to hold her in place. “Joan, stop it!” she cried. “This is not the way!” Her pupils were so dilated that she looked rabid. “Let go, Winnie. Do not stand in the way of justice.”
“I refuse! ‘Tis not ‘justice,’ but murder!” Winnifred was sobbing now, tears staining her pink cheeks.
Joan freed herself from her grasp. “If you wish to align yourself with the likes of her, then you leave me no choice.” She raised the letter opener and plunged it deep into Winnifred's chest. A wet, guttural noise bubbled up from her throat as she slid down the wall. Winnifred clutched desperately at the blade. More blood spilled from her wound after she dislodged it and feebly dropped to the floor. While the other girls remained rooted to their spots, Pauline darted to her side. She wailed and howled and pleaded for her to stay awake. Winnifred ran a limp hand through Pauline’s hair as her last display of affection. When her eyes glazed over, that’s when Winnifred’s breathing stopped. Pauline’s best friend was gone.
For half of a second, Joan looked remorseful.
Like the eye of a storm, the shed descended into a whirlwind of frenzied panic. Pauline curled up into a ball as she watched the others collapse in on themselves. Taking advantage of the mayhem, she surreptitiously made way toward the door and slipped out. She had only taken a few paces before two men blocked her path. There stood Father Abbey and the town sheriff, both gaping at the girl’s bloodsoaked dress.
BY TESSA COLEMAN
BY HERBERT STEET
BY ULYSSES GRANGER
Lover, take my body — I don’t need it anymore. Take the — skin, soft and new and — drape it around your — shoulders.
I look — pretty, wrapped around someone — else. Always knew I’d look — pretty, on a California — king. Knew I’d look — pretty, lying stillborn on a — couch.
When my brother — asks how it — happened, tell him I asked and — asked. Tell my — mother her — little boy beamed.
Say my — hands clinged with — love, and not weak — abandon, say I — waited till I knew your mother’s — maiden name.
When my — friends ask where — I’ve been, tell them I slept — soundly, and at — peace.
Tell them — it was a — blissful moment, not the — grasping — of desperate — bodies. Tell them — it was something — of substance — and not the — burial — of a — virgin — corpse.
BY KENNY BILLS
BY WYATT UNRUE
Married for about four years, I believe; they were as typical as pairs come, chores split between who could do what at whatever particular time, ate dinner together more often than not, made merry on holidays, talked, laughed, cried, etc. None of that is of particular importance, note the only reason I bothered to share it was so you would not be left wondering. You are welcome.
The house was well kept, two floors, three on the first, and four on the second, unless one were to count the restrooms, in which case it was four on the first, and six on the second. Of course, stating it as such makes it seem much larger than the whole house was, so for that sake I will continue referring to the numbers as three rooms on the first floor, and four on the second. Granted, I will most likely not come back to this fact, as it is of no particular importance.
They had a lovely yard, front and back, as they had both decided that the grass should be left to its own affairs; wildflowers, reeds, clovers, shoots and stalks and other such things. Their fence, a wooden fence, had ivy creeping over it in a few noticeable places, thick green blankets over the stain of the wood to the point that, if you had only glanced, or the sun was in your eyes, or you were just the particular type of person to pay very little attention to everything around you, it might possibly look like a small hedge wall. But the fact of the matter is their yards, front or back, with all their flowers and clovers and vines, was of no particular importance.
And on one particular Sunday, during one particular summer, they were sitting in some particular room of their house, on the first floor, and one of them happened to look outside one of their windows and into the yard, their backyard, at a particular point of their fence where the ivy had been particularly thick, and said to the other that maybe they should consider trimming it. The other would agree, nodding, in the particular way that conveyed neither of them cared too deeply about it, and had just been speaking for thought’s sake. But, still, the one would continue looking out the window, at the fence, and the ivy, and further more the trees behind said fence, and the leaves that coated the floor of the encroaching forest and eventually they would find themself really, truly staring and the other would eventually take notice and so the other would, at first, think to ask what they were looking at but, on this particular Sunday of this particular summer they would say nothing, and instead they would simply look as well at the yard, and the fence, and the ivy and then, of course, the trees behind said fence, and the leaves coating the floor of the encroaching forest.
But, nothing of particular importance.
BY BRITT ABEL
BY WYATT UNRUE
The sun had gone under hours ago as they crept out from their rooms, each slinking down their own set of stairs step-by-step, each carefully keeping their doors or windows from creaking as they opened them up. They were all very practiced in the procedure.
They'd been doing it for as long as they could remember; the sun would set, the dark would sprawl out over the sky, and as their parents all slept, they would make their nightly escape. It was almost a tradition, the only thing keeping it from being such was unknown, however.
They each trekked through bush and brush, sometimes murmuring, sometimes whispering, sometimes not saying a word. Eventually, when they were far enough away, the quiet air would break. Upon seeing one another they would wave and holler as they continued on, trooping and tramping and squalling in a way that, no doubt due to the distance, would simply sound like the nightly calls of other, lesser beasts.
Tonight was a great one, it being early autumn. The moon was out and shining, the crisp air gave way to twinkling stars in a dark blue sky, somehow bright enough still to pierce through the leaves of the trees above them as they all made their way deeper into the wood. Yes, tonight was a great one.
It never took long for them to reach their meeting spot, and it certainly helped that the ones with littler legs were herded along by the biggers. It wasn't quite a clearing, as there was still plenty a tree or bush around, but it had more of a breathing room about it, with a large swath of leaf covered ground that gave way to the bank of a stream. There was also a rather noticeable formation of rocks about, with a large flat one, rounded, near the center of the
clearing, and a few other, more vertical ones, peppering the space around. In all, the space looked as if someone had attempted to make a lecture hall out of a forest and failed miserably in doing so.
The children began doing what children would do in such a space, usually proportioned to their individual age (the olders would usually gossip and make sure the little's didn't get hurt as they played) until their assembly officially began. Of course, its way of "officially beginning” was more akin to when everyone had simply found a spot they deemed most comfortable to sit or stand.
Little lights began to appear around the clearing. Small, meek things. They flitted around, hummed and buzzed, dimming and brightening in a steady, soft rhythm. The children began to play once more as the fireflies filled the assembly. They would run, and jump, and chatter in excited, hushed tones. They would climb the rocks and the trees and skip across the stream. They would go on their adventures and play their games for as long as they could, but eventually, laughter would give way to yawns, which would give way to the pilgrimage back to their beds.
They would all shuffle out of their little clearing, some of the youngers waving goodbye to the fireflies – who were usually too busy fixing up the place to return the favor – as they returned home. One of the littlest there, Valentine, gave a long pause as the bugs flitted about in their cleanup, before her brother herded her away. They had all been playing for a good many hours, but they had set their clocks back beforehand so that no real time was lost, and of course, sleep would welcome them all the same.
The next day (it was a Saturday, mind you), a few children, the ones who tended to grow bored at around noon with nothing to do, decided to go out to the stream. Valentine hadn't truly wanted
to go, but her mother had made her older brother take her; an action which made both children rather annoyed. The two ran into a few others on their walk; Simon, one of the olders (and quite possibly the oldest to Valentine's recollection), and his little brother were among them,as well as Valentine's friend Ruth with her older sister.
They headed out into the woods, which looked noticeably different in daylight than night, making sure to watch for spiderwebs and roots as they went. "There's a fence coming up," Simon would tell them. Ruth asked him if it had a gate. "Well, it ought to," was the older's reply, to which Ruth's sister was quick to remark, "It aint ought to-"
Simon cut her off, "They practically always-"
"That doesn't mean it oughta," she interjected.
Valentine's brother gave her a quizzical look as the two olders bickered. She'd noticed the two had seemed less friendly with each other for a good week now, with last night having them remain on complete opposite sides of the clearing (they had often been hand in hand before). Of course, and this may have been in part due to her age, she didn't really care enough to dwell on it too much. All the same, they reached the fence, and it did in fact have a gate. It was a rather nice fence, aside from the ivy and brambles dispersed on it, which seemed to be having an argument of their own (no doubt about some sort of land dispute). Simon unlatched the gate and ushered the others in with a dramatic wave, which seemed to please Ruth enough for a quick fit of laughter. Her sister, however, was definitely not pleased, quickly escorting her through the gate as she side-eyed Simon.
As they continued to walk, Valentine realized she hadn't taken note of which time they'd left. Simon's brother seemed to gather her concern.
"It was about 15 minutes past noon, I think. Give or take,” he said, "Simon set his clock back for about five hours." Valentine nodded along before her attention was grabbed by a deer's bell. It was a very loud one, for sure, and prompted her to slow to a stop. A very captivating thing, the bell of a buck.
Her brother was able to recapture her focus by promising to buy her a bell from the music store.
They reached the stream rather quickly, and again, the entire area looked very different when it was sun poking through the leaves. The clearing still looked like someone's sorry attempt at a lecture hall, though.
Valentine watched as the others began playing in what ways they deemed fit, that being sifting through the sand and pebbles for whatever there was to be found. She didn't partake, even when Ruth asked her to on multiple occasions (those occasions being a rapid fire "Please?" "No" "Please?" "No,"). It wasn't that she was grumpy, or bitter in any way about anything, she simply didn't have the desire in her at the time; and so, she watched everyone else. Not content, but not not content. She wondered if there was a word for that. Maybe she'd make one. Maybe she should make one. She began doing that as she took a seat on the stone in the middle of the clearing.
She was taken out of her wordsmithing rather quickly, however, by Ruth's sister (who also had no intent on going to the stream. Her reason, however, was clearly bitter) sitting down beside her.
The older let out an exasperated sigh as she stared out at the other four children, mainly Simon, "Hey, Valentine? Promise me somethin', alright?” she asked, beginning to cross her legs atop the stone. Valentine knew that she wasn't supposed to respond yet, and
allowed the other girl to continue. "Don't ever fall for boys – or girls – or anyone for that matter, okay?"
Valentine just nodded along, not bothering to interrupt as Ruth's sister continued to spout her own stream of thinly veiled troubles.
Valentine thinks of cicadas quite often, ever since she found the husks of them clinging in the trees one day (clinging for dear life, mind you). She picked them off, made them cling to her clothes like sequins, and got quite the reaction from her parents when she displayed her new look. Of course, of course, they quickly made her take them off and change her clothes. She had been expecting laughter, as the act had given her something to laugh at, but instead she was met with stern words, as parents are often prone to use. Her mother would be telling her how she shouldn’t be putting things like cicada shells on her clothes; they’re dirty, and her clothes would get dirty.
Valentine took note that the focus of her mother's concern was the state of her clothes. In fact, it felt much more like her mother was simply stating the things she thought a mother ought to say. She was gently scolded, but the words never found anywhere to set in her head. After all, they were directed at her clothes, not to her.
About a week later, she found some more husks clinging to the trunks of trees. She considered wearing them again, but the thought no longer amused her; she couldn’t for the life of her discern why – and this was precisely due to the exact feeling she had about it – she couldn’t even bring herself to care enough to figure it out.
The sun had gone under hours ago as they crept out from their rooms, each slinking down their own set of stairs stepby-step, each carefully keeping their doors or windows from creaking as they opened them up. They were all very practiced in the procedure.
They'd been doing it for as long as they could remember; the sun would set, the dark would sprawl out over the sky, and as their parents all slept, they would make their nightly escape. It was almost a tradition, the only thing keeping it from being such was unknown, however. Valentine surmised that it had something to do with the fact no one talked about it. She’d know for a fact if they did, after all.
The clearing looked the same as ever, and the children did what they always had, the only difference being that this time it was Valentine's turn to gossip and keep some semblance of order with the other olders. She never was one for gossip, however, so as she idly listened to whatever Ruth had to say about school or work, she helped the littlest youngers down from the rocks they had thought to climb. She would sometimes answer Ruth's rhetoric with a hum or nod, when such a response was expected, and sometimes she would let Simon’s brother talk about his summer plans. Sometimes she would just stand there and wait for everyone else to find their spots.
The fireflies came out in their usual cabaret (they had gotten a new showrunner), and the children began playing once more. It was certainly a nice assembly, the hazy navy-blue of the sky gave way to hazier stars, gave way to all sorts of things not worth mentioning. It lasted for as long as it took until it ended, which it always did, and the children began walking home. Valentine's brother had the flu, but decided to come anyway (he would be
going off to college soon after all), and although he had been well in the assembly, began sneezing the entire way back home. Luckily, she had been smart enough to bring some tissues and handed a pack to him. Granted, the true reason she’d brought them was simply because it would have been even more of a bother if she hadn’t. As they crept their way back inside, and back to their rooms, Valentine stalled in front of her bed.
She didn't feel content, but she didn't feel not content. She still hadn't managed to come up with a word for it.
She walked about her room, which, in the twilight, looked exactly the same as it did in the daylight, minus the palette swap. A few posters, a few pictures, rocks and figurines and bells and whistles (the deer incident had been the trigger for a rising collection). She stood still, walked around some more, then stood still again.
She was bored, yes, but didn't want to do anything. On a whim, she went to her clock and set it back by an hour. After that, she crept back outside to the woods.
Tonight was a great one, it being early summer. The sky was hazy, the air was mild, and the moon gauzy. Valentine could hardly pick it out from under the trees.
She didn't have any plans on what to do, so she simply did. Upon returning to the clearing, she realized she'd never been there alone before. It was a strange feeling, and not a bad one either, but still very strange. The clearing looked the same as before, no better, no worse. The fireflies had all left, which was to be expected. She felt strange, still. It was very similar to the other feeling she had that still remained to be named.
Valentine began thinking about what to call it as she walked about the clearing. It was a round feeling, so the name would have to be round, like a stone, or an egg. Not so round as to be a marble or ball, however. Something ovular. Eventually, however, she grew rather tired of making neologisms and gave up. It could wait for another day. Instead, now, she stood by the stream. It burbled, and gargled, and spat out on the bank (she must have caught it in the middle of its nightly routine) near her feet; a rude occurrence to be sure, but Valentine paid no mind to it.
She simply stood there, taking a few quiet breaths. Honestly, she was a bit tired of feeling like this, and had she been younger, perhaps she would've been able to busy herself by doing anything else. But now she was older, and thinner, and longer, and yet still here she was, listening to frogs croak (an ambulance would always come soon after, don't worry), and crickets scream, and streams spit at her feet. Here still she was, and, upon being there, wondered if even going to college would change it. She'd probably go to wherever Ruth went, or her brother's, although both would probably coincide.
Maybe she'd skip college, do something else. She was still young enough to answer the titular question of "What are your plans?” With an "I'm not sure yet," and so she could always just keep it on the backburner. Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't there. However, she wasn't old enough to truly care, and even if she was, she still wouldn't have.
Then, she got an inkling of the word she was looking for. Something neutral, and dry. Something round, neutral, and dry. She was not content, but she was not not content. She wasn't somewhere in between, either. At first she entertained the idea she was contently discontent, but that didn't fit the bill. She played
with the word "apathetic," but it didn't play nice with her tongue. Too mean. She decided to simply give up again, and this time for good. The feeling didn't need a word, it was simply what it was. The most she could do, perhaps, was equate it to something else; wind through tall grass. That's what it was. She felt like wind blowing through tall grass.
As she finally put that long overdue topic to rest, she then listened to the trees sway about on various topics, and to all the crickets serenading each other (truly, they had no shame). Something grabbed her attention, and Valentine glanced to see a family of stones rolling into the stream, disappearing into the water. She considered disappearing with them, but then thought better. Instead, she decided to squat down, and, although the light was hazy, she could make out a thin trace of her reflection. It was wavery, yes, and a bit muddled, definitely, but it was no doubt her's. It had her hair, and her nose, and her brow, and her mouth, which all reflections should aspire to uphold. After staring at it for a bit, the girl leaned closer.
Valentine whispered a few things, in private, to the reflected girl. She was very careful to make sure the stream didn't eavesdrop on the conversation. She was very careful to make sure the crickets didn’t hush their chirps to listen in. She was very careful to make sure the trees didn’t lean down to hear her.
She made sure the only one to hear her words was the girl in the river, who had her hair, and her nose, and her brow, and her mouth. Valentine – bless her – made sure that whatever was spoken was between them, and them alone. After all, whispered exchanges in the woods should be given the upmost respect, at all times, always.
And yes, that goes for us too, so let’s end our story here.
Tessa Coleman is a senior in the Communication Arts department. She has a passion for speculative work that folds metaphor into narratives. Her own work focuses on illustration that communicates narratives through visual storytelling.
Wyatt Unrue is a junior double majoring in Philosophy and English, with a minor centered in Creative Writing. Wyatt’s work is primarily set around narratives that rely less on conflict as the main focus, and more on thoughts, interactions, and other experimental qualities.
Everest is a junior majoring in Biological Anthropology with a minor in Environmental Science. He loves writing, crochet, and music.
Janie Wright is a senior in the Communication Arts major with a minor in Creative Writing. She’s a long time student media center contributor and the president of VCU’s creative writing club. She loves combining her passions of writing and art as Annum Arcanum’s Art Editor.
Milena Paul is a senior in the School of the Arts, majoring in Graphic Design.
And so this book is bound and set by beetles born in 2026, writ with their pens found from a twelfthpint fount. With cover set on white warmed by 80lbs of Sundance felt, the innards wrought from pure white Mohawk via Vellum Text, 80lbs standing. Printed and pressed in Richmond, by the good company of Worth Higgins & Associates, Annum Arcanum was dressed in a Goudy Old Style upon the face of one Lubaline (may she sleep soundly), and decorated with images found unattended to in the old Image Archive, under the purview of the Public Domain.
