Aria J. Wolfe's Blog

As Published on Medium and Scribe

(As published in Disturbed Digest Magazine December 2018)

An infinitesimal shaft of light shines through a narrow slat in the wall, like the sunlight is afraid to touch the abysmal box which is my room. I’m grateful for its presence though, since the single bulb overhead isn’t enough to chase away the deep shadows, with its incessant filament-buzz as my only music.

In a few hours, none of these realities will matter. Today is my day of reckoning. The muscular guard—Damien, with the jagged scar on one cheek—reminded me of this fact when he brought me lunch. As if I could have forgotten.

The meal is a pasty, grey lump which I push around the plate with a dirty finger, watching the grease shimmer in the half-light.

I turn the plate, studying it. It could be art. It could be beautiful. The very least, it’s a way to pass the time.

I grab a handful of the nameless paste and smear it on the wall near my bed. I press my face close to the cement wall to hear the sticky wet noise of my fingers sliding in the goo. The sound is comforting; something else to listen to other than the screams and bangs from the neighboring cells.

With my eyes closed, and the scent of dirty, damp concrete strong in my nose, it almost smells earthy. Reminiscent of my life before.

“Farmer?”

My eyes flutter open. I hobble over to my toilet-sink combo on the opposite wall and strain to hear the disembodied voice floating up from the drain.

“Farmer, you there?”

I grab my toothbrush and tap twice on the drain. Yes.

“Jeryl’s coming your way, man. Don’t know what he wants but he’s been asking questions.”

I squeeze the sides of the sink as my stomach pitches. It must have something to do with what day it is.

“Hey,” my friend’s voice takes on a new tone, softer. “Remember the day you were brought here, you vowed never to speak until you saw your daughter again?”

I hover over the sink, nodding even though I know he can’t see me.

“I hope you get that chance. To see her again.”

My chest constricts. When I don’t respond, he taps.

Tap tap. Pause. Tap.

Finally, I tap back.

The sound of jingling keys just outside my cell door makes me shake, and I struggle to control the sudden urge to urinate. I drop my toothbrush in the sink and slump to the floor beside the toilet, hugging my knees to my chest, telling myself not to look at the door. An open door offers hope, and I once heard hope deferred makes the heart sick. I’ve had a sick heart for nineteen long years.

It’s my day of reckoning,I remind myself.

The guard who enters is Jeryl. I know him by his smell. The starch on his uniform and the personal hygiene products he uses. Without looking up, I can picture the grooves in his shiny black hair made by the teeth of his comb.

The steel door slams behind him. I jump and urinate a little. My cheeks heat and I press my shaking hands to my face.

“What are you in here for again?” His voice is soft, almost feminine, a tone he reserves for me. I brave a glance at him as he taps his pen on the clipboard he brought. “Oh yeah, it says here you killed your wife.”

I suppress a sigh. The guards say this every time they see me. Like reminding me will make me repentant. It never works.

Instead, I picture my daughter—my Lillith—the last time I saw her. Her impish nose with its pale dusting of freckles like sugar on a gum drop. Her white-blond ringlets that framed her exquisite face as she got older. And those eyes. Smoked onyx with flecks of midnight blue, if you looked long enough to see them, which no one could. Look long enough, I mean. Except me.

I rock a little. Back and forth. Back and forth. Watching Jeryl with furtive eyes. What is he here for? His easy tone always makes me nervous, but because of today’s promise it unsettles me even more. I have to piss so bad I can taste it, but I refuse to make that known.

Jeryl sniffs. “You piss yourself, Franklin?” He toes me with his boot, but not unkindly. I wish for the thousandth time he would treat me like the other inmates. I long to be kicked in the stomach, my fingers broken beneath a heavy boot—anything that will tell me I’m not a freak. That I’m nothing to be feared.

“Strip, then I’ll take your clothes to the laundry. Can’t meet your Maker smelling like a piss-pot, can you?”

Using the toilet to hoist myself up, I strip naked. Jeryl politely turns his face away, pretending to scribble on his clipboard, even though we both know there’s no longer any reason to take notes. I roll my soiled, putrid clothing into a ragged ball and hold it out to him. Jeryl points his pen at the floor.

“Kick them to me. I ain’t touching that.”

A whisper of hope climbs up my spine and lodges somewhere in my ribcage behind my heart. Maybe on my last day I will finally be treated like the others. Maybe today this baby-faced guard will swear at me, kick my naked body until I taste blood and call me names. Scum of the earth. Wife-killer. Bewitched. Freak.

It’s what I am after all.

But instead he kills me slowly, not with fear masquerading as kindness like the other guards, but with gentleness.

Keeping his back to my nakedness, he gives me a two-fingered salute and opens the door.

New air rushes in to replace the stale stink in my cell. Jeryl holds the door open longer than necessary and I breathe deep; tasting the sharp odors of sweat, stale food and something else. Something familiar that I can’t quite place. My mouth waters. I wipe the drool before Jeryl sees it.

“I’ll come by at supper time, Mr. Farmer. With your final meal.”

I nod, knowing the last thing I’ll ever taste will be a greasy, meatless paste. With my arms limp, my fingers twitching, I watch him gently push my balled-up clothing into the corridor. When his clipboard bangs against the door frame I jump and raise my eyes. His ruckus is unusual. I sense he’s nervous.

My fingers twitch faster.

“I took the liberty and ordered something special for your last meal, Sir. If that’s okay.” There’s a smile in Jeryl’s voice that makes me wince.

I stare at the back of his neck. I haven’t been Sirfor years.

“Steak.”

Saliva fills my mouth.

My knees buckle. I grip the sink to remain upright.

That’s the familiar smell in the corridor.

Tears leak from my eyes and I hang my head.

Once I was a cattle farmer.

Before.

Before Lillith was taken from me. Before my wife’s death.

I was a respectable man once. And this boy-guard with the soft voice is reminding me who I used to be.

He taps the clipboard hanging at his thigh. Tap tap. Pause. Tap. His fingers are long, slender. Lady fingers.I used to love those cookies. I almost smile.

He keeps tapping. Tap tap. Pause. Tap.The toe of his black boot is wedged in the door to keep it propped open. My fingers keep twitching. I sway as a memory rises, so strong I can almost smell the ozone from the storm that night. My last night before being dragged here.

I remember the way my wife’s pale hair had looked. Frizzed. It always did before it rained. The air had turned sharp and carried the scent of apples, a sure sign of an impending storm. The sky swirled with ominous shades of black and I knew Lillith would be frightened.

Jeryl clears his throat and I’m hurtled back to the present. Then I do the unthinkable. I raise my eyes to his. And for the first time he looks back at me.

My lungs collapse, and my heart leaps.

Those eyes.

I shuffle back. Stumble, and catch my foot on the toilet’s base. Pain ratchets up my Achilles tendon and Jeryl’s face softens into genuine concern. The transformation is nearly my undoing. I clutch the sink basin. I can feel my bowels loosen.

Past and present collide. As Jeryl stands at the door, I see in my mind my wife running out of our one-bedroom farmhouse to take down the clothes drying on the clothesline before the rain comes.

That’s when our daughter appears behind her.

I wave my arms. No! Hide! Get away!Lillith’s onyx eyes are wide. Her face is as pale as cow’s milk. Thunder crashes and raises the hairs on my arms. In silence, Lillith runs to me, arms out. Her little bow mouth forms a perfect circle of shock. I pick her up and she presses her wet face into my neck, wrapping her arms and legs around me. Her little body is taut with fear of the storm.

I hear footsteps outside my cell and jerk back. Jeryl’s jaw tightens. The memory fades and what I think I saw in him is gone.

“Jeryl! You’re needed in cellblock one.” The sound of Damien’s voice in the corridor causes my vague glimpse of an epiphany to stutter then stall.

Tap tap. Pause. Tap.Jeryl’s fingers continue their rhythm on his clipboard. When the door finally closes, I collapse onto the toilet and let my bowels stream.

#

The steak comes on a pretty, white plate with scalloped edges. I even get a paper napkin which I tuck into the collar of my freshly washed shirt. Before I eat, I poke my tongue into the center of the meat. The aroma of beef wafts up; another tendril that pulls me back into my nightmarish memory.

I’m holding Lillith when my wife turns to say something to me. She screams and drops the laundry basket when she sees our daughter alive and well. For three years, I’d deceived my wife and hid our daughter from her.

“You!You let her live?” She rushes at me, finger pointing.  Then tries to pry Lillith from my arms.

“Nan, please. She’s only a child. She can’t help what she is. Look, she’s grown so big. So beautiful, like you.”

“She’s nothing like me! She’s a freak! Cursed!” Nan scratches my arms to make me drop Lillith.

My little girl sobs into my neck until the next crack of thunder startles her and she lifts her head. When she sees the blood running from my arms and her mother’s long nails gouging my flesh she shouts, “NO!” Those smoky, onyx eyes flash. Goosebumps dimple my arms. My fingers twitch. The pungent scent of ozone hangs heavy in the air.

“It’s okay, Lil. Daddy’s fine. Look, it’s just a little scratch.”

My heart leaps against my ribs. I don’t want to watch as the rest of the memory unfolds. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the horror of that evening from my mind. Oh, if only little Lil had waited for me to come comfort her during that storm.

The steak settles like wet cement in my stomach.

“Farmer?” My friend’s voice rings through the pipes again. I set the plate on my mattress and walk to the sink to tap out my response, but my door opens.

My heart twists. It’s time.

“Franklin Farmer?” Jeryl pokes his head in, his eyebrows raised as though he’s seeing me for the first time. He steps into the room and lets the door bang shut. His strides are purposeful. “What are you in here for again?” Our eyes meet. My fingers twitch and the sweet smell of apples fills the room, followed by the heavy crush of ozone.

“Killed my wife.” My voice is rusty with disuse.

Jeryl works his mouth like he wants to say something. Those onyx eyes remain fastened on mine. The single bulb flickers.

I wait.

He waits.

The hairs on my arms lift.

“No,” Jeryl says, “you didn’t kill her. I did.”

Jeryl’s face blurs as my eyes fill. I reach a trembling hand to him and he takes it in both of his.

I shake my head. “I’m bewitched. Cursed with thunder.” My body is tight as the twitching races up my fingers to my arms. I shake with the effort to contain the power. Tears stream down my face.

“It’s not a curse, Dad. It’s a gift. That’s what you used to tell me isn’t it? That I’m blessed with the eyes of lightning.” Jeryl—Lillith— says and presses her face into my chest. I put my arms around her and we sway in a father-daughter dance.

I’m ready now, and I can tell she knows it. I put my nose in her hair that’s been dyed black and cut short, and breathe her in. Beneath the fabric starch and hair gel is her familiar scent of crisp autumn leaves interlaced with the fragrance of summer rain.

The air swirls with the intensity of our reunion, picking up dust and dirt and flinging it in our eyes. But I don’t care. I hang on tight and wait for the moment my body ignites in the fury of my own storm. It’s my day of my reckoning. But before Damien comes for me, I will go out of this world in flames, just like my wife.

“I’m coming with you,” Lillith says into my shirt. I’m thankful its clean. I never dreamed I’d be meeting my Maker wearing clean clothes and holding my little girl.

Her arms tighten around me and I don’t argue. I know too well the agony of missing your loved ones. It’s an eternal prison. A tiny box that sunlight can’t penetrate, and your only company is a voice in the drain.

Today, I finally let my heartache go. I wait for the moment when heaven kisses earth and I’m freed from the chains of mortality. The air is infused with the lingering scent of apples, as thunder and lightning dance.

by Aria J. Wolfe

Lucien and Julie were inseparable as children. Until the accident. Now, Lucien’s involvement with her could get him killed. But Julie will pursue him at all costs. But the cost, in the end is steep.

Lucien and Julie were inseparable as children. Until the accident. Now, Lucien’s involvement with her could get him killed. But Julie will pursue him at all costs. But the cost, in the end is steep.

Go Away. Closer.

ARIA J. WOLFE

Poetry

Life

Spilled thoughts

Poem: you are what you think about. 

Shattered.
Splinters of regret lodge in my chest. My fingers touch the collar of your shirt, but when you lean in I turn away.
Blue.
Heart crests with hope that you’ll call. Then ebbs when you don’t. The ocean’s tides take up residence.
Stormy.
Dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. Fingers and feet tangle in bedsheets gone cold without you.
Subdued.
Headlights break the night. A thousand stars glitter in my window then wink out. It’s not you.
I’ve been shattered.
Blue.
Stormy. Subdued.
But now it’s time I bid you
Adieu.

I bid you adieu…

Photograph by  Unsplash

“Heart crests with hope that you’ll call. Then ebbs when you don’t. The ocean’s tides take up residence.”

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SHADOW AND SHAYDE

ARIA J. WOLFE

Author of The Coalition Series and YA romantic supernatural thrillers

She’s not heavy—all elbows and knobby knees—but when she’s flailing about like this I can hardly carry her. A hard, bony bit of her catches my nose. My eyes stream and warmth trickles from my nostrils, but I don’t stop running. Or trying to. It’s hard to run on uneven flagstone through dim corridors carrying a long-legged, screaming child.
“Rose, please be quiet. You’re all right now.” My voice, rusty with disuse, is lost in the din of her ruckus. My muscles shiver as I try to contain her wild thrashings. I tighten my arms across her middle; a tiny birdcage with a rapidly fluttering heart. I feel it beating, like sparrow’s wings.
At last I can see the exit. The broken bricks that form the breezeway between my home and Chaos. My lungs burn and I can’t feel my feet anymore, but none of that matters. We are almost home.

“My name’s not Rose.”

SHADOW AND SHAYDE

The fine hair on my arms stands on end before I see him. It’s always that way. I feel the fear of him before I see his hulking, hungry shadow eating up the dusty walkway, then the wall, before stopping to hover in the breezeway.
I set the girl down and grab her wrist. She’s oblivious to everything; too focused on trying to twist away from me.














“Boo, let me pass.” I inch forward, pulling the girl behind me. She’s finally stopped screaming and is sucking on two dirty fingers.
Two feet remain between me and freedom. My chest squeezes. I glance at the girl who’s caught sight of the deep shadow sprawled across the wall and floor. She watches from under scraggly bangs, making slurping noises. I swear she’s grinning. She reeks of urine and the sour scalp smell of unwashed hair.
I yank her closer to my side and take another step. The shadow lengthens, eating the rest of the space between me and him. My bare foot is too close to the edge of the shadow so I curl my toes.
“This isn’t fair, Boo. The breezeway doesn’t belong to either of us, so get out of my way.” My fingers begin to tingle, making me adjust my grip on the girl.
The shadow moves, but not enough to let me pass. The girl giggles, making my breath lurch in my throat. Her laughter is an unexpected bright sound in the dank darkness of Chaos Castle.
“He’ll let you leave, but not with me,” she says around her fingers. Sweat trickles between my breasts. How does she know what he’s saying? In all these years I’ve never heard his voice. Thirty-two children I’ve taken from him in the last thirty-two years.
Rescued. I remind myself. Not taken. There is a difference.
I clear my throat, pretending I didn’t hear the girl.
“She’s my niece, Boo. You can’t have this one.” The lie is easy, but I squeeze her wrist anyway until she whimpers. Pain is an excellent silencer, however cruel.
With a rush of icy air the shadow retreats. I hear his footsteps on the flagstone tiles as he passes me with a wide birth. I don’t look at him, I never do. I might be afraid but I never let him know.
The girl whines as I propel her forward with a sharp yank of her wrist. I don’t know why the children always fight me at first. But I know once their bellies are full, and they’re washed and tucked into clean sheets they forget all about Boo. Until the next rescued one arrives.
#
She fights me the whole time I strip her dirty nightgown off her sparrow body and plunge her into the tepid bath. I can’t rinse the soap entirely from her hair without receiving a nasty scratch on my cheek. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.
Afterwards, I pull the sheets up to her chin and brush her dark, damp hair from her eyes. She looks up at me and I shiver—embarrassed for having done so, for she’s just a child—then I hold my lantern over her. She turns away and sticks her fingers in her mouth. Guilt swells in my gut as I listen to her slurping. I should’ve fed her. But without help—except from the older children—Rescue Days are grueling. Those days take all my energy just to sneak into Chaos and back out again with a child in my arms.
“My name’s not Rose.” She doesn’t look at me, but speaks to the wall. I sigh and repeat what I’ve told the other rescues.
“From now on your name will be the one I’ve given you. I’m the only family you have now. You can’t go back there. You’re…” There’s something unusual about her so I don’t say what I usually say: that she’s an orphan and Boo kidnapped her to make her his own. Haven’t I done exactly that?
I go to my own cot across the room.
“My name’s not Rose. And his name’s not Boo.” Her voice prickles the cool flesh on the back of my neck. But I ignore her as I set my lantern on a little table and turn down my bed. I’ll have to sleep with dirty feet tonight. I don’t dare leave this one alone. Not until I know for sure who she is, where she came from.
Her eyes unsettle me. They’re his eyes.
Weariness draws me into the sheets. I turn to blow out the lantern and startle. The girl is sitting up in her cot; dark eyes accusing, threatening, hating. But, of course, I can’t really see her eyes in the half-light, I just feel them.
I swallow hard and watch her shadow creep up the wall, then spread across the floor toward me. If I blink it’ll be on top of me.
My fingers curl into my sheets.
“I said my name’s not Rose and his name’s not Boo.”
“Right. And my name’s Aphrodite.” It’s meant to be a joke—one she wouldn’t understand—but my attempt at humor does nothing to alleviate the hard knot in my stomach. Of all the children in all the years, I had to take this one?
Rescue, I tell myself and swallow the acid pill of panic that tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Go to sleep,” I command her. I release the sheets, my fists sweaty and stiff, then swing my legs into bed. The lantern can burn all night.































































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In the morning, she’s gone. Her rumpled bedsheets are still warm when I run my hands over them. I know she’s gone back to him. Back to my dead brother. My twin, my best friend. The one who’s haunted me ever since I accidentally knocked over the lantern and burned our shared bedroom to the ground when we were children.
Rose’s dark eyes look back at me as I stand before the mirror and brush my dark hair. When the past catches up with you it’s better to face it, so I stare at my reflection. Hating the dark eyes so like his. So like my brother’s. I frown and stick out my tongue before putting down my brush and turning away from the mirror. Away from the shadow of my former self.
When I turn around he’s there, but this time I don’t use the name I made up for him. This time I face my guilt. I embrace the pain, for it’s the only way into the future.
“Shayde!” I call for him as he slinks across my wall and over my floor when the sun rises in my window.
“I’m sorry!” He’s heard it before but it doesn’t stop him from haunting me. Taunting me every time the light and the darkness collides.
“Shadow?” A child calls to me from my bedroom doorway. “I’m hungry.”
I nod, and step across the threshold to embrace another day. Maybe the next child—next year on Rescue Day—will be the one who assuages my guilt; who fills the cavernous void my brother left in my chest.
And it must be filled.
I tell myself, where there’s light, there’s also Shadow, but beyond the borders of the sun there is only Shayde.













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