Riley Goldstein
Storyteller | Writer | Visionary

The Invisible Man (I)

This short fiction endeavour aims to challenge and subvert classism and ageism through its richly developed characters and critical exploration of wealth hierarchies. Additionally, the narrative touches on mental health conditions, advocating for their acceptance and understanding within society. This work offers a thought-provoking and nostalgic look at the complexities of humanity. 

A middle-aged woman is stirring a chocolate pudding cup, savouring the ripples and swirls her spoon makes. Thump, thump, thump. She is going to die. With a cautious motion, she raises the spoon to her tight lips, licking away the excess. Thump, thump, thump. The light in the ceiling shimmers before her, reflecting off the gold of her ring. The woman sputters a throaty cough. And her heart monitor begins its symphony. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Her eyes narrow on my beaten face. “Get!” she snaps, face curdling like sour milk. Thump, thump, thump, thump. A heard of scrubs charge past me into her room. The woman’s body strikes the mattress in a rhythmic staccato. Time ceases. And that is the end of her song.

I spend a lot of time at the hospital. My home is bleached walls and pallid faces in a bustling ten-story building. God has scraped the colours off, as if he took a knife to burnt toast and returned it to its original state. There is always a birch tree in the lobby’s middle. I frequent the ICU. I like to predict the last breath someone takes. I am almost always correct. 

Sometimes, I see strangers with blank stares, matted hair, ragged clothes. I find these attributes in businessmen, doctors, youth, politicians. A being’s cruelest killer is himself. Physical waste is plain in dry-bones, wounds, the crimson thickness of blood. It’s difficult to conceal such disabilities. I stopped trying a long time ago. But half the time, I feel like I’m already dead. 

The cashier eyeballs my well-worn jacket and feathery hair. His flatted palm snaps up my last seventy-five cents, the way a gambling addict guards his chips. He will die soon. The young man tactlessly pumps purell into his hands. His cap boasts four years of service in sewn-in stars. What a shame. Another zombie in a world of dead people. 

“I need another quarter.” He denounces. My vibrant granny smith is grasped smartly in the cashier’s hand. Someone sighs into their chicken soup behind me. It is clear my pockets are empty.

“I apologize, I don’t have another quarter,” 

“Fuck off then,” The cafeteria-goer behind me says. I face “Chicken Soup” in all her hospital-gown glory with a neutral expression. She has a snout-like nose and pointy eyebrows. The girl is a skeleton. I want to tell her to keep her heart alive. She is about to die.

“I just want to eat, miss,” The cashier bites my apple with a pronounced crunch, lips pulling back into a snarl. “Chicken Soup” has a dry look on her face but I am already half-dead. I smile contentedly, all gums and no teeth. 

“You sick man,” She splutters. Thump, thump, thump. Her tray shoots upwards, sizzling soup and twisty noodles suspended in stagnant air. Time has ceased. Her body looks like a pus-filled sculpture. The crowd goes wild. Code red. And that is the end of her song.

“My name is James,” I announce quietly to Soup Girl’s corpse. I decide when the reaper comes for me, I will be his friend. If he asks what my biggest fear is, I’ll look him straight in the eye and tell him, “People,”. 

An Artist’s Process (II)

This narrative prompts people to embrace their unique features and inner-power, focusing on acceptance of society as a whole --shaping authentic identities. The protagonist acts as the bridge between democracy, abstinence, and conformity

In this rain city, the search for light is an escape. Its scuzzy shop signs remind me of coffee-stained teeth. Puddles on the streets are oil slicks; blush-pink, neon orange, and greyish purple. Colours are muddled in rusted buildings at dusk, unnoticed by the humans. The Lord has spat on this place. Everything looks like damp cardboard, murals flaking off bricks. He has left this city as an abandoned art-piece. Road lines wan in tar and scuffs, harassed by the disconnected humans. 

God’s tears are sorrowful reflections beneath automobiles. I try not to dwell on the people too much. Their secrecy and deceit is infectious. I am looking for those with splattered sweaters, stained minds —who have dropped all pretences. While God has given up, I have not. I am sick of using an empty stare to preserve my integrity, but there is hope for this city. 

“Excuse me!”  A young woman in business-wear snaps. Her pointed face becomes motionless. Fuzzy wind tickles her peacoat and skirt, warming the atmosphere. I am met with an abrupt blink as she hurries away. 

Aggression is what I expected, nevertheless, it is a disappointment. The humans here believe me to be a filthy girl. They hold themselves accountable for their clothing, hair, and skin —and I am but an outlier. The woman never said a word to me, she did not need to, for her soul was deafening. My appearance as a naive, unkempt student is a mask. She nearly saw my true form and The Lord did not allow it. 

In the grainy shadows, my only company is that of deserted stores. It is dim in the sullenness of God’s regretted city. Little do the people know, I am a source of light. Humans avoid me to prevent blindness, unaware of what they do not know, but weary all the same. It is quite tiresome to exist in the presence of humans. 

“Move,” someone hisses, utterly unheard. 

This time, a heavy-set male shoves me aside. He is clumsy and scowls through thick facial hair. I have been in this city too long. The man stops centre of my leather shoes, his rage disintegrating into the wideness of an open mouth. 

“Sorry, sir,” I offer. 

The man’s glower eases into slumped shoulders. Humid air ruffles his beard as he regards my pixie-cut with a far-away gaze. A glow consumes the man’s pupils, released from my auric form. There are flames atop my flesh, gold and bronze beacons stretching before him. My true form is His divine messenger. 

“Forgive me, Lord,” he gasps. 

Hail descends from non-existent clouds. Street-lamps are suddenly lustrous as buildings turn vibrant. Humans in the vicinity turn towards us, seeing nothing but a towering man awestruck by a schoolgirl. 

If one looks closely, they can see the ethereal. No one tries to find me. Everyone here has given up. I know this because I recognize rushed minds, the humans steeped in a fog of defeat. Some are stuck there. 

It is known The Lord is merciful to those who are truly faithful. A wooden cross catches the light, hidden by the man’s hoodie. I am relieved to resume my celestial form. Tonight, He has found forgiveness in a soul among thousands. Perhaps this city is God’s unfinished masterpiece. I am but a vessel for His will. Understandably, an artist cannot create art without flaws, as The Lord cannot be without misgivings.

Young Amber (III)

This work explores the themes of nostalgia, romance, classism, and education through a short fiction piece. Using nature motifs, An Artist’s Process captivates viewers and helps them connect with the narrative on a personal level. 

Between the torn contours of a wrinkled photograph rests, like a seagull on a telephone wire, faces. A woodpecker, unwavering in technique and impalpable energy. A source of inspiration, he called it. I felt like I belonged with Lark, and for a while, I didn’t feel like I was suffocated by my own life.

Lark was the flashing sun, blinding like lighting, a luminous reflection in the horizon. Soft oranges and nectarines encompassed its rays, materializing in the faint lines of his smile. The butterfly brush of his hand induced shock followed by quaking knees. My heartbeat would easily transition from skips to sprints. His eyes were green grass but in them were species of brown, like paint splatters or chocolate pudding, sneezed onto a canvas. Priceless features; an effortless smile, shallow dimples, goofy teeth, slightly curved jawline, and the vulnerable way in which he held his narrow frame. The one reminding me of my younger brother’s laugh. 

Lark with lips that didn’t fit perfectly, his top thinner than his bottom, and teeth that looked like tipping dominos. I was relieved meeting someone easy to love, someone free. A boy whose pallid face seemed to hold a gentle flame. Lark, unburdened by the tight strings wrapped around my wrists, my knuckles, my feet. I yearned to replace tired town cars, blazers, school-girl skirts, and people who spoke robotically and moved like mannequins. He taught me wordlessly, in a subtle way, that prestige is debilitating. 

It wasn’t uncommon knowledge, as the daughter of wealth and success, that interior and exterior excellence was paramount. At times, Lark indulged me with dirt-dusted stockings, windswept locks, and scuffs streaked across formerly pristine shoes. I was a carved stone statue, molded and painted by white-collar relatives. The sincerity of Lark’s warmth was disarming yet powerless. His flames couldn’t burn my parents’ initials off the platinum plaque on my chest, permanently inscribed. No matter the intensity and effort, fire cannot singe stone. 

**

Ryan is the opposite of Lark and my male equivalent; gelled hair, ironed black suit, sparkling dentist teeth, marble eyes, critical and composed. The golden gate surrounding our private estate matches his straight smile and over-sized Omega, glinting with each calculated movement. I often feel like a child wearing his father’s too-big jacket, sleeves drooping to the ground.

My time is meticulously arranged into square slots, social-gatherings only for business advancement and image maintenance, trophy-wife alongside rich husband. My chest is always as cold as the mechanical man standing next to me, practicing stale words for an empty audience. My wedding band replicates Ryan’s watch with my name, Amber Young, engraved in flawless cursive. I sometimes fantasize about how it would look if harassed by a flame, how the band would produce a metallic puddle, and the kind of golden stain it would leave. However, no title or price can fulfill my most offensive wish; to return to Lark, his smiling face still bright in the old photograph I keep in my drawer. When sparrows sing in the morning sky, I imagine still being with my first love.

I Win (IV)

This compelling work explores the impact of addiction on the protagonist's life. This project delves into the complex and often devastating effects of addiction, shedding light on this important issue.

Rushed lines,

I have too much time

Reflecting, revising, 

I can’t rewrite reality.

Sweet, sugar

Can’t release,

Always remembering

That rush in my spine.

I want to run away, 

Bound, biding my time,

Bowing down blinded.

Sweet, sugar

Fuelling chemicals

To drip down my esophagus,

Sweet, sugar.

I became dirt

After my first line,

Slow, I became a repeat.

Rushing to blow,

Sweet, sugar,

White flakes sewed into my right nostril,

Frigid soul, 

Melting mind consumed. 

I cannot rewrite,

Cannot shoo away history,

It’s not a bird.

Hands replace wings

As memories relax into lines of pen.

A renewal,

I can re-evaluate my reality.

I can release my spine,

Enough minutes and hours

To stray from frost,

A sliver of sunlight,

Fire in the arctic, thawed,

No longer towing old mistakes.

Bitter, sugar

Winter is gas in my lungs, 

A bitter taste in mouth. 

Unbound, relieved,

Bitter, sugar

That old rush is nothing but a rhyme— 

An anomaly in the curve 

Of my crooked spine.

Rushing lines only

Because I write them.