Drinking redrum in blood shots,

Sinking in black scotch.

With past’s flashbacks,

Dark and sharp,

Like broken glass.

A hypochondriac with malice,

Getting high from my emotions.

Known only by his first name, Mario was born in Greece. He lived there until he was 16-years-old, before moving to Detroit, Michigan. Inspired by pain, his writing chronicles his experiences with suicide, betrayal, and drug abuse. He continues to find peace in paper.

A mind mechanized and humanized.

Words capable of carnage, drop like cinder blocks.

Truthful, terrifying as a reflection or pistol to the face.

Yet humble, pleasing, to the ears blissful.

Connection of the soul, seeking liberation.

Understanding the metaphors and left bewildered;

Capturing the meaning, we are marveled.

Geniuses united, lyrics remain undecoded,

Considered not a failure for the music bring us together.

Standing to the dominate, bring him to his knees.

Future generations looking back,

A revolution has occurred in the Hip-Hop world.

The power of music, don’t ever underestimate it,

Fitting for a slave, even an empire.

History to our present, a relatable comparison,

Since each teach us that love always shines.

Where as if you die, you’re not buried but reincarnated as a star.

Decide whether you support the food or liquor.

Not to entertain, think twice before making your first move.

We only fear God,

Not any corporation.

For in the direction of the light,

The world ends now.

David Rivera lives in Canada. He plans on becoming a social worker to help out youths. While not pursuing his altruistic goals, he enjoys reading about history and culture—specifically poetry.

The first Christmas since Richard, my father, died, and the funk of stale liquor and vomit was replaced with the aroma of cinnamon scented candles. But the kitchen still stunk of fried fish and borscht as Mom prepared a feast. We had a plastic tree. Almost naked, the faux-fern was carelessly draped by a short string of cherry red ornaments. I sat on the couch, silent as she set the table. To my mother and me, Christmas had become a formality. To feel like a normal Polish-American family, we forced ourselves to prepare dishes neither of us enjoyed and decorate our cluttered apartment with 99 cent mistletoes and lights.

Holiday jingles and themed television shows didn’t excite me, but I couldn’t escape them. At school, the facility threw parties for the students before winter break. “How about some music?” my English teacher, Ms. Wilde would ask, fiddling around with the antique record player she kept at her desk. Eccentric, she rarely combed her hair and always spoke in high-pitched squeals. But at 13, when many of my peers listened to songs about sex and drugs, regularly viewed pornography, and experimented with the vodka in their parent’s private stash, having cardboard cutouts of Santa Claus in each classroom and dancing to “Frosty the Snowman” seemed like an attempt to reclaim our innocence.

Maybe I was bitter for never experiencing the cheer being advertised. Christmas never stopped Richard from coming home drunk. He would still hit my mother and voice his disgust. “You failure,” he’d shout, towering over me. I’d retaliated after he punched Mom. “This slime is my son?” His eyes were bloodshot and his spine bones poked from beneath from his skin. She clenched her stomach in pain, while Richard tugged on my ear and slapped the back of my head. “It’s because you were raised by this whore.” He pushed me away. “That’s why you don’t call me ‘dad.’”

He was my biological dad, nothing more. To my mother, he was a constant evil. But since childhood she’d safeguarded others: Whether it was her schizophrenic mother, who she kept from hurting himself, or protecting me from abuse. It gave her purpose. I overhead her telling Ching, who lived next door, about her loneliness. Following Richard’s death, she reminscened on the early days of their relationship. He would promise her the world. Coincidentally, it was after my birth that he began to question his life choices and drink away regrets. Now, Mom became embroiled in an endless cycle of going to work and coming home to an empty bed. “I’m grateful that Mariusz’s there, but some things you can’t talk to your child about.” 

“You need a man. It’s time to move on.” Ching was a social recluse, but she trusted us. Mom had invited her over for our holiday dinner, but gatherings weren’t her thing.

“All men are the same. I swear, if my son ever comes home drunk, I’ll hang myself. They say it’s genetic, you know? He already has his father’s impatience.”

That Christmas evening was cold and damp. I looked out the window. Our ancestors believed that waiting until the first stars were out before eating brought good luck. However, the horizon was blanketed with thick clouds. A storm just passed. Ornaments wrapped around our neighbor’s fire escape flickered on and off. It didn’t bother them.

There were two sets of silverware prepared. “Did you take your meds?” Her hands shook as she finished preparing the table, which was covered in a worn cloth. 

“Yes.” I was on anti-depressants. Mom insisted I speak to a professional. She self-medicated and took pills out of my prescription. She had become determined to avoid her mother’s faith, said to run in the family. To her, Prozac was the end-all-be-all. “Nothing,” I reported back, disappointed in Mother Nature’s reluctance to grant me the “perfect” Christmas.

“Forget it, come eat.” I trudged back to the dining room. Within seconds, Mom started to pick apart a piece of salmon. “I’m starving.” She squeezed a spoonful of lemon juice onto her plate. I started with the soup. Mushrooms floated atop the red liquid. I hated them.

I wasn’t interested in the food. The conversation between her and Ching had haunted me for weeks. To others, I was a bastard child, destined to become a statistic: Either I would become like my father, becoming a testament to the misfortune of genetics, or I wouldn’t, becoming a minority. Everyone told me that I was different, but was my own mother expecting me to fail? Or did she, in her own way, try to prevent that? I didn’t have the courage to ask. “Do you miss him?”  

“Even if I did, do you remember ever having a dinner like this? Nice and quiet, like a miracle.”

As the co-founder and administrator of The Corner Society, Mariusz Zubrowski is out to inspire creativity and the arts. He’s the creator of the “Momma’s Boyfriend” series, which is gearing up for its cinematic releases. And when he’s not writing or exploring Tumblr, he spends most of his time watching television with his cats (both of whom can vouch for the disastrous reality shows he has forced them to enjoy).  

I’d been gone for too long.

 Chasing tales, not memories.

A bag filled with worn-out jeans and old notebooks,

With no one willing to listen,

It’s just me and my stories.

Love Carlshamre is an aspiring poet who has lived in Stockholm, Paris and Montreal.  

In our commitment to creativity and art, The Corner Society happily introduces Emily Lozano, a photographer-turned-activist. Below she describes our ongoing collaboration, which you can help out with a small donation on her Kickstarter. Furthermore, all who pledge $5 or more (and send proof via email) will be eligible for a chance to be spotlighted on our site..    

“Hello! I’m a freelance graphic designer in Chicago. Cuba: Branded is a project that explores the state of branding in a communist country, where everything is owned by the state. I plan to travel to Cuba and photograph examples of branding including packaging, printed materials and storefronts. From these I’ll create a set of 20 full color 4 x 6 postcards.

My parents were born in Cuba in 1930. My dad was one of two kids and my mom was one of 9. While I was growing up I heard countless stories about what it was like before Castro’s reign. The food, the parties and the freedoms which we would consider normal.

My dad told me about how he was part of the CIA’s attempts to overthrow Castro. He did this for about 4 years, two years on the island and two years living in Florida and traveling secretly between the two countries. Finally he decided to escape in a little boat with my mom and 2 older sisters. Their lives nearly ended that night. These stories were thrilling to me as a kid and still are. They kept Cuba alive for us.

Eventually my family moved to Chicago. Not long after that I came along. I grew up like any American kid surrounded by branding. Like a lot of kids, I was told to clean my plate because there were starving children who would be grateful for food. That kid was my cousin Anabel. She was about my age and my relatives from Cuba always brought news about what Anabel was doing. I grew up always thinking about her life, which was the polar opposite of mine.

Cuba:Branded is an extension of my curiosity. I grew up there, surrounded by brands, with new ones popping up all the time and even helping to create some. I spend a lot of time thinking about brand loyalty and how consumers make choices based on brands. But what’s Anabel’s experience with brands?

In a country where the state owns and makes everything, what happens to brands? One interesting example is Bacardi. It was a Cuban brand that moved to Puerto Rico after the revolution. But they are still making rum at the old Bacardi location. What does that label look like?

While I’m there I’ll take photos of Cuban “brands” including product packaging, printed materials and storefronts.

I expect to find some established, well-executed brands and a lot of mom and pop trademarks. I’ll collect Cuban made products and will try to meet with the artists who worked on them, if I’m allowed.

I also want to talk to Cubans about how they make choices and if brands enter into that equation. Do they have more than one kind of product? Are some brands better than others? There are many brands of cigars, but is there more than one kind of coffee? Sugar? Does branding influence choices or is it all about price and availability?

I’ll be photographing the brands, so we’ll get to see what the aesthetics are. Is the look of brands stuck in the 50s or have other countries influenced the commercial art there? How is the art made? What’s the design process like?

I plan to travel in the Spring of 2012, and I hope to stay for one or two weeks. My sister will be joining me to help with legal questions and translating, and so that I am not traveling alone. The Corner Society will document my journey.

Your funding will help with:

Travel expenses to Cuba (flights are about $1500)
Travel within Cuba (taxis, car rental, etc.)
Photography supplies (memory cards, etc.)
Hotel stays (while I can stay with family in Matanzas I’ll need to spend some time in Havana as well.)
Product purchases to photograph (I’ll need to purchase food and other household items to photograph the packaging)
Printing costs for the postcards and box

Anything above the goal will help provide a longer stay, better equipment, more product purchases and possibly more postcards for the set.

The finished product will be 20 4 x 6 postcards printed on 100# recycled paper (cardstock) and collected into a box with a full color sleeve. I plan to print these in May or June of 2012.

I realize this project is very expense heavy because of the travel. I’ve tried to make the rewards fair without breaking my budget. If you contribute at $500 or more I will bring back a souvenir for you — something I’ll find it hard to part with!

If you’d like to have extra sets of the postcards please add on $5 for each set. At the end of the funding cycle you’ll have a chance to indicate the quantities you’d like.

Please add $5 for shipping to Canada.
Please add $10 for shipping outside of US or Canada.

I’m sure I will come back with more photos than I can publish at one time so this may lead to a Volume Two.

Feel free to contact me with any questions and please help spread the word. Thank you so much for your support!”

A group of seven trainees were lingering in the seating area near the entrance, making small talk, when Joyce walked in.  The men, who looked like boys, wore loose polyester suits, their hair parted to the side or fluffed and ruffled like a poodle with a perm.  Brian, a tall, gawky blonde with blue eyes, wore short brown trousers that fell above his ankle, a green blazer, and a shiny plaid tie.  He looked like he was from the Midwest, or some other part of the U.S. where Joyce imagined cows roamed the streets and cornfields abounded.  He stood slightly hunched, as if he was trying to shrink down to fit into a box so that he might ship himself back home.  He offered Joyce a shy smile, which she returned, and then continued conversing about his subway ride that morning, for three of the other trainees had also just arrived in New York and were still adjusting to pushy crowds and the pleading homeless who stalked the hot platforms.  

The trainees laughed, tilting their heads back in one fell swoop, letting out a cohesive sigh.  Looking on, Joyce found the chuckle cheap, a mere formality, which she abhorred.  Born and raised in Brooklyn, she knew the subways like she knew every inch of the twenty-three story apartment building where she grew up.  Back when she was in college she commuted to Manhattan, waking at 5:45 every morning to apply makeup, eat a boiled egg mashed with butter and salt, and take the Q train to Atlantic Avenue, where she’d transfer to the 4 or 5 trains at Union Square.  Now, she lived on her own, a few miles away from her family in a one-bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge.  Her apartment, not yet fully furnished, was sparse, with a few trinkets and chipped walls that were painted a soft purple. 

 Standing before the rows of tables and shouting salesmen, the office looked smaller than she remembered—crammed even.  A tan Asian with a mustache desperately shouted, “Of course Mr. Livermore knows I’m phoning him this morning!   He should be expecting my call.  No, this certainly is not about advertising.  Vivianna, my assistant, fit him into my schedule!”

 There were no personal assistants; instead, one secretary served the entire office.  Diamonté was a finger-waving pit bull from Queens who snapped at the trainees when they asked for a stapler, and responded to the requests of upper-management with a coquettish, “Of course, honey, I’m here to serve you in any way I can.” 

When Joyce approached her desk, opening up with, “Good morning, I was just wondering—,” Diamonté interrupted, declaring flatly, “You wait over there with the other newbies.”  She pointed her finger towards Claire, a brunette from Connecticut with fair skin and small lips that formed a straight line across her face.

“Okay—yes, that makes sense.  I’m a trainee, and clearly, there are the rest of the trainees, so I should be over there with them,” Joyce said, looking over at a group with which she did not want to be lumped in.  The women looked like floating bait, and the men, with the exception of Brian, came off as cockier than their looks merited, with jaunty stances and puffed chests. 

“I apprenticed my uncle, who founded a company that sells medical devices,” boasted a redhead in a gray suit and boxy loafers.  “If you have any questions as the week goes on, be sure to ask me.”

Joyce was certain that she was better than this group of misfits; first, because she was smarter, and second, because she’d already had a real job, teaching for three years.  She scoffed, flashing Diamonté a look signaling the group’s inferiority, but rather than welcoming what was essentially a call for an allegiance, Diamonté raised one eyebrow and said, “Owen will be out when he’s ready for your group.”

Joyce nodded and made her way to an empty chair.  The first day of school was only a few days away, and she wouldn’t be there.  It’d be the first September that wouldn’t start with a trip to the mall to stock up on number two pencils and five-subject notebooks.  There wouldn’t be the comfort of happy face stickers and the feel of old books that Joyce loved.  She wouldn’t have to console the smallest sixth grader who showed up to school on the verge of tears, offering him a box of apple juice and a squeeze on the shoulder.  There’d be no camaraderie between her and the other teachers, no recaps of summer vacation in the cafeteria.  Instead of decorating her classroom with welcome signs and library charts, she’d merely fill a cup with pens and put on a headset that would keep her chained to her desk until exactly five o’clock, when she’d run home and cook spaghetti. 

She was now a trainee, and as much as she didn’t want to be part of this oddball crew, as much as she resisted, knowing she was a loner, used to being in charge, comfortable working with children and not adults, she knew that she’d made a choice because she felt that she’d had no other.  There was no way to know if her decision to leave teaching and join GEC would pan out, or if it was all one big mistake, as her mother had tried to tell her.  She closed her eyes and imagined ringing the gong, making her first huge sale, and for a moment, she didn’t hear the shouts of the office, or the nervous chatter of the other trainees, but instead, only the resounding cry of what she’d like to think was her future—one filled with the sounds of congratulatory cries and toasts to her success.

* * *

“Not all of you will make it through training week,” Owen declared brusquely.  “But if you pay attention to what I’m going to teach you over the next few days, you’ve got a good chance in making the cut.  Your being here means that I saw potential, but now’s the time to impress not only me, but the managers as well.”  He signaled to the main floor of the office from inside the small conference room where Joyce and the other trainees were gathered around an oval table.  A whiteboard in front of the room read How to be a Salesman.

Joyce wondered what she would do if she didn’t make the cut, as she was certain that Owen’s earlier offer promised her the job, not another round of interviews.  Could she have misunderstood him?  She’d spent the past few days imagining her life working in what she considered to be a real office.  She’d finally be able to make friends her own age, instead of having lunch with the math teachers who were fifteen years her senior.  She’d be able to leave her old life behind, or at least that was what she thought prior to hearing that there was still a possibility that the job wasn’t hers.

Waiting for them when they arrived were blue folders, the covers of which had a picture of Nigel Moon, the founder of the company, with a wide grin.  “We’ll be covering what would take most people years to learn in just one week.  This will be, essentially, a crash course in sales.  I’ll teach you everything you need to know about pitching, studying your product, and how to make the most money possible at this company, and believe me, there are plenty of opportunities for that. 

Joyce enjoyed being the student.  She eyed the box of glazed donuts in the middle of the table.  Brian was hovered over them, blocking everyone’s access.

“Look at this suit, mates,” Owen went on, rubbing the cuffs of his jacket between his fingers.  “This is a four thousand dollar Italian suit, and I have eight of them.”  The men in the group eyed each other.

“Let’s begin with the number one lesson of sales—understanding the hierarchy of a company.  Simply put, who are you going to need to get on the phone in order to close a deal?  Because if you present yourself the wrong way, you’ll be put through to assistants of assistants of sales, or some other inconsequential persons  who will never, and I repeat, never be in a position to sign a contract.  Tell me mates, why is that?”  He paused to look around for an answer.  The redhead raised a pointed finger.

“Yes, Chad.”

“Because that person won’t have the authority,” Chad answered smugly.

“Wrong, he won’t have the budget.  It’s not so much about power as it is money.  That’s our only concern.  Write this down: the person who holds the purse strings is the Cheese.  The Cheese, and only the Cheese, has the ability to sign a check.  Most often this is the CEO, but in larger companies, VPs of Marketing have their own budgets.  The general rule is the larger the company, the lower down you can go on the chain to find someone to pitch.  Now open your folders and look at the yellow sheet entitled Pyramid of Power.  No one here is going to get the CEO of Coca-Cola on the phone.  Understand?”

The group nodded.

Owen continued: “Very rarely will you have only one person to pitch.  People are social by nature, as well as indecisive.  They will always seek out the opinion of at least one other person before committing to an investment.  The person whom they’ll go to is called the Kicker.  You’ll want to pitch him as well.  And why’s that?”

Chad’s hand shot up in the air.  Brian tilted his weight on the back legs of his chair, forcing it to tip and nearly fall. 

“Joyce, why do we have to pitch the Kicker?”

Joyce tried to think.  She was used to calling on students, not being put in the hot seat herself. 

 “Because—” she said, drawing out the word, “if the Kicker is involved in deciding if the company will spend money, he or she has to be knowledgeable about our product so that an informed decision is made.”

“Yes,” Owen responded quickly, “but even more so, the Kicker has to be convinced because he’s going to hear our price and automatically say no, case closed.  He doesn’t understand what makes GEC’s reputation pristine.  As the best, it’s our job, no your job, to tell him.  All parties in the decision making process, or DMP, have to be pitched.  No deal will go through if one player is missing from the huddle.  No exceptions.”

“But what if the Kicker is out sick or on vacation?” asked Ben, a short brunette with the deep voice of a radio deejay. 

“Then you’ll phone him on his cell.”

“How will I get his number?”

 “Because lesson number two of sales is blagging, or, the art of retrieving personal information via lying.”

Brian’s chair landed with a loud thud.

“Without direct lines and cell numbers, you’ll never be able to reach the Cheese.  The schedule of any CEO is hectic; he’ll be in and out of meetings and stuck on phone conferences.  You’ll never so much as hear his voice if you don’t call his personal number.”  He turned to face the group, his hips jutting forward; he was becoming more animated, enthused, as if he had just discovered a cure.  He spoke as if this was all obvious information, anyone would have guessed that getting a cell phone number was necessary in order to close a deal.  “You can phone his secretary under an alias, or conjure up a reason as to why it is absolutely imperative that you have his cell number.  Then, wait a few days before ringing him to ensure the secretary forgets.”

Joyce considered the idea of fabricating a story for the purpose of retrieving a person’s private information with the end goal being to make money.  Owen’s enthusiastic description made it seem like a game, one that Joyce thought she could win.

“Here’s an example.  Ring-ring-ring.”  Owen positioned an imaginary phone to his ear.  “Good morning,” he said in an overly friendly voice, and then nudged Claire on her shoulder.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“I was hoping that you might be able to help me.  My name is Elias Wit, Head of Research at Pennsbrook.  I’m over in Belgium at the PECO conference, waiting for a meeting with John, but I fear that I might be in the wrong location.  I want to give him a quick ring, darling.  What’s his cell number?”

Claire hesitated, then said, “I – I can get that information right now for you.”

“The secret,” Owen said, changing his voice from charming, even seductive, to authoritative, “is to go in with confidence.  Go in with the mindset that you’re not a salesman from Queens, but a colleague of the Cheese.  You have every right to his cell number.  You two are on the same level; maybe you’re even a little better.  He went to Yale; you went to Harvard.  He owns a house in Connecticut; you own a house in the Hamptons.  His kids whine at night that daddy’s always at work; your kids cry just as much.”

Joyce nodded emphatically as Owen spoke.  She liked the idea of reimagining her identity; that’s exactly what she was doing by quitting teaching–believing that she could be someone else. 

“That brings us to the last, and one might argue most important, sales lesson, which is how to get past the gatekeeper.”  Owen returned to pacing the room, his body upright, his chest inflated.   “Who is the gatekeeper?” he asked.  “Anyone?”  He walked around the desk, looking at the scribbles on his students’ papers.  “The first person you will speak with is the Cheese’s secretary.  Before blagging, go in blind.  You phone the number listed on the website and ask for him directly and authoritatively.  Ring—Ring,” he said, signaling his imaginary phone.  “Joyce, pick up.”

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Morning.  Put me through to John.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Elias Wit from Pennsbrook.  Is he in?”

“Yes, I’ll put you through right away, sir.”

“Now—” Owen said thoughtfully.  As Owen spoke, he kept one hand in his pocket, while the other sporadically clicked the top of a silver pen that he held in the air like a maestro.  “If she asks what the call is regarding, what do you say?”

“A business opportunity,” Chad shouted.

“No.”

“A private matter,” Ben offered.

“Wrong.  You either say that he should be expecting your call, or you go in with a story that can’t be proved untrue.  Pull a name off one of their press releases.  For example, Harold Smith from Pennsbrook and I are working together.  I believe John’s been in communication with him.  Can you put me through?  Always end with a question.  This keeps you in control of the conversation.  You ask the questions, not her.  If you let the secretary get the upper-hand, you’ll sink.  Then, your only option will be to blag.  This is route number one.  Get past the secretary without letting her know that this is a sales call, without giving her any identifying information whatsoever.  Exaggerate.  Charm.  Flirt.  Do whatever you need to do to get the Cheese on the phone.  You define your own boundaries, should you choose to have any.”  Joyce drew a line down the middle of her paper, cutting the phrase “Pyramid of Power” in two.

Owen went on.  “What do you do if she says that the Cheese isn’t in?  Would you like to leave a message, mates?”

“Tell her you’ll phone back,” Brian answered.

“That’s reasonable, but we’re businessmen, we’re not reasonable.  We have an amazing product to sell, and we have no time to wait till tomorrow.  Our publications are flying off the shelves, so if Cheese number one doesn’t want to purchase advertising from us, Cheese number two will.  In fact, Cheese number two might be ringing us on the other line.  We tell her it’s urgent.  This is a matter of money, and what could be more urgent than that?  We ask for his cell number.  Always ask for his cell phone number.  If you can’t get the Cheese on the phone, you can’t pitch, and that’s what you’ll be getting paid to do, should you make the cut.  Do whatever it takes to complete the pitch.  If you come away with nothing else, come away with that.”

* * *

Three days later, Joyce and the rest of the trainees strutted into the offices of Phone Pharma, figuring they were now part of the team.  They had befriended much of the staff while in the break room, riding the elevator, and entering the lobby.  They had familiarized themselves with the neighborhood, discerning which coffee shop offered the best lattés, as well as put themselves on a first name basis with Juan, the young security guard downstairs.

Cockily, they greeted Diamonté as a group.  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” teased Chad, as they made their way towards Owen’s office. 

“Tomorrow will be better,” Diamonté said.  “At least for some of you.”

Joyce thought about not being offered a job at the end of training week.  It seemed impossible.  She had already become obsessed with the notion of working at Phone Pharma – pitching, selling, and most importantly, ringing the gong.  She heard the gong when she showered in the morning, reciting the pitch with newscaster precision in the same manner she used to read the back of the shampoo bottle as a little girl: Rinse.  Repeat.  Caution!  Avoid contact with eyes.

She heard the gong as she slurped yogurt while riding the train in the morning, staring at the suited men and women as they marched in and out, catching their glimpses, and then looking away, embarrassed.  Her life quickly became a matter of reciting the pitch and not reciting the pitch, practicing her intonation and not practicing her intonation.  As the week passed, her determination to get the job grew.  She read the pitch in various voices, trying out different inflections, and mimicking the personalities of her favorite celebrities as she did so. 

First, Joyce tried Barbara Walters.  She softened her voice, stiffened her jaw, and said the opening lines with slow precision: “Hi John.  This is Joyce Little.  How are you?  Great.  Listen, I’m working with Elias Wit, who heads up the R&D Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call.  Is now an okay time to talk?  Perfect.”

She sped up, imagining how Oprah might pitch – serious, yet a little over the top.  She saw a packed audience sitting before her, waiting to cheer.  “I’m the VP of Research here at Phone Pharma, a publication that goes out to 36,000 C-level executives worldwide, including Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Analytical Chemistry and Lab Automation.  We’re looking to focus on the need for increasing efficiency within the discovery and verification of biomarkers for the feature article of our upcoming September issue, and we’d like to highlight BioCorp as a leading solution-provider.  Would you say that’s pretty much spot on with what your company specializes in, John?”

She tried moving as she spoke, gesticulating her arms widely, flailing them like a broken windmill.  Though she wore loose pajamas festooned with tiny green elephants, she imagined herself coiffed and sleek in a brightly colored dress.  She was Rachael Ray: friendly and approachable.  Each line she rehearsed had the goading effect of a cheerleader performing in a stadium.  Her already high-pitched voice shrieked.  “What I’d like to offer you, John, is a full-page, full-color advert positioned in the front of the magazine, directly across from our lead feature article.”

Joyce had been used to having to cultivate a personality from the time she spent working as a teacher.  “You’re twenty-years-old,” her mentor, Virginia, told her, “and you look sixteen.”  She spoke as if this was a choice Joyce made, to stop the aging process.  “Imagine yourself older, wiser, and more adult.  Never tell the students how old you are, or that it’s your first year teaching.  They’ll eat you alive.  Pretend that you’re an actress playing a role.  That’s the only way you’ll survive.”

Now, Joyce looked at her reflection.  She wasn’t sure which celebrity she’d imitate the next day when Owen made the trainees give their first full trial pitch, but she was sure of one thing – she wouldn’t be herself.

* * *

“I’ll set you up at separate tables throughout the office and then call you one by one.  After we exchange hellos, you’ll pitch me, then, after we break for lunch, I’ll provide everyone with feedback,” Owen said as he led the group.

“This is your station,” he directed Joyce, and turned to leave.  She was at a table with five young, attractive men.  The manager, who was chubbier than his team, sat at the head of the table on a tall chair.  The men smirked as they eyed Joyce.  One of them winked.

“Good luck with your pitch,” the manager said.  “We’ll be listening.”

The office was filled with discordant noise of too many salesmen shouting over one another.  A tall blonde with a low cut shirt covered her left ear to better hear the man on the other end of the line.

“Don’t the executives you call overhear the commotion?” Joyce asked the manager.

“The phones have noise blockers.”

She closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves.  She was brave, she told herself.  She didn’t look fearless or tough, but she was.  Her mother had always told her to voice her opinion, stand up for herself, to fight if necessary.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Joyce said eagerly.

“Hi, this is Owen Lawson.”

“Hi, Owen.  How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I wanted to speak with you because I’m working with Mr. Wit from Pennsbrook on a project focusing on drug discovery.  Is now a good time to talk?”

“Not really, I was just heading out to a meeting,” Owen said in a dry voice.

 “This will only take a minute, actually.”

Joyce kept her pace steady, her voice upbeat.  She knew that Owen would try to prevent her from completing the pitch, just as real executives would.  “I’m the Vice President of Research here at Future Pharma—”

“The pub?” Owen interrupted.

“Yes, we go out to—”

“Is this a sales call?”

“It’s a –” Joyce floundered for words.  “I’m VP of—”

“Research,” Owen finished.

“Yes, and I wanted to feature your company in our magazine, highlight BioCorp, really.”

“How much would it cost?”

“I’m going to get to that.”  Joyce twisted the phone cord around her hand.  Her fingers reddened like cheap carnations.  The men at the table stared as they pretended to dial.  “Mr. Wit is penning an article about the inefficiencies of biomarker discovery and validation, and what I’d like to do is position BioCorp as the leading solution-provider, giving you a full-page advert that would be in the front of the publication.  Now does that seem like a good fit for you?

The trick was to ask questions that you knew would merit a yes, to get the guy on the other end of the line in an agreeable frame of mind.

“It does,” Owen said, “but how much are we looking at here, darling?”

“The total cost for the ad, which would include the full assistance from my production team, who would essentially act as an in-house ad agency for you, as well as access to our lead generation tool, is 24,500 USD.”  Joyce realized she’d skipped the bit about the lead gen tool and how it’d give Owen a chance to see a direct return on investment.

“That’s quite a price tag for an advert.  I bought a double-page spread in Life Sciences Live last month for 18K.  I tell you what.  Let me think about it, and if it’s financially feasible, I’ll get back to you,” Owen said curtly, and then he hung up, so that all Joyce could hear was a flat sound that was the dial tone.

* * *

Joyce found herself on her bedroom floor with closed eyes.  She was practicing the ancient Tibetan technique known as The Lion’s Roar, the name being self-explanatory: imagining oneself as a lion and roaring with all one’s might.  She stretched her jaw, squinted her eyes, and wound up looking like she was trying to pop her ears after landing from a long flight. 

She let out a small roar, and thought how she’d rather be a lion than a woman working at GEC, where all of the female staff wore tight skirts and all of the CEOs pitched were men.  However, she had been playing into the role of the GEC fem cliché from her very first day, giggling at the male employees’ tired jokes and offering a smile that might have been construed as an invitation.

The feedback that Owen had given her was entirely negative.  “You sound overly excited and a bit fake, my dear,” he said.  “You might be able to sell makeup or candy, but I wouldn’t fork over twenty thousand dollars of my money based on what I heard today.  There’s just no authority in your voice, I’m sorry to say.”

There had been authority in her voice as a teacher, when, on her best days, she could settle a group of thirty-five loud teenagers.  She imagined a lion in front of a blackboard, charging a class of students, one of them a younger Owen, his hair slicked back and greasy.  The lion snapped his neck and sent his limp body into the air like a doll.  She opened her eyes and let out a noise that sounded more like a hungry growl then a roar, and as she did, she became angry, not just at Owen, but everybody who worked at GEC.  She felt like she was better than the entire staff: the men who acted like they were still part of a fraternity, and the women whose wicked stares made her feel like she was in a competition that she’d not signed up for, and to make matters worse, she was losing.  The more Joyce thought as a lioness, the angrier she became.  She was accustomed to excelling at school, and she didn’t like the way Owen quickly labeled her as not good enough. 

As she sat on the floor, looking around her room with only a bed dressed in stiff sheets and a dresser, Joyce wished she were younger, back at her parents’ house and eating her mother’s meatloaf.  As a teenager, she was in a rush to leave the small bedroom she shared with her sister.  Looking back, maybe it wasn’t really that bad – being cramped with her family.  Now, there was no one whom she could call for consolation.  Her mother would only tell her that she brought everything upon herself.  She let out a final roar, a muffled sound that fell flat like something metal dropping in the night, and then she went to bed.

* * *

There was an indescribable serenity in the office in the early morning hours when it wasn’t crowded with shouting men and women.  Joyce could look out onto the streets and appreciate the view of a city that was so alive: the architecture, the grand buildings that made you feel larger, instead of smaller, like anything was possible.  New Yorkers rushed by, weary of one another, as there was no concept of personal space because of the overpopulation; the person who sat next to you on the train pressed his thigh against yours.  This was the unspoken relationship between all New Yorkers: a closeness that was unwanted, yet intimate nonetheless.

Joyce stared out onto the streets like a fish in a tank.  She thought she’d feel nervous; the rest of the trainees were.  Instead, she felt the stillness that comes after anger settles – something closer to acceptance, or insouciance.  “How could someone who looks so sweet an innocent have such a vicious temper?” her mother asked when Joyce was younger, after she’d fought with her sister, digging her nails into Abbey’s arms and ramming her against their bedroom wall.  She’d lost herself in the violence, forgotten that she was part of a family from whom she’d always felt distant.  She’d no longer hear her parents’ screaming, or have to wonder what her alcoholic father was going to do next.  She was able to release a hurt that couldn’t be let go any other way.

“Kim’s extension is 301, Joyce,” Owen said as he approached.  When you’re ready, give her a ring.”

Joyce knew the pitch, knew every response for any reserves that Kim might express.  Kim would be a tough sell, having a reputation for being ruthless.  She managed the entire office and had sold millions of dollars worth of advertising in her few years at the company.  She was a petite Asian woman with perfect features and long hair dyed a deep caramel.  She chained smoked and expressed all sentiments of joy and frustration in the same deadpan voice.

“Hi Kim, this is Joyce Little with Future Pharma.  How are you doing today?”

“I’m doing well.  What’s this all about, Joyce?”

“I’ve been working with Elias Wit,” she said, jumping right into the pitch.  “As I’m sure you know, he heads up the Research Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call.  We’re working on a project concerning biomarkers and the need for increasing efficiency as far as their discovery and verification goes.  Is it fair to say that this is what your company focuses on?”  Joyce didn’t ask a question, but rather offered a statement that was clear and certain.  She was a lawyer giving an opening argument, defending both herself and the publication. 

“Yes, but tell me, is this a sales call?” Kim asked flatly.

“I’ll tell you exactly what this is,” Joyce said, as she took a few steps forward, one hand on her hip.  “Wit tells me that BioCorp is the number one solution-provider for biomarker discovery, and I’m looking to highlight one company out of our sixteen vendors in our September issue that will be entirely devoted to drug discovery.  I want to give you a full page ad that my team will help you create.  I’m going to couple that with our lead generation tool, which means that I’m going to send you a list of every verified C-level executive from our group of 36,000 subscribers who have specified that they want to receive more information about your company.  Now these are Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Lab Automation.  Are these the people you generally look to target?”  Joyce’s pitch built up momentum as she continued; each word gained force, power.

“It is. But tell me, how much is this going to cost me?  Our marketing budgets for the year are quickly dwindling.” 

“The full page, full color ad that my production team will assist you with, along with access to our lead generation tool comes in at 24,500 dollars. I’ve got a conference call with Vexx Corp. tomorrow morning and a meeting with my production team at twelve.  What I’d like to do is give you a call before then to see if everything looks good on your end, and when it does, all I need to do is fax over a one-page contract that will confirm everything I’ve said, and the spot is yours.  How does that sound?”

“It sounds great, Joyce.”

“Now what’s your cell number?”

* * *

The trainees were called into Owen’s office one at a time.  The others watched through the glass walls, trying to read Owen’s lips and expressions.  First Ben went in, then Claire.  “I’m pitching on the summit,” Ben boasted as he came out. 

“I’m on the delegate team,” Claire said in a lackluster voice.  The job of the delegate team was to procure speakers for the summit events.  Their commission structure was different from the rest of the staff.  As a general rule, they were looked upon as inferior salesmen.

Next, Owen called for Chad, who turned towards Ben and Brian, pounded fists and chimed, “here goes nothing, gentlemen,” before heading into Owen’s office.

 “He’s definitely on the summit team with Ben,” Claire said.  “You guys are so lucky.  Kim says you might even get a chance to attend one of the summits.  The next one is in the Caribbean.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a trip to the Caribbean with Kim,” said Brian.

“I don’t think anyone would,” Ben agreed.

Brian Studied Owen’s expression.  “What’s he saying?  “Chad looks upset.”

Chad’s head hung down like a doll with a broken neck.  Owen stood to shake his hand and say goodbye.  The whole matter of finding out who made the team seemed to be taking mere minutes.

Chad returned to the group, shocked.  He muttered, “I didn’t make it.”

“But how could that be?” Brian blurted out.  “You were the best out of all of us.”

Chad shook his head, baffled.  “Owen said that I didn’t address Kim’s concerns the way he’d taught me.  He said I gave away the price too quickly, and I strayed from the pitch too frequently.  I can’t believe it.” 

Joyce imagined that Chad had attended private school his whole life, that his family took him on annual trips to Europe and had his polo shirts tailored and sent to his apartment.  She was glad that he didn’t get the job.  This might put him in his place.  She remained quiet.

“They’re probably just looking for a particular style of pitching,” Claire said. 

“I’m too good for this gig anyway,” Chad scoffed.  “My dad can easily get me a job that I don’t have to audition for like a fifth grade school play.  What I don’t need is a sacked soccer player telling me that I’m not good enough.  Joyce, you’re up next.  I’m out of here” he said, then left.

The group fell silent.  Joyce would have normally been afraid of failure, but she was too exhausted.  She’d woken up early to recite the pitch while eating her usual breakfast of mushy, buttery egg.  She’d put on a green face mask at five-thirty in the morning and returned to bed, where she stared at her ceiling and told herself over and over again that she was going to get the job.  She imagined herself ringing the gong.  Afterwards, Owen would come over to her, give her a kiss, and then she would look into his blue eyes and ask him, “Is your tan real?”  The only thing left to do was surrender.

“I don’t know how you did it, darling,” were the first words out of Owen’s mouth.  “This has been the quickest turn around by a trainee that I’ve ever seen.  Kim loved you, and to managers said that they’d be happy to have you on their team, Ananda and Helga.”

“That’s great news,” Joyce said with disbelief.

“You’re officially a part of the GEC family.  Welcome.  I’m glad to have you on board.”

“Yes.  Thank you.  Wow.  I don’t know what to say.” 

Owen shook her hand, gave her a pat on the shoulder, and opened the door.  All that was left to do was to tell everyone the news and celebrate.  It was Friday, and that meant that happy hour was on the company.

“Congrats,” Brian said when he stopped her in the hallway.  “I’m very impressed.”

“I’m a bit stunned, to be honest,” Joyce admitted. 

“It’s great news.  It looks like we’ll be working together.  You were the only person I was rooting would get it.”

“And why’s that?”

“I like to have a nice view when I work.”

Joyce blushed.  If this were high school, she had just made it into one of the elite groups, like cheerleading or the booster club, only this felt bigger than high school because the company was international.  Owen was a chic businessman who probably lived in a loft somewhere with exposed metal pipes, and he has told her, Joyce, someone who had worn a dental headgear to bed up until the age of sixteen, that she was the most improved and deserved a spot with the company.  Any anger she felt had melted away.  The office looked bigger.  Brian looked cuter, and Joyce felt different, as if an old skin had been shed.

She made her way towards the bar with her head up; taking big breaths, she felt loose.   She was now an official saleswoman.  Training week was over.  Brian gave her a nudge, and as they left the building, they blended in with the passersby, all of whom were dressed in suits, their eyes forward, not noticing that Joyce had a huge smile on her face, her head up to the sky, not particularly paying any attention to where she was headed. 

Dear Fourteen Year Old Molly,

Don’t touch your hair. You will start out with your mother overseeing every step of your first temporary auburn rinse, then find yourself on a thirteen year solo voyage of trying to find the perfect color that will not only make your eyes sparkle and compliment your skin tone, but fix whatever is broken deep down inside of you.

Changing hair colors will become your fall back plan in any phase of your life where you’re even mildly uncomfortable with whatever’s going on with yourself, inside or outside. Instead of getting to the root of a problem, you will make the problem your roots. You’ll focus that energy that should have been spent on just about anything else on an aesthetic solution, when, in reality, you were blessed with the same hairline as Jacqueline Onassis and a natural wave and that in and of itself is enough to just let your chestnut colored locks do their own thing.

Like a junkie, you will scrape together the hundred and eighty dollars needed every eight weeks for the full foil highlights you will demand you maintain throughout all of college. Except there will be this one summer when you’ll see Ashlee Simpson dye her hair dark brown on her reality show. She’s going to go through a rough break up and attempt to define her personality for the first time, and you will be doing the same thing. You’ll pull yourself out of your bed, stoned and covered with Cheese-It crumbs, and walk down to the 24 Hour CVS at four o’clock in the morning to buy a box of dark brown dye. Don’t do it. You probably don’t need to make changes to yourself based on things you see on reality TV, and you’re going to be really disappointed to see how Ashlee Simpson’s personal and professional life continues to unfold in the press over the next few years. She has a short, blond pixie cut now, and you’re still trying to get your natural color back.

You will have some fun along the way. Childish, delusional fun. You’ll notice that every time you change your hair color you attract a whole new set of men and this will become an added bonus. In tenth grade, you’ll cover pieces of your highlights with a grape Manic Panic color and strut down Newbury Street, head held high. This will seem doubly good at the time because you’ll blend better at local punk shows and slightly older men with nice faces will shoot you looks. You’ll attribute this adoration to the idea that they think you’re real wife material, but allow me to communicate this to you in a way you’ll understand: They’re looking at you with that sly look because they think you’re kind of a trashy, whorish teenager. Adult me wants you to know that it’s not okay to talk about other women like that, especially yourself, but I know you’ll understand what I mean if I put it that way. You unknowingly looked a little easy and beyond your years. This is another term that you’ll learn eventually, so bookmark it mentally: Suicide Girl. You looked like the youngest suicide girl of them all, except clad in some of the GAP’s most conservative pieces.

You’ll find that black hair will communicate the most to guys, but that’s only if you’re overlooking the greater reality of the situation. You’ll weigh 96 pounds and hang out at Hollywood bars in “dresses” that you’d made yourself. It’s not about the hair, you idiot. It’s about the malnourished body and the layer of jersey cotton that’s been contorted to cover it. It’s about your energy and your compulsion to make people laugh. It’s because, under all the things that you’ll purposefully and accidentally do to chip away at your spirit, you’ll still have something there that’s worth fighting for, not covering up with another layer of permanent color.

It should say something to you that you decided to dye your hair black in the communal shower of the frat house you shared with 32 boys when you first moved to LA. The money that you’ll spend just five years later trying to undo the damage the boxed dye caused your hair could have been reassigned to your housing budget, so you could live, I dunno, anywhere but a frat house with 32 guys. Maybe, just maybe, you’d want to consider sparing some of the funds you spent on deep conditioners and frequent trims and spend it on therapy, because no one worth knowing can tolerate an anorexic party girl walking around a night club in a belted t-shirt for more than a season.

To your credit, Fourteen Year Old Molly, and I give you any credit at all because I know you’re a studious little nerd and that everything else I’ve told you is probably shocking and potentially crippling, as you spend nearly every moment of your life wondering how you will someday be the Governor of Massachusetts AND a mom AND a talk radio show host, let alone a struggling writer living in Los Angeles surviving off of scoops of hummus and discounted drugstore hair dye:  You found something. You found something to channel your nervous energy into that wasn’t drugs or spontaneous body modifications, but I think both you and I know that that’s not something to be proud of. Molly McAleer has always been worth more than a petty justification. She has the hairline of American Royalty.

Molly McAleer (A.K.A. Molls) is a writer, Tingling Internet Sensation,
co-founder of HelloGiggles and a boss bitch. She lives in Los Angeles
with her chihuahua, Wagandstuff, and keeps her nails fresh at all
times. You can see more of her work here.

5th Element has been making beats since March 2008. He was first inspired by Kanye West’s Graduation, and the lush production behind it. But it wasn’t until late 2009 that he found his particular sound: Sample-heavy instrumentals. Utilizing the style, he has released two solo albums and countless beat tapes. Junk, his first major record, took on the challenge of sampling 100+ songs into a 45 minute funk-soul-psychedelic-folk-fusion. Afterwards, interested in the theme of space, he released two tapes constructed around the idea of the universe.

Space features a more unified sound that shows the beauty of the cosmos, whilst its recently released sequel, Space: Part 2, features a darker sound and chronicles the destruction of Earth and human civilization’s effort to survive out in the barren void.

In his four years of making music, 5th Element has also learned to play drums, bass, and is currently learning to play piano.

His major influences include: DJ Shadow, J. Dilla, The Avalanches, Flying Lotus, and Organized Noize. 

You can download all of his music on his Bandcamp and “like” him on Facebook.

The addition of 5^th Element to The Corner Society team marks the beginning of an expansion of the site into a full-fledged movement, rather than just another run-of-the-mill webzine. As the first musician signed to us, he’s pledged to release all future tapes under our trademark, as well as be the main contributor to Mariusz Zubrowski’s cinematic endeavors.

He is currently in talks to score the short film adaptation of “Momma’s Boyfriend.” 

Brandon G. is a full-time musician, a man of few words, graphic designer, alternative artist, and just an extraordinary young talent. And, as luck would have it, he’s also the latest addition to The Corner Society team. Based in California, the 18 year old makes a living through music and designing photos. He’s been kind enough to lend his creativity to the site by handling our aesthetics—namely the artwork that precedes each piece, which will be more sophisticated and professional from now on (truth be told, Mariusz’s poor attempts in Photoshop weren’t cutting it).

You can follow him on Tumblr  for links to his music and to purchase framed photographs.

Our fingers touched as we pressed the same elevator button. Dennis Popinara looked at me. He wore slacks that were covered in soot and annunciated each of his words with a stutter, and started his sentences with a long pause. “S-sorry.” I recoiled, bumping into the wall. It was painted dark blue. “These damn kids,” he began. “Can you believe one of them smashed my car window?”

My throat swelled up. “N-no *ahem* could’ve … could’ve been falling debris … or something.”

“Debris? Maybe. Anyway, your mother called. She asked me to fix the bathroom sink.”  

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to fix the bathroom sink.”

“Oh.” That’s what I thought he said. “It has been acting strange.”

The prospect of my mother, after not talking to him for months, calling to do a simple repair job bothered me. I wanted him out of our lives.

When we entered my apartment, Dennis robotically walked to the bathroom. He lugged a wrench around as a caveman would a loose bone. I slipped into the kitchen. I’m cornered. ‘Ching’ wasn’t there to protect me, it was fight or flight. I remembered a story about a mouse that, on the verge of being devoured by a snake, bit into the reptile’s skull, causing it irreversible brain damage. I’m destined to be that mouse. With both of us alone, there were only two options: let him finish his work or work on finishing him. I chose the latter.

Plan A was drowning. He was already in the bathroom, next to a working bathtub. It’d only take a slug to the head and a shove. But who drowns in their own bathtub … more importantly, who dies in their neighbor’s bathtub? I recalled one of my 7^th grade science classes. We studied the human brain. I learned that drowning oneself was “virtually impossible” as the brain sends signals to the rest of the body, telling it to breathe, much like how you jolt back after touching a hot flame. Besides, I thought, he’s too big. That was another drawback, in addition to the scolding I’d get from my mother when she’d arrive home; she hated when the bathmats were wet.

I stared at a knife set that we’ve received for Christmas, weighing the pros and cons of a traditional stabbing, I compiled a list of reasons on why and why nots: it’s messy, my queasiness to blood, it’s quick. I imagined his funeral. “He was a good husband and a better father,” his duck-faced wife would quack, somewhat relieved at his passing. She would bring home the aspiring actor that she’d met in Starbucks. They’d cuddle, pressing their warm bodies together. She’d anchor her lips onto his. He’d push away, explaining that he was tired, fully knowing that he had contracted an STD from one of his former lovers at NYU: Tisch. “Fine,” she would pout, grabbing for the remote, “suit yourself.”

Flipping through the channels, they’d stumble onto a news report. The anchor, visibly tired, despite having six espresso shots, three caramel mochas, and a vanilla Chai, would announce, in a disinterested tone, “…Stabbed approximately 65 times, Zubrowski was found by guards in a pool of his own blood.”

The notion of being viciously slaughtered in a state prison didn’t seem too flattering, but distracted me from both my hatred for Dennis and the pain of having my girlfriend cheat on me.

Momma had described Fallon as “down-to-Earth” and “caring.” She warned that when Fallon would eventually leave, it’d be my fault. I asked her if cheating was an exception, she shook her head. “You would’ve probably driven her away. You’re … how do I put it? You’re not intimate enough. You’re … cardboard! Don’t worry though,” she took a sip of her coffee, “it runs in you ‘Zubrowski men.’ Your uncle? He’s a depressed alcoholic. That’s just one of the reasons I don’t trust that the name’ll be around much longer.”

I told Fallon about Dennis. She said I was selfish. “How can you not allow your mom to have a loving relationship?” At the time, Ayn Rand was my idol. Her philosophy was that selfishness was a virtue; I wished Fallon was more like Rand. “You can’t pick-and-choose who your mother dates.”

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure I can … . if he’s going to become my step-dad!”

A few months later, she dumped me for her ex-boyfriend. He was short but slender, had a job, and was studying to become a civil engineer. I was tall but doughy, quit my job, and worked as a film critic, spending most of my time in dark cinemas, press-screenings, and chatting with the elderly at Manhattan art houses. I also had dreams of becoming a filmmaker. I assumed his lucrative future and goals of having children outweighed misogynistic mantras and a criminal background whilst my fear of commitment, lack of communication skills, and wishy-washy career as the next Quentin Tarantino worked against generosity and good intentions.   

When she told me it was over, I came home, teary-eyed. Mother only said, “You’re this young and having these kinda’ problems? No matter the age, ‘Zubrowski men’ just can’t handle relationships.” In her next batch of groceries, she brought home orange sherbet. “Eat it,” she commanded, trying to replace my love for a girl for love of an artificially-flavored sweet. In her straightforwardness, there was love, but I also sensed that beneath that hardness was pain; the same pain I’d wanted to protect when I smashed Dennis’ car windows.  

“Can I have a smoke?” he asked, plopping himself down onto the living room couch. “I’m almost done.”

Cigarettes were made with 599 additives and each one shortened a person’s lifespan by 11 minutes. Smokers, on average, died 14 years earlier. “N—“ I began before interrupting myself. Unlike stabbings and accidental drowning, smoking would kill him eventually. The word’s vagueness attracted me. To say he’d die eventually meant that it might be in a day, two months, or even three years, but most importantly, it wouldn’t be now. This removed the trouble of clean up, disposal, and lifelong guilt that (usually) accompanies such crimes of passion. I nodded my head and watched as he sucked on a Marlboro light. I knew that on a microscopic level, I’d contributed to his death. 

Four years ago, my mother’s breast cancer, after being in remission for years, had returned. She was back in the hospital. It haunts me to this day. 

She wasn’t doing very well and the disease was spreading throughout her body. Everyone told me that she wasn’t feeling well and that she was only hospitalized to run a few routine tests. I was still a child and they didn’t want me to worry. When my father told me that if she ever came out of this, she wouldn’t be able to use her legs, I accepted his judgment. 

She had become paralyzed from the waist down. To accommodate this, we went house hunting for a home that didn’t have a staircase. But a week passed and she still hadn’t returned. 

I remember beeping monitors and the IVs pricked into her arm. She looked pale. Her feet were swollen and caused her pain. She was on medication that made her snappy. I wanted nothing more than to leave. I shot a goodbye and stormed out the room. 

The next morning, I was in a blissful mood. I walked into the living room, where both my grandparents, aunts, and uncles had gathered. Something was wrong. My brother joined in. In a solemn tone, my father began, “The cancer traveled up mom’s spine and into her lungs. She stopped breathing. She—she’s gone.” The obliviousness of adolescence had soured. I became more aware of life’s darkness. 

I became an adult. 

I couldn’t process it at first. She stopped breathing? She was dead? It didn’t make sense. She’s my mom. She’s always been there. This doesn’t happen to teenagers. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Mom wouldn’t have wanted me to be sad. I had to be strong for everyone else. We’d decided to go to the hospital that day to see the body before its burial. 

I couldn’t go into the room by myself. Madeline, a close family friend, went in with me. Mom was even paler. She was so, so cold. I held her hand and told her how sorry I was. I kissed her forehead and left the room. The rest of the family remained. While they conversed, I created a world for myself. Here, my mother lived and was always there to help me. I still escape to this place. 

During the next few weeks, everyone asked if I was okay. My teacher’s told me about how their parents had passed away too. I appreciated their support but after mom died, I stopped connecting with people on a close emotional level. She was my best friend. Sometimes he was my only friend. She was gone. 

I couldn’t deal with that again. 

Picking out a tombstone made her death concrete and real. Choosing the words, the designs, and the thought of never hugging my mother again, was much too much for me. We put tulips on her grave. Mother had always loved flowers. We also set down a book. She loved to read. The words engraved read: “Forever in our Hearts.” This may seem generic but it meant something to me. Whenever I had to go away, she’d point to my heart and say, “I’ll always be right here.” Forever. Always.

It still kills me that I’ll never see her again. I’ve gotten colder. I’m no longer naive. I’ve grown up. I learned that life isn’t a fairy tale. Life doesn’t work out how you want it. There’s nothing I can do but grin and bear it. Make the best of what life hands you.

I’m terrified to turn twenty-five, when I have to go for my first mammogram. Most women go in their forties, but because cancer runs in both my mother and father’s side, I have to be realistic. I expect to get some form of the disease. I’m scared. I’m so scared. At the same time, I can’t let the ‘future’ ruin the ‘now.’ Mom wouldn’t have wanted that.

Angelica Rossi is a student at Baruch College in Manhattan, NY. She plans to major in advertising and marketing communications, hoping that, one day, she can work in the entertainment industry. Going in the business, she was worried about the career’s bad reputation for turning people in ‘zombies,’ and feared that ultimately, she’d lose her creativity. However, when the opportunity to become Mariusz Zubrowski’s understudy and permanent writer for The Corner Society was placed in her hands, she’d realized that now, in the midst of countless sleepless nights and math equations, she still can boast her artistic spark.  

Chasing butterflies,
and chasing childhood dreams, 
believing in fairy tales that only I could see,
looking at clouds 
and staring at stars,
What a wonderful ending to a wonderful day.

Reading books,
and going to the library,
going home,
and watching a movie,
I’m getting tired, 
so I think I’ll sleep,
What a wonderful ending to a wonderful day.

Going to the hospital,
and going to the cemetery.
I watch every one cry,
but I can’t feel a thing.
Something’s not right,
my mother just died.
What a horrible way to start my day.

Gone are the butterflies,
and the childhood dreams.
Gone are the fairy tales 
I once knew so well.
Looking at Hollywood,
why can’t life be like that happy movie?
What a horrendous feeling that is.

Empty are the books
which once knew so much.
Gone is the warm mother’s embrace.
This is all just too much,
but I can’t dwell on the past, 
I can’t dwell on things that I can not change.

I’m not the same little girl
who chased butterflies and looked at clouds.
I’m not the same girl
who went to the library every week.
I’m the adult who saw her mother being buried,
the adult who grew up much too soon,
the adult who wants to be a teenager forever,
because she’s much too scared
that her life will end much too young.

Black on Black, Black on Black

Black is this, Black is that

Black is cool, Black is whack

Black is old, Black is back

That which you told Black is fact

Has grown old now Black is cracked

What we’ve known to stay intact

Black is that which brings us back

I grew up in a hood not too far from here

And where I once used to reside, has slowly fallen aside

Coldest winters wishing for the fall to appear

Where the hunger surely hides in niggas’ hopes, dreams, and pride

But I try to remain on the other side

Where my pride drives most of the feet in life

And the hope in my eyes still resides deep inside

But my niggas outside strugglin on some other shit

“Fuck the government!” they echo as they hustlin’

Puttin food on the table, no time for any other sins

On the block, handle the rock, point to guard what they smugglin’

2 kids at 18; no fucking sense to use the rubber then…

So we resort to blame the rappers for the message that they send

Instead of raising the children we loved and represent,

We demand them to respect us and invest in deference

Yet we cry victim when the die and cops askin for next of kin

Pride surely is a deadly sin

That’s why the story never ends

The worst enemies in the world have all derived from best of friends

It’ll leave you outside the gates… pleading for Him to let you in

Black on Black, Black on Black

Black is this, Black is that

Black is cool, Black is whack

Black is old, Black is back

That which you told Black is fact

Has grown old now black is cracked

What we’ve known to stay intact

Is Black is that which brings us back

Backpack Matt (BPM) is a 21 year-old artist/producer/writer originally from Forestville, MD. He currently travels between the DMV and Cali finishing up his degree at Stanford University. After two successful beat tape releases, BPM released his first full mixtape project ‘Thoughts: EP’ in January and has gradually started to build a solid fanbase from coast-to-coast. BPM also frequently writes short stories and poems relating to those forgotten, who rarely have a voice to express themselves. 

BPM will be releasing his second full project Songs About H.E.R. on August 12th, and his first album Laced on August 26th.
http://www.twitter.com/backpackmatt
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Backpack-Matt/117053634993694

Row-row young man
Guide your vessel steadily
Never let your momentum slow
Row-row young man

Row-row strong man
Navigate these rapids
Don’t let the tides catch you
Don’t let the rocks thrash you 
Row-row strong man 

Row-row old man
Traverse the wide sea
Reminisce on your journey 
Over the horizon you’re free
Row-row old man

Emanuel Gibson is currently attending the University of California. Whilst working towards a bachelor’s degree in psychology, he likes to explore new facets of self through the arts. He’s hoping to become a marriage counselor in the near future.