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).  

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.  

I hope nobody saw me smash Dennis’ car windows. Growing up in a household led by a neurotic mother and two nameless cats, there were never any secrets … nor were there many visitors. We weren’t antisocial; both of us wanted friendships but neither could stand the constant annoyances of intimate relationships. Her best friend was named ‘Ching.’ This was not her real name (only close family was allowed such privileged information). As a fan of conspiracy theories and pulp fiction, she’d devised a system of ringing our doorbell: to signify her presence, she’d ring thrice. This ensured that neither murderer nor tax collector could get close to us. A staunchly-built woman with tanned skin, ‘Ching’ was the nicest paranoid schizophrenic that we’d ever met. And although she kept her son’s report cards and medical records from first grade (he was now a successful dentist), used our refrigerator to save money on her electricity bills, and made us dye her deeply-rooted grey hairs, claiming that the local barber shop had “communist agendas,” ‘Ching’ was a nice woman, who showered us with dinner trays and pounds of limes on every holiday. The same couldn’t be said about Dennis Popinara, the buildings’ new superintendent—my momma’s new boyfriend.

One damp summer, the old Super retired. A tall, gaunt man, he’d roam the halls with a dull expression. “Gum, paper, candy wrappers,” he’d chant—three things commonly discarded in the hallways. He was replaced by his equally lifeless cousin, Dennis, a college-educated mathematician-turned-sanitation worker. Dennis spoke quietly and jumbled his words. He was married, with two sons. His wife was over demanding and walked like a duck; her billed face and large buttocks swung around with each step. His children however, resembled his primitive appearance. This wouldn’t bother my mother. He told her that he was in the “process of divorce.” Any attempts at rationalizing the situation would be moot for I, have indulged myself in the same convoluted love triangles.

At first he distributed the bills. “H-h-h-h-h-hi,” he would begin with the tone of someone choking on their own saliva. But bill distribution became afternoon coffee breaks; those intensified into daily encounters, nightly phone calls.

I would reminisce about how my teachers would mistake her for a sister during parent-teacher conferences. “You have to bring a guardian,” they’d remark. Moments later, the sirs and misses of P.S.99 complemented my mother’s youthful appearance.

“We’re like two drops of water,” she’d respond; same blonde hair, green eyes, and pudgy cheeks. But Mr. Popinara would show that we weren’t the same.I hated him. His dull posture and vague way of explaining things seemed off. His rush to establish a romantic relationship with my mother made me suspicious. The same qualities, however, allured her.

After Rich, my father, died, leaving behind a legacy of drunken apathy, she’d vow to never make the same mistake. But as I sat, about-faced, looking at the computer monitor’s reflection of Dennis, who gorged on chocolate and threw the wrappers on the floor, I realized that something had to be done. What I didn’t know was that it would take an unlikely ally to get my mother away from this monster.

But the question remained: Was I, like any ‘momma’s boy’ jealous about there being a new ‘man in the house’? Was I projecting the pain I’d experienced with my biological father on Dennis? Or was I genuinely doing this to protect my mother? I didn’t have an answer so I didn’t think about it.

‘Ching’ summed up my hate nicely, “The guy’s a scumbag,” she reassured me as we formulated ways to make his life miserable.

His license plate number was his last name—a red flag to any pompous lover. I had made it a routine to walk past his grey sedan each day. I traveled in circles, expecting to find an incriminating piece of evidence. One day, ‘Ching’ was walking back home with her groceries. She had stopped to ask me if I wanted an orange. She had reportedly bought for “one-third” of the retail price and was eager to share. I shook my head. She curiously inspected the vehicle. “Popinara,” she muttered aloud. “Is that the Super’s car?” I nodded. “That man’s a pig. He needs to keep his hands off your mother. That idiot can barely install an air conditioner, I swear, he put mine in backwards!” She picked up a rock and handed it to me. “Smash the window,” she said, with a smirk on her face. ‘Ching’ prepared to run away. Without thinking, I did as she commanded and ran after her. She gasped as we reached the elevator. For a 70-year-old, I thought, she’s pretty fast. Excited over my newfound revenge, ‘Ching’ grabbed me. “Look, don’t tell your mother we did th—“she interrupted herself, scanning the empty elevator for cameras or any other recording devices. “She’d kill me for she found out about this but,” she said, moving her face closer to mine, “I’ll tell her that I saw Dennis hitting another woman.” My eyes lit up. “He’ll never come close to her again.”

And the plan was a success. None ever found out. Occasionally, Dennis rung our bell but to no avail. ‘Ching’ would continue coming over. Whenever she did, we’d smile to each-other. It remained our dirty little secret.

* Mariusz Zubrowski is a published film critic and co-owner of The Corner Society. Accredited for his work on IMDB and LAMB, he is currently working on his first feature-length screenplay.

20th century author and poet, Raymond Carver, is oftentimes recognized for his impact on short story writing. In the 1980s, when the medium first began to falter, short stories had become a tough sell for publications because of their briefness, however, that did not stop the author, who had admitted to being “inclined to brevity and intensity.” Until his death in 1988, he’d released several collections (including Furious Seasons, Cathedral, and most famously, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?). His tight economy on words and stripped down narratives drew comparison to works by fellow novelists Tobias Wolff and Anne Beattie. As with many popular authors, a number of his works have already been adapted for the big screen. Now, former commercials director, Dan Rush, in his theatrical debut, joins the troupe with Everything Must Go.

Based on the story Why Don’t You Dance?, the film is headlined by Will Ferrell, who stars as Nick Halsey. Accompanying the actor’s rare dramatic turn are Rebecca Hall, Laura Dern, Stephen Root, and Christopher Jordan Wallace. Everything Must Go revolves around Halsey, a talented salesman who is not only fired for his alcoholism but is also handed divorce papers. Locked out of his house — his possessions thrown out on the front lawn, his phones suspended, credit cards blocked, and corporate car repo’d — he decides to hold a yard sale in an attempt to start over. In this journey, Halsey befriends Kenny Loftus (Wallace), a socially awkward boy who yearns to play baseball, and Samantha (Hall), a pregnant photography teacher who has just moved into the neighborhood. Together, they prove to be key influences in Nick’s success.

The principle idea is the secrets that we all harbor behind closed doors; whereas Nick has all of his problems plopped down on his lawn (literally and figuratively), his neighbors have double lives. One example is Samantha, who hides a fear of her husband, who is out on business, not returning to her and their unborn child. Another is Elliot (Root), one of Halsey’s neighbors, who scoffs at his circumstances, insisting that he had predicted it from “miles away.” But midway into the film, the former salesman discovers Elliot’s sexual subordination.

Though for a story that examines addiction and one man’s search for happiness at the end of a beer can, a night’s rest and some Valium are hardly enough to influence drastic change. Rush (who also penned the script) underestimates the severity of his own character’s demons, and without explanation abandons his deliberate pace in the film’s second act, resulting in a rise that comes too abruptly. Such shoddy development would have no place in the quiet Euro-dramas that the director tries to evoke. Fortunately, the production benefits from a stellar cast.

Ferrell lends an unusually restrained performance. Gone is the physical comedy from his earlier works and replaced by quiescent self-deprecation, the actor plays the saddest breed of alcoholic: A man that is not necessarily violent or outspoken during his drunkenness but rather someone who uses the booze to quietly (and momentarily) tranquilize his troubles. Essentially, Halsey is a hit-or-miss character — a role dependent on who fills it. However, as luck may have it, the casting is spot-on. Hall, Wallace, (son of the late rapper Notorious B.I.G.) and Ferrell all have excellent chemistry, allowing for inspirational (and a bit unrealistic) friendships.

Carver derived the concept for Why Don’t You Dance? from his own fall to alcoholism (which he eventually overcame). Rush’s adaptation — a modest first film — does little to improve on the story. Luckily, slick leads and ample doses of dark humor make Everything Must Go a decent indie-flick … even if the emotional payoff rests on the cheap side.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)

The London-born actor, David Niven (who is best known for his role as Phileas Fogg in Michael Anderson’s critically-acclaimed Around the World in 80 Days) was once quoted as saying, “Keep the circus going inside you, keep it going, don’t take anything too seriously, and it’ll all work out in the end.” Indeed, the circus, with its endless display of quirky talents who accomplish feats otherwise deemed impossible, has become a universal symbol for wholesome fun — a sanctum in which fantasy melds with reality. However when Sara Gruen’s historical romance Water for Elephants released, it challenged that image; the plot of the novel revolves around Jacob Jankowski, an elderly man who recalls his experiences at a traveling circus, which beneath the heavy make-up and toothless lions, is host to the seedy underbelly of Depression-era America.

Francis Lawrence’s beautifully produced and intelligent adaptation explores the same themes. In the leading role is a charismatic Robert Pattinson as Jacob Jankowski, the acting circus veterinarian, Academy-Award winner, Christoph Waltz as August, the circus’ ringleader, who makes his workers quiver and once fearless animals obey him, and Reese Witherspoon as Marlena, August’s wife and star of the Benzini Bros. Water for Elephants delves into the forbidden amour that Jankowski shares with the disenchanted Marlena — a woman who fears both her husband and the outside world. In addition, Tai, a trained elephant joins the cast as Rosie, a 53-year-old mastodon which August purchases for Marlena to ride as part of the show — intending that this new attraction increase revenue. While the film’s melodramatic tone and idealistic narrative may put down some, those seeking an entertaining popcorn drama need look no further.

And despite the lack of chemistry between the film’s mismatched leads, Richard LaGravenese, who penned the script, treats each character with impeccable wit and complexity — August, the picture’s antagonist, being the most intriguing. At one point, whilst teaching Jacob the punishments that await those who disobey him, the troubled headmaster proclaims, “This circus — my circus — is a sovereign nation,” declaring the show’s independence from the outside world where many of the performers are labeled freaks and believe they have no future in. Meanwhile, his own wife admits the tyrannical state that the circus is run under: “Nobody stops, nobody dies until August says so,” she confides in Jacob. But, surprisingly, when he doesn’t resort to beating his stage animals (an attempt to control them) and tossing crew overboard to save a few bucks, August exhibits genuine human emotion: Love for Marlena, jealousy when he spots her befriending the smooth-faced Jacob, and even loneliness — the end result of not having friends. Waltz portrays these schizophrenic habits perfectly.

Realistic set and costume design further propel the circus’ mystique. Gratuitous in its color palette, the film’s juxtaposition between time — the midst of the Depression — and place — the jubilant hippodrome, where only smiling faces can be seen in the crowd — adds to the movie’s central idea, which explores the difference between fantasia and truth.

With Water for Elephants, Lawrence creates an oftentimes soapy (albeit touching) old fashioned romance. Fortunately, the mystery is strong throughout, constantly foretelling the downfall of the characters’ world — a reveal that turns out satisfying (much to the surprise of *ahem* cynical film critics). But even when the on-screen connection between Witherspoon and Pattinson becomes bland and uncommitted, their strong individual performances pull the production back up, making this circus one helluva’ show.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)