Settle and Slake by Mikki Aronoff

We strive to slide and glide but list from side to side, bob up, bob down, settle for a sec or a minute. We shake our balding heads in minute arcs, lest we fall and fracture. We slake worries,…
We strive to slide and glide but list from side to side, bob up, bob down, settle for a sec or a minute. We shake our balding heads in minute arcs, lest we fall and fracture. We slake worries,…
Mitchie’s mechanical pencil shatters into a hundred billion trillion pieces. “Dewanda, behave!” the teacher screams at me. She don’t know us or our names or remember that Dewanda goes to a new school now. So we don’t call her…
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
Do I “heart” this? My finger hovers over the outline of a heart beside a photo of a curly-haired woman grinning, her arms wrapped around two tan dogs. It’s a Friday night, a few months after I moved to…
Penny Guisinger and I met when we each served on the board of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance in the early 2010s, and I became a fan of her nonfiction soon after. Her work captured complex realities of…
Kimberly King Parsons, whose sparkling debut novel We Were the Universe is a USA Today national bestseller, is serving as our guest judge for the CRAFT 2024 First Chapters Contest. From the outset, Associate Editor Rowena Leong Singer was…
The nurse processing my intake at the psychiatric hospital looked like the kind of person with whom I would strike up a conversation while waiting for a drag show. Everything about her seemed to match, down to the color…
Deesha Philyaw, acclaimed author of The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, is graciously serving as our guest judge for the CRAFT 2024 Short Fiction Prize. In this interview conducted over email, Editor in Chief Courtney Harler asks Deesha to…
We were agents of change. We wrote about how hugging, laughter, and kissing can lengthen your life. Warned that toxins in commercial cosmetics seep surreptitiously through nails and pores. We advocated ditching pesticides and gardening with beneficial nematodes instead.…
After three gin martinis, my mother-in-law spits out her teeth. “You’re a cannonball with a credit card,” she hisses. Her dentures glisten like pearls in her palm. Never, she likes to remind me, did she foresee her sweet son…
“Penny, Barbara, Ruth, Irene” is my bite-size homage to telenovelas. My mother would watch these shows on occasion, transfixed by the catty drama that was sandwiched between shampoo commercials and weather reports. Always, the women onscreen fought. When they cried, the music sharpened as they vowed to seek revenge. Divorce, death, love triangles, witchcraft—the story lines seemed to spin on an axis of turmoil. But I laughed at the lives of these fictitious women. I scoffed at their exaggerated performances. I rolled my eyes at their overdone faces. They were caricatures, weren’t they?
To answer this question, I turned my attention to the flesh-and-blood women in my own family, namely my mother and her sisters. They, too, wore high heels and makeup and spoke Spanish. They, too, experienced heartbreak. They fought, sometimes with each other, resentments festering in the silences that followed. Convinced sorcery had been cast upon them, some even lit candles in prayer. I was a teenager then, struggling to incorporate my Mexican culture with my American upbringing. I looked to telenovelas and other dramas to understand my life, and to possibly inform my future, as if these women-led programs were meant to both entertain me and reveal my fate.
Thankfully, my adult life reflects none of the onscreen melodrama I watched growing up. But there was something about those female characters I couldn’t let go of. They’re fun and exciting. And they happen to be women who are especially unlikable, a characteristic that, as Roxane Gay puts it in Bad Feminist, can “make the reader complicit, in ways that are both uncomfortable and intriguing.” I could construct my own telenovela, one wherein an obnoxious mother-in-law spits out her teeth when drunk. I could include an observant narrator who avoids conflict. I could braid the lives of women together with humor and curiosity. And best of all, I could write an ending wherein empathy replaces rivalry.
In early drafts, a few of my critique partners noted that my story read like a daytime soap opera. I wasn’t sure what to do with this feedback other than to ask myself what it was I had set out to accomplish. I thought about how stories we watch on television, especially for those in immigrant households, can offer us a sense of recognition and comfort, a connection to a homeland left behind. In reworking this piece, I realize now that I was offering myself a place of recognition, too. I’d like to think a sliver of my younger self exists on the page, a girl who created a world for herself that finally made sense.
Born and raised in Kern County, California, AMY GROTE resides in Los Angeles and holds a degree in English from the University of California, Los Angeles. She is currently in the throes of editing her first novel, a young woman’s retelling of her grandfather’s experience as a migrant farmworker in California. “Penny, Barbara, Ruth, Irene” is her first publication credit. Find her on Instagram @amygrote.