by Tony W.

I am unafraid to admit that I am a lover of the romance genre. Romance novels are my books of choice whenever I need a full break from the real world. When I’m tired of the politics, and everything they make political even when it’s not. It’s where I go when I can’t stand to hear about another injustice, when I need to get the latest video or photograph out of my mind. Romance novels are where I turn for my HEA, my Happily Ever After. No matter how they come together by the end of the novel they will be together for the rest of their lives. This is fiction not reality so “WHATEVER” to your disagreements.

Here are a few of my favorite tropes of the genre (definitions provided by Mindyklasky.com):

• Alpha hero(one): Our hero(ine) defines “Type A”—he or she is driven, assertive, and in control of the world, except where his/her lover is concerned.
• Mail-order bride: One lover (usually male) requests a spouse through print or electronic services.
• Marriage of convenience: Our lovers are determined to marry but they feel no love for each other; rather, there is some business or social reason that compels their relationship.
• On the road: Our lovers are on a road trip (or boat trip or plane trip or whatever), out of their element, encountering new experiences as their relationship grows. 
• On the rocks: Our lovers are united as the action of the story begins, but their relationship is going through hard times.
• Ugly duckling: One of our lovers is not conventionally beautiful, but in the course of falling in love either becomes conventionally beautiful or discovers that conventions are immaterial
• (Wo)man in peril: One of our lovers is in physical peril from some outside person or organization; the other lover rescues him/her.

The wonderful thing about the romance genre is that these tropes can be combined with other tropes and fiction genres. I could have an “Ugly duckling” mixed with an “On the road” while in space, or as a western, a pirate fantasy, etc., etc., etc.

Check out these writers: 

Beverly Jenkins

Alyssa Cole

Rebekah Weatherspoon

Happy Reading!

by K. Osorio-Teamer

My connection to Nicaragua comes in waves; at times it is strong, and I feel like a Pinolera. Other times, it is nearly non existent and imposter syndrome kicks in. I’ve never been to Nicaragua, but my parents and family taught me enough about it that it legitimately feels like home. My cousin returned to the homeland for a mission with her church and said her accent returned to her mouth within days and she was speaking in voseo, a popular tense in Central America. I feel my most Nicaraguan when I eat traditional foods like arroz a la valenciana, gallo pinto, bajo, and vigoron. I usually eat these at my grandma’s house. Before the pandemic, I started to take pictures of all the foods she cooked, Vigoron, a dish made with yuca, pork rinds, and cabbage salad, holds a special place in my heart because it was one of my mom’s favorites. She used to tell me stories of her and my grandmother selling vigoron in the streets of Granada. My mother helped by carrying sacks of yuca from the market to my grandmother’s stand before heading to school, so that my grandmother could prepare the dish for the breakfast rush. At this time, school wasn’t a priority for their family so some of my aunts didn’t go to school, but my mom never quit. She was dedicated to her education and graduated at the age of sixteen. After working for a few years to save money for higher education, she started college and was only a few semesters away from graduating when Anastasio Somoza was run out of the country by the Sandinistas. I never learned unbiased Nicaraguan history, so when my mother told me communists were bad people and Sandinistas had ruined her life, I believed her. I was proud of stories of resistance during the civil war like when my parents sold eggs clandestinely to avoid being punished. Food was rationed out by the government at this time, and my mom and grandma would often complain that one pound of beans for the week was never enough to sustain the family. The egg business was a way my family fought back against what they viewed as oppression. Although both my parents came from humble beginnings, their economic status changed in the early eighties. They had multiple market businesses and were able to hire domestic workers, including a nanny for my newborn brother and a cook. The way I look at my parents’ story has changed from one of complete reverence, to a broader understanding of history and human nature. More than likely, my mother hating the Sandinistas and communism had to do with the civil unrest, but I also know they were privileged in some respect. They were entrepreneurs and had enough capital to fund an illegal immigration to the United States. I didn’t know Somoza was a dictator until I read it in our textbook. I didn’t know he had support from the U.S. or that they assisted in taking the Sandinista party out of power. Regardless of my parent’s privilege, the imperialistic and capitalistic pursuits of the United States led my family to leave their home and eventually make a home out of the country that displaced them. This kind of immigration was a contributing factor to the nativist sentiment that arose in the 1970s and 80s. The irony is stark and heartbreaking, but it does give me a better understanding of the history of a country I consider home. Learning this has helped supplement the oral history my parents left behind, while helping me understand who they were as people too, not just parents.  

by S.L. Jordan

My right ear was directly over his heart, whilst my thumb gingerly raked over his right wrist. I could hear the erratic beating, feel the blood racing through his veins. The silence was killing me, but I waited patiently – for the outward sign that he had heard me. I knew he had. We laid cuddled under the oak tree in our backyard. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon -that sweet spot between Spring and Summer, where the sun had yet to reach its full potential. The neighborhood was alive with life; children laughing, the sound of the ice cream truck slowly rolling down the street intermingled with the occasional honk of a bicycle.

He cleared his throat. From my position on his chest, I could see in my minds eye the bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple as he did so. A nervous twitch of his. I was surprised by his hesitancy, probably as much as he was surprised by me bringing it up. He had spent the last six months trying to wear me down, and now that the time had come, he seemed … timid.

“Are you sure?” he asked, little beads of sweat started to form and pool in the hallow of his collar bone, another sign he was nervous.

“No” I said, but I was lying. If I were to be honest, this could possibly be the way out. The easiest way, where I wasn’t the villain. Not that he was the villain, nor did I want him to be.

He shifted his body and I sat up to face him. Now the serious conversation could begin.

“No? Then what are we talking about here …” was his gentle reply. He reached out to hold my hand, and I stared at that hand. The wrinkles. The texture. So many changes through the years, but still so familiar. So comforting. I blinked back tears. He still had his shades on so I couldn’t see his eyes. Was he looking at me? I leaned in a gently to remove the glasses and watched as his eyes darted away.

“Well, I would be a liar if I said things hadn’t changed between us. That I hadn’t noticed the way you lit up when the new neighbor moved in next door, or how the cute young barista at the coffee shop always made sure your donut was fresh with your coffee. I see how that attention pleases you” I replied.

“You know that – “he started, but I stopped him because I knew what he was going to say and while I think he thought he meant it, it did nothing to relieve what he assumed was hurt. Was I hurt?

I suppose in a way I was. In the way you can be when you spend majority of your life with someone, only to be told one day that that someone now wanted to bring another person into the life you’ve created together. But not in that utterly devastated heart-breaking way, like I said if I were being honest, I had lost the excitement for him too. Not the love, but that newness. The freshness of blooming love. Here we were 20 years after pledging our lives together. A grand total of 33 years, from childhood to adulthood with each other.

“What are you scared of? You know I love you. I love us. I love what we have, but ….” this is when he begins to stutter and lose his way. What he wants to say is, “but you’re the only woman I have been with and I want to try something new, possibly even something younger” – but he doesn’t. He always stops short of saying that, as if that would be the knife in my heart.

How do I tell him that I understood? That 14 to 47 was a long time. That I wanted to try some of that same newness. I wanted to light up again. I wanted attention that pleased me as well.

I griped his hand. I had to do it. Just rip the band-aid off.

“I have a date next Wednesday” I said looking directly into his face.

I felt the grip on my hand loosen just a fraction, before he let it go completely.

Author’s Note: I am random. This story is random.

ENJOY.