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Since it’s already the third month of the new year I won’t say happy new year other than I hope it’s been happy so far. For me one huge thrill in 2013 has been that Crucifying Angel, Book One: Future Imperfect is now available in PRINT (Waa-ah-ah HOO! Thank you Desert Breeze Publishing!) at

On to the actual post.  Once again I find my work placed under yet another genre’ category, Women’s Fiction, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. On one hand it exposes me to other readers/audiences who might never check out my books because they don’t know about them. On the other hand, it gets a little confusing and even frustrating at times when I submit it for reviews or even just a social media posting. I’ve actually checked out the definition of Women’s Fiction and while my novels always always deal with relationships this genre seems an odd fit. Romance in my books usually takes the back seat mainly because I get so involved in the plot and the action and I’m not by strict definition a romance author. My romance elements nearly always have edgier slightly gritty and sometimes even dark relationships in the sense of depth. There’s very little romantic fantasy and the conflicts that unite or present obstacles are deep and steeped in guilt of some sort.

Then there’s futuristic. Crucifying Angel, mentioned above, kicks of the Future Imperfect, a semi-dystopian, near-future (my term) crime thriller is a prime example of the conflicts of the two main characters dragging around huge personal baggage that affects most of their relationship. The story is set in 2032 Las Vegas and is a real crime thriller with souped-up technology. But there isn’t any extensive true science there other than things I’ve created and some authors insist that sci-fi requires real science.

Hmm. I don’t write chick lit. I barely write romance. I play fast and loose with the sci in sci-fi. So what do I call my genre? After nearly four years of trying to figure it out myself and driving editors, reviewers, and readers at book fairs, librarians, social media etc., insane I think my own definition would be Commercial Fiction, sub-genre everything. (I’ve even got a romantic western in the bin believe it or not!))  Hopefully what I write has the potential to read a broad audience and not just female either. I strive to write something that men will find entertaining as well. I strive.

Commercial Fiction has been looked down upon, widened to the scope of all genre inclusion from Chick Lit to Fantasy and Vampirism and loved wholeheartedly by people like me and in a way it is all-inclusive.  Every genre can have broad appeal and that broad appeal is my definition of both my work and Commercial Fiction.

That is my definition of what I do.  I try to entertain and touch my readers emotionally somehow and as many of them as possible. But then again, I am not a publisher or editor, those angels who descend to sprinkle miracle dust all over to make the books shine bright like a diamond (Hi Rihanna!) in the sky whatever the genre’.

I’m wondering if anyone else has this odd problem or if I’m the only one.  If you are so inclined let me know, I’d love to hear your thoughts. 


“Don’t make me get a warrant,” he told Ernesto Calderon as they both stood in the surveillance bay.  Alfonso was gone for the day and Calderon drew the swing shift. “I really don’t think you want Garcia dragged away from his wife at this late hour.  All you have to do is make me a copy of the footage I looked at the other day.”

Ernesto looked askance at Gavin, as if the detective wore a set of horns.  He moved along the inside of the monitor station backing away and running a hand along the underside of the console.

“I advise against that.”  Gavin reached into his holster.  “I can put you down before your fingers touch the button.  Make me the copy.”

“What format?”  Ernesto played for time.

“All of them.  And please put a rush on it.”  He smiled and pointed his tricked out Glock at the man.  “I have a deadline to meet.  One I cannot miss.”

Ernesto did as he was told and Gavin knew Calderon would hit the panic button as soon as Gavin walked out the door.  He prevented that by walking around and shooting the wiring to shreds.

“Thank you, Ernesto,” Gavin told him as he took the chip, stick, and a cylinder from him. “You have my permission to blame everything on me.  I should think you’d make a point of that to Garcia. Again, thanks.”  He backed out the door in case Ernesto possessed any weapons and all the way to the elevators.  His bio-identification still held and he smashed a finger against the express button that shot him to the casino floor.

He broke into a run out the front doors and leaped into the patrol car as the on-duty security force exploded out the front doors of the casino.  The unit’s tires slammed down onto the pavement under Gavin’s foot and fishtailed as it flew off the premises and down the highway.  He got a last glimpse of them taking aim and popping off a few rounds before they scattered like ants without a pheromone trail.




Alejandro Jesus Garcia slammed down the phone in his penthouse bedroom

“I am not happy,” he announced to the group of guards who stood just inside the penthouse suite’s front doors.  Garcia untied the silk belt at the waist of his robe and tugged on a shirt.  “Bring Calderon to my office.  I’ll deal with him there. Sergeant, stay with me.  We will discuss how to handle this… breach of security on the way down.”  

Garcia buttoned the collar of a newly pressed shirt and then buttoned the cuffs.  He picked up his gun in its holster and slung it over his shoulder, finally pulling a jacket over it all.  The clock on the wall read 10:30 p.m. but no one looked at it.  The time was of no concern to anyone in these matters — matters that they must now take into their own hands and resolve.  Garcia arrived at his office at exactly 10:39 p.m. and looked into the pale face of Ernesto Raul Calderon without pity.  They had extracted the details of Gavin’s visit and his possession of the footage of the Amazon’s casino floor and rooms from Calderon and now Garcia made his decision.

“Take him out,” he told the mini-troop of soldiers.  “Have him write a note of suicide and then shoot him.  Make it look like he pulled the trigger himself. Get him away from my sight.”

Calderon barely squeaked out a faint protest as they lifted him off the floor and carried him by the armpits out of the office.  The terrified expression never left his face.

“Now.”  Garcia turned to the rest of his staff.  “We will deal with this Anglo detective and his girlfriend.  I want my top officers on this by the break of day.  There will be no more tolerance of this game.”

He lifted the receiver of the phone.  “Not only will I not tolerate this interference, He will not tolerate it either.  As it is, we will have to have a face-to-face meeting tonight.  Yes, Elena? Have the car brought round to the front. Yes, immediately,” Garcia snapped as he dropped the phone receiver back down and looked into the faces of his contingent of guards.  Not one of them looked at ease.

“Come! We go.”  He picked up his jacket again, flung it over a shoulder and shoved his arm into the sleeve.  He adjusted the holster as he shoved in the other arm.  Then he led the mini-squadron toward the elevator and down through the casino out into the waiting limousine.




“What do you want with me so late?”

Garcia bowed low.

“Please forgive the intrusion, Jefe.  There has been a… breach of security at the Amazon.”

“That is for you to deal with, Alejandro.  It is your job.”

“Yes, Jefe, and I have already taken care of the employee.”


Garcia hesitated, knowing that even a momentary hesitation could cost him his very life.  He bowed even lower.

“So, it is not a minor breach, Jefe.  Someone has gotten hold of a security tape — a very important section of footage.  He has it in his possession.”

“He?” the deep and frightening voice asked, curious.

“Yes.  It is a police officer, Jefe. He is a homicide detective and—”

“The new detective?  A man from Britain?”

Garcia paused in confusion.  How had the boss, the Jefe, learned of this particular man? Alejandro Garcia rocked back and forth a moment, contemplating the possible consequences of his lapse in absolute control over the dominion of The Amazon.

“Yes, Jefe. A Briton.”  Garcia’s voice was a whisper.

“He has already come to my attention, Alejandro.”  The Jefe’s voice contained no trace of anger.  Garcia held his breath. “I have already put contingency plans into place to… deal with him. He will soon be out of the way — completely, permanently.  As will his woman partner.”

Garcia let out a tiny breath of relief.

“However, Alejandro, I cannot let this moment of weakness on your part go unpunished.”  The voice was now terrifying in its total lack of emotion.  “You may choose your punishment: the death of your wife or the death of your daughter.  Which will it be?”


“Which will it be Alejandro?”

“Jefe, I—I cannot—”

“Then you have already chosen, Alejandro.  Take him to his family.  His… ex-family.”  A faint trace of a satisfied smile could be heard in the Jefe’s voice.

Alejandro Garcia screamed in his own mind.  He did not know whether it could be heard or not and it no longer mattered.  Nothing mattered but the grey matter of his wife’s and daughter’s brains spattered across the living room walls of his penthouse suite.  He never stopped screaming.  Not until he took his last breath on Earth many, many years later.

Book One in the Future Imperfect crime thriller trilogy now in paperback from

Book One in the Future Imperfect crime thriller trilogy now in paperback from


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