Hopping by from the Coffin Hop? See
THIS POST.
If you had to sum up The Angels of Autumn in a few sentences,
what would you say?
The Angels of Autumn is an intensely philosophical,
supernatural thriller about one man’s quest for revenge that ultimately becomes
his path to salvation.
How did it feel to have The Singing Wind chosen as a Dark Book
Club selection?
It
was absolutely thrilling. I couldn’t stop telling people about it. It renewed a
passion in me about that book. I’d worked very hard for a very long time on The Singing Wind. For it to receive such
attention was wonderful; cathartic really.
What's your favorite genre to write?
Horror,
but I twist it with elements of other genres. I love movies that defy
classification. One of my all-time favorites is The Company of Wolves. It’s a horror story about werewolves but
also an art-house dark fantasy. I love it.
Which passion came first - writing
or acting?
Writing.
Acting was something I did for fun. I did it for a long time and pursued it
quite earnestly. I even earned a degree in it. Writing however, was always my
first love. It’s my ghostly companion and will always haunt me. In a good way,
of course.
Do you listen to music while you
write? If so, do you have a favorite artist or style of music that inspires
you?
Not
most of the time. Dance pop is my preferred musical genre and listening to
something designed to get you moving can be distracting. Madonna is my favorite
musical artist of all time; she has been for over twenty years. There are times
however, that music can be very inspirational. I’ve put on what I call
“background music” and wrote. If I need to put myself in a particular mood
because of the tone of a scene I need to write, music can be very helpful in
taking me where I need to go. Classical and adult contemporary are genres that
make good “background music.”
What has been the most significant
book you've read (or listened to, if you were a small child) in your
life?
Out on a Limb by Shirley MacLaine. I’ve read it
countless times and own numerous editions.
Do you read for pleasure? If so,
what kind of books do you like to read?
I
do. I read spiritual journals, political and religious studies, new age
philosophy, horror, romance, fantasy, and the occasional comedy. I have a
pretty vast home library. In my collection, the authors you’ll see most often
are: Shirley MacLaine, Stephen King, Anne Rice, Clive Barker, Whitley Strieber,
Michael Moore, Al Franken, J.K. Rowling, and Gary Brandner. It may not be
fashionable to admit it, but I do own all the books by Martha Stewart and
Stephenie Meyer, too. I like what I like. Currently, my shelves are filling
with indie gay and horror authors.
Do you have a favorite erotica
writer or book?
I’ve read Anne Rice’s erotic Sleeping Beauty series. It was
eye-opening, to say the least. I’ve also read My Secret Garden: Women’s Sexual Fantasies and am very curious
about the Shades of Grey series.
Aside from the occasional short piece of gay and bisexual fantasy, for the most
part I do not read erotica.
***
Joshua Skye was born in
Jamestown, New York but predominantly grew up in the Texas Dallas-Fort Worth
metroplex. He is a graduate of K.D. Studio Actor’s Conservatory of the
Southwest and has worked on indie/underground films and on stage. He lives in
rural Pennsylvania with his partner Ray of sixteen years and their eight year
old son, Syrian. His short stories have appeared in anthologies from STARbooks
Press, Knightwatch Press, Sirens Call Publications, Rainstorm Press, JMS Books
and periodicals such as Blood and Lullabies. He is the author of The Singing Wind, Bareback: A Werewolf’s Tale, along with the forthcoming Midnight Rainbows, and The Grigori.
***
The Angels of Autumn: A Profound and Powerful Gay Erotic Thriller
Kincaid Kingsley returns to the
town of his childhood after the death of his twin brother, Xander. Believing
the crime to be motivated by hate and prejudice, Kincaid sets out to discover
why the police are no longer actively investigating the case and hopefully
uncover his brother’s killer in the process.
Things in Wren are not as they
seem, however, and the closer that Kincaid gets to an answer, the more danger
he encounters. Why are all the townspeople so afraid to share what they know?
As the mystery surrounding
Xander’s death unravels, the town becomes increasingly blind to what is
actually going on. Can Kincaid discover who killed his brother and save the
town from evil?
Author: Joshua Skye
Publisher: Pink Pepper Press
Number of Pages: 212 Pages
ISBN-13:
978-0615702100 (Pink Pepper Press)
ISBN-10:
0615702104
Release Date: October 19, 2012
***
Links for Purchase:
The Angels of Autumn Excerpt:
From Chapter Five…
The Lombardi Funeral Home was among the oldest of
buildings in Wren, constructed in the late 1800s as both a business and a
residence by the Lombardi family, immigrants from Italy, of course.
They conducted the bulk of their unusual profession on
the shadowy, beautifully decorated, meticulously maintained first level while
the untidy dealings with body preparation were carried out in the basement. The
second and third levels were where they actually lived. Kept in the family for
well over a hundred years by strict legal clauses in every will and testament
down the Lombardi line it was now owned and operated by the widow Mary Anne
Lombardi and her only son, Angelo.
Kincaid felt queasy as he looked around the parlor.
The furnishings were ancient, most assuredly antiques, perhaps even the
original Italian décor, all aglow in the flickering light of electric candles.
Aside from what little daylight filtered in through the dark sheers, there were
no other light sources. A little bell had announced his arrival several minutes
before but he’d yet to be greeted.
There was a musty smell and a pungent chemical odor
beneath it. Someone, somewhere deep in the house turned on a hissing record
player and after a few scratchy seconds a low, somber sonata began to play over
unseen speakers. A curtain parted and a tall shadowy figure emerged. He said,
“How may I help?”
Angelo was a handsome man with typically Italian
features. He was dressed in a nice, solemn suit and had his hair combed
strictly back. His large hazel eyes fell on his guest and there was an audible
sound of shock, a sigh and then a deep intake of air. He said, “Kincaid. Wow, I
thought you’d never come back to this place especially when you didn’t attend
your brother’s funeral. Everyone thought it was pretty scandalous. So,
how’s it going?”
Ignoring the crude judgment, Kincaid detected a
genuine surprise in Angelo’s voice. He was the same age and had been in many of
the very same classes as the Kingsley twins, he’d even been one of the
disapproving assholes who had put them through hell. Angelo had been one of the
popular kids, one of the over-exulted Wren Dragons, a dumb jock destined to
forever mourn his golden high school days. As an adult, Angelo didn’t seem so
intimidating anymore. He was just a man in his late twenties, wasting away in
the family business, no longer taut, tan and toned, no longer important, no
longer a Dragon…the toast of the town. He had a beer belly which alone
made Kincaid happy. “I’m okay,” he replied. “How have you been?”
Angelo’s lips quivered when he forced a smile and
answered, “Good. Thank you. How’s your mother?”
“As good as can be expected, I guess.”
Angelo said, “Right. Well, how can I help you?” He was
stiff, formal. The fingers of his hands were entwined and resting at his waist.
He cocked his head to one side, the sympathy in his eyes was counterfeit, a
professional automation.
“I wanted to talk to you about my brother’s funeral,
actually.” Kincaid found he couldn’t look at Angelo when he said ‘funeral,’ and
so he diverted his gaze across the room to nothing in particular. Everything
about the place was so old.
Angelo’s voice got deeper and there was a hint of
umbrage to it. “I imagine you would. Your mother expressed her disappointment
in your brother’s restoration. We’re very sorry she was so displeased. I assure
you we pro-rated our fees accordingly.”
Kincaid slowly brought his attention back to his host
and said, “Yeah well, do you do the restoration?”
“No. My mother does.” Angelo’s stance changed, he was
getting defensive both vocally and physically.
“May I speak with her, please?”
“Why?”
“I’m not here to cause a scene or anything. I just
want to talk to her. That’s all, Angelo. I’m not going to berate your mother.”
The Italian man just stood there for several tedious
and silent moments assessing the guest’s intentions. Kincaid refused to look
away this time no matter how nerve-racking or unsettling the situation slowly
became. He wasn’t in high school anymore, he wasn’t the frightened and
belittled teenager who shied away from everyone and Angelo wasn’t the pompous
cock-of-the-walk anymore. They were adults and far more equal now than Angelo
was probably even aware of.
Kincaid prepared himself for a physical altercation.
Being picked on mercilessly had prompted him to take quite a few self-defense
classes over the years. Angelo might have been able to beat the shit out of him
once, long ago, but his glory days were long over. He was out of shape and
didn’t have his buddies around to back him up. Kincaid put on a confident
little grin and stated, “I said please.”
Angelo’s shoulders slouched ever so slightly. He
swallowed hard and his eyes turned down as his voice became professional,
disengaged. He said, “Of course. If you’ll excuse me I’ll see if she’s
available. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you, Angelo,” Kincaid said lowly.
Angelo nodded and disappeared behind the curtain.
Kincaid turned and meandered into the small, dismal
sitting room and over to a stiff, uncomfortable sofa and sat down. A spider
crawled over the surface of the weathered coffee table. Not particularly
squeamish about such things, Kincaid watched it with a distracting fascination,
the way it moved, the legs click, click, clicking along.
He frowned as he realized that this spider was malformed. It had nine legs
instead of eight and yet the added appendage didn’t seem to impede it in the
slightest. He found himself leaning down, close, to get a better view of the
little creepy crawly. The spider stopped. Perhaps it was now quite aware of its
audience. It was perfectly still, frozen.
“Mr. Kingsley.” The voice was soft.
Kincaid flinched. The spider lurched into motion and
scurried over the edge of the table and vanished. Being polite, Kincaid stood
and turned his attention to the petite woman standing in the entranceway. She
clutched a leather-bound portfolio to her bosom. Her salt and pepper hair was
pulled into a tight bun on her head. She had modest make-up on and was dressed
in a long, conservative black dress. There was a beautifully crocheted shawl
draped over her shoulders perhaps utilized to hide the slight curvature of her
upper spine. Kincaid said, “Ms. Lombardi, thank you for seeing me.”
She smiled courtly and entered the room, moved
gracefully around the back of the sofa and sat down next to her guest. Kincaid
sat down as well. Her eyes were down. He wondered what she was thinking. He
imagined she thought he was there to complain. He wanted to reassure her he was
not and so he said, “I didn’t come here to…”
Without looking at him, she shoved the portfolio at
him. Sheepishly, he accepted it and took a deep breath before opening it. For a
moment he expected to see pictures of his dead brother, before and after. It
wasn’t something he was even remotely interested in. They were pictures of the
dead and indeed they were before and after shots, instamatic snapshots,
many of them yellowed with age. The first was an old man whose face had
practically been pulled off in some horrible accident. After the restoration he
simply appeared as though he were napping. The second was a woman whose
forehead had been cleaved open and again the after picture was perfect. On and
on the pictures went, each turn of the page revealing flawless transformations.
She said demurely, “My work. As you can see, I am very
good at it.”
“It’s immaculate, you’d never know, but my mother said
she could…” Kincaid paused as a realization hit him. He turned his eyes away
from the Polaroid snapshots in the photo album. The widow Lombardi looked sad
and afraid at the same time. His voice was shaky, hesitant. He said, “You did
it on purpose.”
Mary Anne nodded and took the album back from him, she
closed it and pressed it, embraced it, to her breast. Her eyes moved
downward until she stared at the floor and there she focused for a long time,
barely breathing, silent and still. She was contemplating something. Kincaid’s
mind raced with what those thoughts might be. His heart fluttered nervously.
What secret was she about to reveal?
