I have found through much searching that I have but one purpose in all of this. I am but the medium through which this story is told, nothing more than a scrap of dusty yellowed parchment bearing the words of another. A scribe you could call me.
“Roses are red, Violets are blue. Colors are pointless. A world eschew.”
First, let me tell you that I did not ask for this. She came to me. I had been sitting alone in my study, wanting nothing more than to drown myself between the covers of one of my many musty old books. I kept them all around me on shelves, in boxes, and in small piles on the floor, where many simply collected dust on their dark, leathery covers. There was one book in particular I was keen on reading this eve; The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde. I so loved the way he could turn a phrase, and I was always partial to homosexual writing. Perhaps that is why she was drawn to me. I had barely turned the first page when the heavy wooden door of my study suddenly swung open. In the doorway, casting a long shadow across the oaken panels of my hardwood floor, was the pale form of a woman. Her dark hair, which seemed to lay over her head like a fine fleece, or the head of a silken mop, if mops were made from such material, had touches of gray throughout. I recognized her immediately.
"Anne," I said. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" It truly was a pleasure for a writer of her magnitude to have come to my meager study. I, too, was a writer, and quite an accomplished one at that, but she seemed to have a preternatural talent for spinning words in such a way as to draw a scene out so that it can be fully savored and appreciated. She especially had a skill for describing, in great detail, various homosexual acts of an erotic nature, something Mr. Wilde would have greatly loved.
"Jonathan," she replied. That was my name. I was born Johnathan Dyeria de Plume, into a poor family not far from where I now lived. As a child, I spent most of my time reading, and of course, writing, and amassing the collection of tomes that surrounded me now. Later, I developed a penchant for online writings such as blogs and wikis to occupy my time. This may have been the second reason for this visit. "I have need of someone to write an article for me."
I found myself fumbling for words at the proposition that this great author would ask for me to write an article for her! The whole idea seemed ridiculous to me, like a weightlifter asking a scrawny teenage bellhop to carry his bags. "An article?" I finally managed to spit out. "For you?"
"Well," she continued. "Not for me, really. About me. You see, I've seen many of these 'wikis' out on the Internet, and noticed that there was not yet an article about me at a particular wiki."
I knew which one she spoke of. I, too, had been there, and noted the distict lack of an article about her. This was particularly distictive because of this wiki's fetish for gays and the aforementioned Mr. Wilde. Surely we were thinking of the same site.
"The Uncyclopedia," I finished for her.
"That would be it. I would like for you to write an article about me," she stated plainly.
"But, Anne," I contested, "your Internet writing skills are legendary." I was of course speaking of her 1200 word diatribe on Amazon.com in response to a few negative reviews one of her books had received. It was a classic piece of literature to be sure.
"I know, Johnathan," she said, "but there is a problem with my writing this article. The Uncyclopedia:Vanity Policies would forbid me from doing so. So, I have come to you. And now I must go. I leave it to you, dear John. I know you will do me proud."
Without so much as another word, she turned, closing the door behind her, most likely making her way back to her native New Orleans. I suddenly felt sad for her that this city she loved so much was still, for a large part, in ruin. The narrow cobblestone streets lined with sharp, iron barred old fences and gates had been covered in mud and water that I wondered if they were yet recognizable again. But enough of those thoughts. I had been given a task to complete, and I promised myself I would not fail.
Anne Rice is the foremost authority on Gay Fiction. She has written many novels, most of which border on gay pornography. Her often wordy writing style delves into great detail in the explicit sexual scenes she lays out.
The Vampire Cornholes:
- Intercourse with the Vampire (1976)
- The Vampire Lesbos (1985)
- The Dancing Queen of the Damned (1988)
- The Tale of the Butt Burglar (1992)
- Memnoch The Dildo (1995)
- The Vampire Armando (1998)
- Black Wood Farm (2002)
- Blood Testicle (2003)
Lives of The Gayfair Bitches:
( It's a good idea to read these novels before reading "Black Wood Farm" as the two series merge at this point.)
- The Bitching Whore (1990)
- .Slasher (1993)
- Testes (1994)
- Black Wood Farm
- The Feast of All Scents (1979)
- Cry to Heaving (1982)
- The Hummy, or Ram-me the Damned (1989)
- Servant of the Bone (1996)