SS&E's Lemurific Box of Pretense and Prose

by shortskirtsandexplosions

March 2016 - viofriedsevey - My Dearest Eternal Madame of Apples

Author's Note at Bottom of Page

My dearest eternal madame of apples, Applejack, the fair and the beautiful, of apples,

I write this letter to you with a heavy heart, a happy heart. Heavy with the bountiful consumption of emotional bounties—happy with the sweat and sweetness that comes with exercising the energy enthusiastically bequeathed by your freckle-laced face fountain of fermented wisdom, my adored apple mistress, most merciful, mercifully, madamely.

With patience and palpitating thought clouds do I precipitate this pronounced projection of warm toasty chestposition to thee, thou, and thine green eyed soul seams that have my heart sewed so tightly into a tight nub of ecstatic anti-nothingness, carried aloft by your tongue twangs and "darlin' thangs," ifest thouest wouldest forgivest the playfulest indulgesties.

But I digress, and release distress—that which you have so lovingly de-stressed with your enchantress dismissal of all things crazy, cowardly, and charismatically constipated within the circular self that was me, mine, my own—beforehoof—but now yours, as exorcised unto the surface of all undigested sky chunks before the hungry scarf goddess of joy and virtue with an empty plate hot out of the ontological oven of life love, the lesser lust of existentialist dramatic desire.

Fairest Applejack, otherworldly freckled fae, fallopian-tube'd with faith and steadfastness, I worship thee as a termite worships the forest of endless joy and insectgasmic rage release. You are my rising sun on a planet that has no sun. That's just how special you are, a phantasmagorical star that scars my brain sheet into having the sockets for eyeballs of prettiception, only to witness you, your you-steps, and the truth that righteously seeps from your honest applefices, laced with sawdust and jasmine and then somely.

Every day is a dismal death dream until the night shroud falls and I can once again snuggle up to the voice beams issuing forth from your open barn brain. You only close the door when I'm around, and the ceiling beams loom lovingly above us, not like the bars of a cage, mind youish, but rather like the righteous picture frames to a masterpiece that hasn't been drawn yet, for you and I are painting it together, using the divine phlegm of our soulessentialist dream palette for colors, hues that are immortal and immaculate, like nebulaic comet streaks forming lines that intersect and—in the endless end—illustrate a pair of hooves joined as one while we stand upon the heart palpitating precipice before the gaping ravine of uncertainty, melted into a warm and inviting pool of peace and contentment beneath us by the heat of our grins and thin spinning giggles in the sheer presence of each other.

But you are the biggest ball of heat birth, and you've foaled me a smile every day, and I gnaw on the placenta one apple tree bucking at a time, delighted to christen myself with the sweat of your farmland chores, if only I can—for a brief gasp in flatulential fecal time—understand the joy that is to be had in adoring you, serving you, pedestaling your pony pedi upon a lofty promontory for all of Ponyville to see, to know, to preach unto the pulpits of love congregations that you are my everything, and I ever sing the truth of my fervent anti-hate for you from now until the bone white fringes of not-now.

There was a time when there was no time. And yet, in that abysmal black colorlessness, your fair freckles were surely blueprinted into the constellatory contours of time, only for me to embrace with utmost humility sobs. If there was ever another stallion as lucky as me, then he would not be me, for I am me, and you make me an even greater me every second, just by being you, and being willing to share that you-ness with me-ness, youesquely, and truthfully so, youfully soul—oh fair she who would be this stallion's mercifully maidenful madame, applefully.

My joy at knowing you is something that simply cannot be equinistically described. So allow me to describe it anyways, for you have filled me with goddess rays of contentment that photosynthetically conjure forth a apple-flavored horsemunculus of ecstasy and purpose, a daring new dagger that rips through the previously assumed metastability of the universe, just to rewrite all physics and energy to revolve around you, your golden mane, your golden voiced laughballs of angelic aneurysms. If there's an apple inside a box, it exists and doesn't exist at the same time, unless you put it there, because you have something that Schrodingoats never did, and that's beauty, and love, and beautylove, my darling twangy bootylurve.

More than anything in this deathlife—or lifedeath—I would love to be your love, lovingly, in this wasteland of wasted lands and wanted loves, but not wanting around you, for you are giving, and I give thanks for this thanksgiving of horse happiness that's been birthed in the celestial carrot garden of your twinkling eyes when I so much as fathom a flighty wink in your darling direction, darling. And you allow me that glance, that chanced gleeful gleeing of glee sticks, pricking my heart every hour of every sweet and sour soul shower, and you are the apple-scented soap that lathers up my fetlocks and unfetters the dirtied stallion stirrup that's been reining my soul into dullblivion without you—previously speaking, of course—before the ravaging Ragneighrock of your righteous fury burned my depressing forest dirges into ashen detritus to forever sweep away into high sighs, by your side, one apple tree after another, into the blessed wet soul sweat of collective cerebral copulation.

You are my other, my inside out bewb brother of bliss, Miss.

When I'm out in public with you, it's an eternally more awesome thing than being in private without you, and now that the heated friction of our amorous entrance into the Ponyvillean sphere has been cooled, I can shake loose the embers with the full faith that you will catch them in your ever-scooping saintly sighs. You counterbalance the ballast of my anti-brassiere waif soul with your spirit bosom, and I am safe and warm there, like a baby kangaroo or seahorse, only happier, because I am yours, and not a kangaroo's or seahorse's, which you are neither, dearer.

And what a daring thing to say, that I am yours, and not theirs... or hers. And by "theirs" and "hers," I speak of course of the ethereal maidens of emptiness, which you are not and never could be, because you kick apple trees, and everypony knows that a mare who kicks apple trees is a mare who exists. And on top of that, you enjoy kicking apple trees. So not only do you exist, but your love does as well, and I've been joyously entangled in the web of such intrinsic anti-emptiness, so that I can share with you the core of the greatest fruit that was ever plucked: Applejack.

And Applejack is the Applejuiciest Applejack there ever was, a name made for an angel, a seraphimic goddess of golden juicy proportions. And as I bathe in the baptism of this anti-bastardly bodaciousness, the fluid runs down my fur ravines to form an ocean. I swim the joyous jetstreams, guided by your luxurious lighthouse of intrepid truth. And if I occasionally whimper in righteous release, it's due to the religious deflowering of springfelt purpose that you have allowed in my outrageous new spiritphanies of romantiphoria, my lovelette.

Oh, that I might drown someday in that deeply flooded trench of intrinsic wisdom flakes, a cereal poured for an apple queen and nothing less, nothing more. I've moored myself up against your salty milkbanks, and the earth welcomes me. I stumble along the beach, and your hoofprints guide me to greener pastures. A stallion born among clouds can only hope to be so blessed, and with you I've been anointed with no less. This is not mere mud fever of a stiff-winged pegasus speaking, but rather a sincere heart speared with vehement love darts, and they've impaled me to your fertile plains, sloping beyond the clifffaces of platonic happenstance, and drawn downhill by gracious gravity into a valley fenced in by your loving forelimbs and wholesome hugs and overflowing apple jugs.

To be a member of your family, to be the kissing cousin of your unwritten hearth journal, to be the picture frame that you suckle the corners of with squeaks and giggles every night before candle-blown pillowfall—it is a felicitous future I never before had any hope of feeling, facetiousing, or even fabricating. And my imagination has been a wild place where I've done many wild things. But only in the tame tamespace of your loving gaze have I found a simpler purpose, a pimpler popping of once dormant dreams, and the grease spreads to my every outsides until I am coated, unbloated, and re-wroted like tomorrows mirthful magazines of marital majesty.

And should I even tempt the tongue twitch of having our hooves touch with golden armbands attached? To spend the rest of my life with you is like capping eternity inside an apple cider jar and nuzzling it in a fermented coffin lined with spiffy spices of happy sauce. Watch upon the morrow as we float away in such a once-dismal dirigible, turned into a tempest-tearing pontoon of nuptial neverendingness. If there be any souls to witness our passing, they will say that we hugged each other into the ether, and our last loving gasps formulated the dust that filled the black spaces between stars. And in that blackness, a spark—perhaps—will attempt to emulate the passion that bound us together in tranquil togetherness, and new universes will unblink into being, with entropy bowing to the ever expanding mirth that comprises the shadow of our conjoined permanence, and every time a pony bucks an apple tree and every time a mare bats her eyelashes at a stallion and every time a stud swoons at the merest glance of a femme fae, it will simply be an enchanted echo of our everlastingness, my apple love.

Dare I dream this into existence alone? Or wouldst thou share with the un-thou such a wedding vow, eternally never ending that which eternally never began, so that the middle stretches outward into romantic infinitude, and that is where we both land, caught in the flouncing bouncing net of apple-scented home nestness, with your forelimbs in mine, and my forelimbs in yours, so that together we transform into the eight-legged celestial spider that weaves the universe into undwindling joygasmagoria, a finite reality etched into the scowling face of infinity, so that the galactic frown turns upside down and gives us the most wicked ski jump to launch our lovely memories into, bright and sparkling, like Equestrian comets bound for the edges but never finding it, for there is no end to that which nuzzles this warm moment of spontaneous realization so applejuicily, my dearest applemadamely, the core of my life and the seeds of my afterlife and the peel that causes me to squeal with utmost zeal in between.

I pray that you meditate on my words, be they absolute, amorous, or absurd. For only by your grace are they formulated, fermented, like cider on a sunday, like all of the ambrosia you've taught me the fine arts of, a mistress and her pupil, alive and dead in every blink, an emerald-eyed comedy and tragedy that travails upon my senses each second that I spend sucking on the teat of existence before you every living-dying day-night of this new life of luscious luxury that you've so graciously graced me with, applegrace.

I await your response with patience, virtue, and all of the gently snoring dwarves in between, thou applemost deliciousnette.

Sincerely, and with utmost loving love,

-Stu Leaves

P.S.: I was very, very nervous about the initial quality of this letter. So I ran the first draft by your best friend, Rainbow Dash. She said "It's perfect in every way; don't change a thing, Stu!" So I didn't! We're so lucky to have friends like hers, aren't we, Applejack? Love ya!

Author's Note:

User: viofriedsevey
Prompt: "Okay, so I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything that makes any sense at all. If possible, try an write a story that embodies this.

A wet, peanut butter slathered fore leg struck me in the cheek as the cool sensation of eternal rest collapsed upon my body.
“Who are I if not a bottle among cans? Paper among plastic?!?”
If it is that I collapsed upon the empathetic composite of my ego, no more would I subject you to the never-ending fury of my distilled rampage, withered away in the dusty pages of our shared subconscious, again to feel the sacred, beautiful, palpable loss of our uniform intelligence.  But someday, when I no longer possess value, I’ll be decrepit to walk with the young and breathing. I’ll be here with you, I am not wary.  I am as a pencil who grows duller.  I may be sharpened only so many times before my pieces drift away in the veins.  But not is lost, for the veins breathe, and I will then be apart of them. Apart of the body that is we. It is you, you which I am now. You, which you have always been. It is him, It is her. It is we.

Now, that might be the most nonsensical pretentious thing you have ever read, but hopefully that's the point. I think it would be awesome if you could write something hilarious, that I literally cannot make any sense of. Something that makes fun of over the top pretentious "deep" writing. (. . .) I'd get a kick out of a shipping story between Applejack and Stu. But I think there already is one with like 800 chapters. . .? Joking, but honestly I'm not picky, I just love reading you're work, whatever it's about. Oh, and it could be equestria girls or ponies, whatever you prefer. "

---

Stu Leaves is from Appledashery

Comments

[FloydienSlip]

Good god, Stu Leaves confirmed for 2012!Skirts.

[Booster Spice]

L_>___<___

Dead Skunk In the Middle Of The Road.

[RoboRed]

Somehow, I felt that this was from Stu Leaves. But dear god...

[Paleobrony]

I think I injured my brain reading this...

[zaponator]

Disgustingly beautiful. No, wait, beautifully disgusting.
Whatever.
derpicdn.net/img/view/2012/7/16/46022.gif

[YoshiFawful64]

That was... erm... something.

[Hestia]

Went a little overboard, didn't you Stu?

I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at something so nonsensical.