A simple writer with complicated taste.
"Sandwiches.
Sandwiches are a food.
Sandwiches are a food. A delicious food. My favorite food. I must decorate my sandwich. I must decorate my food.
Peanut Butter is delicious.
Jelly is delicious.
Rose is not delicious.
...I will make myself a sandwich."
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That was...interesting...
I think it's safe to say that we all jelly.
Oh I get it.
Funny one, aren't you?
EDIT: I'm retarded and didn't read the author's note. Still, this was odd, but not too bad.
Also everyone should read EWAF because it's like seriously the best story ever. Seriously.
That was awesome! I never knew Roseluck could be such a badass. I totally loved it.
I liked this, because I can almost see something like that happening in the real story. The whole urban decay thing of Eyes taken just a half-inch further. That and the dead body on the couch.
Oh, Rose, you so silly.
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If you think Rosie's a badass here, she's twice as badass in the story it parodies. There's a link to it in the Author's Note.
1569904
I added Baritone to the last one just to make it even goofier.
I was sold the instant I saw the story description, mate. Eyes is one of my favorite fics on here. It's one of the only dark fics I've ever been really into, just due to the short, terse writing style that seems so rough, desperate, and to me, sometimes beautiful, and the well-paced nature of it all.
As for this, you did a good job--I was smiling throughout. It really deserves more recognition on the site.
Very amusing, Eyes has got to be one of my favorite fics on the site. I think it is funny that a lot of the things that make Eyes stand out as so great are what you are satirizing here, and I can definitely see a lot of that Rose in this.
Anyway, well done... I enjoyed this... and that description... just glorious
1556643
I think I love your comment the most.
1577040
Stick around, Merc. Jub recently let me adopt one of his characters (Twi's number one thug, Baritone) and I'm writing a story about him. It'll get uploaded some... uh, day. It takes me a longass time to do shit. And that makes me a sad clown.
1579423 Oh stp it youu...
Oh man. Such a good parody. My favourite part was
Oh. Good for a laugh, not much else to comment on. It was funny, and really, that's the only area a story like this needs be judged.
I open my eyes and am greeted by the sounds of Manehattan. She's like a reader to my author. The worst kind of reader. The one who leaves a downvote and never explains why. The one who posts a meme in comments thinking she's clever. The one who says "I don't understand your ending" when an author's note and eighty-seven commenters have already discussed it to death.
I caress her like a lover, pressing my tongue to her streets, my hoof to her manhole, my … oh sweet Luna, where am I even going with this metaphor. Manehattan takes and takes and takes — endlessly requests me to add chapters to completed short stories; begs for writing tips in semi-coherent txt msg abbrevs.; sometimes even steals the peanut butter. But not tonight. Tonight, I kiss buildings with my spell-checker, swing past dangling modifiers and misplaced participles, and soar far above the filth-encrusted streets of mediocre fanfic sludge.
Tonight, the city will feel my upvote.
2401954
The moment I saw her name, I knew I was in trouble. With all the courage of a terrified grade schooler on his way to the principal's office, I click on the notification.
I'm greeted with a wave, a pretty smile, a witty comment. Her voice rings like a bell during Christmastime, signaling good cheer and good faith. Being around horizon makes me feel oddly comfortable, despite my fears of her biting criticism.
And a critic she is. Most critics don't deserve the title, simply grown men paid to bitch like spoiled children. But horizon? Horizon is simply the kinda girl who's hard to please. She knows what she likes and accepts no substitutes.
But her warm demeanor and jovial mood put my jittery ego's fears to rest. I stick out a fist. She looks at me like she thinks I'm gonna punch her. I smirk.
"Brohoof," I said.
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They say we have an intimacy with our critics that we can never have with our prereaders. That somewhere in the giant steaming cauldron of blood and sex and sweat and third drafts, strangers' stories can touch a chord in us that friends' feedback could never offer. Or maybe sometimes they can just write a funny parody of a tale that affected us deeply.
I try not to ponder that too hard as I drag another batch of readers through the filth of My Harshwhinnial, holding their heads down in it until their thrashing nearly ceases, then yanking them back up for a fresh breath of Fugue State, giving them the barest glimpse of something too pure and lovely to exist in this foul city. Readers. It's this place. It attracts them, like flies to road apples. I know I'm no better than them. That's why I'm here.
But sometimes one comes along, a little less sullied than the rest. And holds out a fist to you. And gives you a look that makes you think, just for a second, that there might be something better.
I stare at the fist.
I hold out my own in return.
"Brohoof," I agree.
False.
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Doesn't matter.
Sweet Luna, that one killed me!
Good God. I needed this.