Death. Death everywhere. Ponies dead as far as the eye could see. The pony responsible lifted up the knife soaked in blood, and—
“Pinkie, what are you doing?”
Pinkie removes her pen from the page. She looks up at Twilight’s baleful eyes. “I’m working on my latest horror novel!”
“But it’s after midnight…just come to bed already!” Twilight wriggles her rump, as if promising some fun.
Pinkie grins, and follows her mare up the stairs. She can kill ponies in writing anytime. For now: makeouts.
Oh no, a terrible Pinkamena fic… except not, as it turns out that Pinkie’s simply engaging in an activity many of our writers (and mods) enjoy: killing ponies in prose. Twilight and Pinkie have the right of it, though; make-outs (and what they may lead to) are far more important than murder.