RANDOM
Pinkie Pie couldn’t care less what about was to be found inside the box on the floor. It was a writing device, plain and simple; an excuse to write about as many genres as the author wanted while still keeping them to a single story.
How did she know all this, you ask?
It was easy. She was Random Pinkie, and therefore knew a lot more than she was supposed to.
She sat on the floor next to the box as she spoke, “Adventure… alternate universe… comedy…”
Besides RANDOM, it appeared as if the differing genres were showing up in alphabetical order—seemingly removing any genres the author didn’t wish to include. Laziness? she thought snidely. Or merely trying to protect their lame reputation?
Honestly, she couldn't care. All she knew was that she'd been trapped inside a story and had to find her way out… and with any luck, taking the rest of the Pinkie Pies out with her.
“Two-forty… two-fifty… two-sixty…”
As the words floated inside her head, she counted. Sometimes they came as narration, sometimes thought, sometimes as a voice that sounded just like her own. Finally, she thought she understood.
Three-hundred words per chapter.
Three-hundred words per genre.
Three-hundred words per Pinkie Pie.
Would a chapter end suddenly if it ran out of words?
Random Pinkie rolled her eyes and stood.
This was going to be a lot more difficult than she thought. If only she had a way to interact with the rest of the Pinkies—perhaps pierce into their chapters and scoop them out.
Above her head she held a hoof, directing it a wall at random. She counted as she pointed until she claimed the fourth one, where only a bare closet stood.
So she dove right in.