Never Comes Down
She stands ramrod-straight behind the counter in the otherwise vacant Sugarcube Corner. Despite the lack of customers, a wide, toothy smile is plastered across her face, so bright it seems to reflect the sunlight. She spent all day making sure the store stayed tidy and pleasant to shop around in; whenever a customer purchased a cake, it was quickly replaced with a fresh one from the back room. The tables were wiped down almost before they even were sullied in the first place.
And all the while, that sugary sweet smile never left her face.
Late afternoon sunlight streams in through the window, splashing across the wooden floor in the dining area and the large table that holds all of the bakery’s famed cakes along with their glass stands. Other products line the walls, from cookies to muffins and even to cooking utensils, but those are mostly for show—ponies go to Sugarcube Corner for cakes, and she knows this. That’s why she makes sure to keep the display table full no matter what; that’s why she doesn’t go outside and play, despite the warm, breezy weather. She has to make sure the store runs perfectly. That’s what a responsible mare would do, and she is a responsible mare. She runs a shaking hoof through her mane.
She is responsible.
The front door suddenly crashes open; the bell whips back and forth from the impact, and in dashes Mr… She frowns. What’s his name? Then it comes to her, and she almost lets out a tremulous laugh. Of course she knows his name—she knows everyone’s name.
“Hiya, Mr. Cloud!” she says with a stiff wave.
He gallops to the counter, chest heaving with every ragged breath. “Wife—birthday—forgot cake.”
“Uh-huh! I’ve got a bunch already out that would work great for any birthday!” She waves at the display table and gives herself a mental pat on the back.
“No good,” he says, finally able to talk normally. “It has to be a chocolate mousse cake, and it has to have exactly three red roses in the center.”
She gives a low whistle. “That’s a tall order. When do you need it for?”
“Tonight!” He leans on the counter and grabs her hoof. “I’m very very very sorry, but this is very important to her and I nearly ruined it. Can you do this for me? Please?”
Baking something as difficult as a mousse cake while running the bakery? She cringes at the thought, then gulps. They would be able to do it, and since They’re out for the day, she’s expected to do it, too. It’s what a responsible mare would do, and she’s a responsible mare.
She is responsible.
“Three hours,” she says, doing the simple math in her head. “I can do it in three hours, so come back at seven and I’ll have it all baked up, dolled up, and ready to eat up.”
His eyes brim with tears. “My dear, you cannot know how very much this means to me. Thank you sincerely.”
She waves him out the door, then scrambles towards the kitchen. On her way, she passes the stairs leading up to the second floor. The very top is shrouded in impenetrable gloom that seems to stretch towards her, dark tendrils reaching, clawing. She shudders and ignores it; it’s what any responsible mare would do.
It only takes a few moments to drag everything she needs onto the counter, and a few more to get the mixer set-up. Then, as she dumps in the egg yolks, she hears the bell out front ring. She darts back out, not even glancing up at the dark, gaping abyss that awaits.
A pair of elderly mares meander around the premade cakes; every now and then, they lean in to take a sniff. This makes her smile flicker—what if they accidentally touch one with their nose? Then someone else won’t be able to eat it, and she’ll have to throw it out. She instantly pushes that thought away. She’s a responsible mare, and there’s nothing wrong with a customer inspecting the product. Accidents do happen; responsible mares like her can look past that, and she is a responsible mare.
She is responsible.
A few quick steps bring her up behind the two customers. “Anything I can help you fine young ladies with?” she chirps, and instantly realizes her mistake when one of them jumps, accidentally knocking into a cake stand. Both stand and cake fall with a loud thump to the ground to lie there, unmoving, lifeless. Dead.
The startled old mare twists around, eyes wide with fright. “Oh my, I’m so sorry. Is—is anything broken? Is anypony hurt?”
She rips her gaze away from the cake, its corpse still after being thrown so recklessly, and gives the mare a wide smile. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to surprise you like that!” She bends down and lifts the glass stand in her teeth—thankfully it’s still in one piece. A tiny chip is missing from the rim, but otherwise there’s no damage. “And it looks like the stand is a-okay.”
“Dear,” the other customer says to her companion, “I’ll cover that. I brought some spare bits.”
The first mare frowns. “Nonsense, it was my fault, and I’ll pay for—”
“And I overrule both of you,” she says, grin growing wider. She wants them to come back to the bakery; if they don’t, then They’ll be disappointed. They won’t say so, but she’ll know. “I’m super sorry for causing such a mess, so please—pick a cake. Any cake!”
“You mean—to take with us?”
“Yeppers!” She waves a hoof over the entire table. “Whichever one you want.”
“Are you sure?” The old mare who knocked the cake over glances away, so she widens her smile even more. Ponies love being smiled at. “I—I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”
“I insist. It’s on the house, courtesy of Sugarcube Corner!”
As the two customers reluctantly discuss which cake to take, she goes into the kitchen to get a trashbag and towels. Even when she doesn’t look up the staircase, she can feel herself being drawn towards it. It sucks at her, pulls at her, grabs at her, cries at her, goes limp in her hooves. She shudders and continues back out of the kitchen just in time to see the front door shut behind the two old mares. Her gaze slides over the cake display.
Except for the one that was knocked over, every single cake is still there.
She shakes her head, then sets to wiping up the mess. There’s still a lot of work to do in the kitchen baking Mr. Clover’s cake, and she’s barely started. As she scrapes up the goopy icing, her stomach lurches. Her attention wanders towards the stairway, where silence reigns. Deafening silence. Shrieking silence.
She is responsible.
Minutes later, the mess is gone and she returns to the kitchen, where she dumps all the mousse ingredients into the mixer. Before she can even begin to bake the cake, the mousse has to be mixed and set in the refrigerator to chill. Her shaking hooves dump in a cup of sugar that almost instantly dissolves in the syrupy mix. It flows, thick and rich, dark and decadent, sticky and wet.
The bell rings again out front, so reluctantly she abandons the mixer. A responsible mare knows her priorities, can plan and organize and make sure everything gets done. She knows to help the customer first, but to still get Mr. Clasp’s cake done on time as well. A responsible mare can do this easily, and she is a responsible mare.
She is responsible.
Back out front, the sunlight has gone from golden to bright-orange. It still jets across the floor like someone threw a bucket of orange paint and didn’t bother to wipe it up. As she looks around, her brow furrows. Noone is there. The bell definitely rang, though. She knows this—she heard it.
“Hello?” she calls. Nobody answers.
A sudden thought comes upon her—what if someone snuck in, wanted to skulk around? Her body begins to shake even harder than before, even as her smile reaches from cheek to cheek. She listens as closely as she can, but can’t make out any hoofsteps. What does that mean, though? Almost nothing.
Then her gaze lands on an envelope lying on the counter. She darts over to look at it, and a sigh of relief bursts from her lips. It has her name written on it in large, loopy hoof-writing—she recognizes it as belonging to one of her friends. Whichever one it was, she must have come and then left right away after she dropped this off. Her tongue slides out as she tries to match the writing to a specific pony, but after a moment, she shrugs and gives up. It isn’t important; she can figure it out later. She can read the letter later, too. It probably holds an invitation to a party; what else would her friends send her?
A sudden longing grabs her, demanding that she leave. It tells her to go to this party, draws her to abandon the bakery, the cake, the job, the life, and spend time with her friends. She shakes her head and drops the letter back on the counter. A responsible mare takes care of the important things first before having fun. Besides, she’s shaking too much to read it in the first place.
She is responsible.
Back to the kitchen, again past the beckoning, shrieking, reeking maw of the stairs.
It only takes a few more minutes to finish whipping up the mousse for Mr. Class’s cake. She pours it out into a pan, watching as it drips, slides, oozes, gushes, bubbles out of the bowl. The porcelain crockware clatters down against the table, then she slides the mousse into the refrigerator, where it will spend an hour chilling. Thickening. Congealing. She can’t fail. If she does, if she lets down this customer, They’ll think she’s a failure, that she’s not a responsible mare. They’ll never forgive her.
Before she can start baking the cake portion, she hears a long wail come from the stairs. Her body quakes, and she can't help but cover her eyes. There’s nothing she can do about this. She’s responsible; she has to see to the most important things. Her smile widens, so much so that her tired cheeks begin to ache. Listening to imaginary noises is not something she can afford to do right now. She tells herself it isn't important. She tells herself it isn't real.
But she’s responsible.
After a long moment of her squeezing her eyes shut, the shriek cuts off abruptly. She breathes a long sigh, then turns back to her work. The cake batter is much easier to mix than the mousse, but she still pats herself on the back as she slides the pans into the oven to bake. A glance at the clock shows her that six o’clock has just arrived. With an entire hour left, finishing the cake in time won’t pose any problems. They’ll forgive her for losing two customers; They’ll forgive her for what she did. Accidents do happen. But she's a responsible mare, and surely They’ll forgive the responsible mare.
The two cake layers come out, then go into the refrigerator to chill with the mousse. Nothing has happened in the bakery proper since the letter showed up; she ambles out to take a look around, almost managing to completely ignore the horror waiting for her up the stairs. Orange sunlight has deepened into deep red. She stops short, eyes shaking. One step back, then two, and then a third before she turns and sprints back into the kitchen. The light there is pale, fluorescent. She can stay there.
She spends five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes pacing back and forth, thoughts firmly on the letter. Maybe if she closes her eyes, she can go out and grab it without running into something. Maybe she can keep her fears in check until she has the letter and returns to the safety of the kitchen. On a whim, she reaches into a cabinet and pulls out an old radio. It turns on without complaint, and a few turns of the knob has it playing a jazzy, calming piece. Her smile loosens. A thin-legged table serves as a place to set the music, where she can easily reach it.
She jumps when the cooking timer suddenly goes off; its loud buzzing rattles in her ears and clashes with the soft music. Her hoof comes crashing down on the “off” button, and she gives a weary sigh. The time has come to wrap things up. Out of the refrigerator come the two layers of cake along with the soft, quivering mousse. Its dark color has paled into a very light brown, exactly what one would expect of this particular dessert. Now that the cake is cool, she can slather it with mousse without having to worry about it melting off. This she does in a matter of minutes, expertly shaping and smoothing and crafting despite her shaking hooves until what she’s left with is a flawlessly smooth masterpiece. She squeezes whipped cream around the edges of the cake, then picks it up to take it out front, where she left the roses. The sun should have nearly set, so her hoofsteps are sure, moreso than they had been all night. This is her moment. This is her chance to prove that she is responsible.
Then another high-pitched keen rings out. She is responsible.
Her hooves scramble, tripping over each other and sending her flying sidelong. The cake goes flying through the air, while her head crashes into the spindly table she had set the radio on. Radio, cake, and pony all go crashing to the ground; mousse flies along with sparks, and the glass plate shatters along with her hopes.
“No no no,” she cries through her smile, vision flashing. She can’t see well, but not so badly that she misses the ruined cake. It was an accident; she hadn’t meant to throw it so hard. She hadn’t meant to! Just a light toss, just enough to jostle it, to make it laugh and smile. Just a little bit!
The radio’s music has changed; it still plays the same song, but nearly inaudible due to the loud static now coming out of the speakers.
“No!” The clock chimes; it’s a quarter-hour until seven. There’s still time to make things right. She can still fix this.
Using both forelegs, she tries to gather the entire mess into one pile of cake and mousse, but a sharp pain jabs her brain as a shard of glass embeds itself in her flesh. She still scoops, pulls, shapes, almost like a filly trying to build a sand-castle at the beach. The radio continues to play its grating music. Why won’t it stop? She’s trying to fix this! Why won’t it stop?
A small scab on her lip breaks open from the intensity of her smile. “Please,” she sobs. “Please, just—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to! It wasn’t on purpose!” But no matter how hard she tries, the moment she lets go, the entire conglomeration of ruined cake and broken plate sloughs down and spreads out on the floor.
The radio crackles loudly, then lets out a loud, piercing squeal. It hurts her ears. Blinking through tears, she reaches over and turns the knob to “off”. The sound continues. She turns the volume down the entire way. The sound continues. She tries to change the channel.
The crying continues.
“Be quiet,” she says, picking the radio up. None of the buttons or dials seem to work; it won’t stop. Why won’t it stop? She smacks it irritably, hot tears splashing down her face. “Be quiet!”
Instead of turning off, it starts to cry more loudly.
“Stop it!” She hits it again, harder, and like before, the noise intensifies. She can’t even hear herself think anymore. She wants to see if she can fix the cake, if she can satisfy the customer, if she can prove to Them she’s responsible, but this stupid thing just won’t stop crying.
Why won’t it stop? She punches it, gives it a hard shake.
“Stop it!” she shouts, as though the machine might listen. Why won’t it stop? “Stop it!” Why won’t it stop? “Why won’t you stop?” Stop it! But she doesn’t listen.
The radio comes crashing down on the ground once, then twice, then a third time. A wordless scream rips its way past her lips as she slams it against the kitchen floor over and over and over again. She can’t hear anything; all she knows is that her blood pounds in her ears, she wants the radio to stop making noise, and nothing will ever be the same for her again.
A few moments later, she realizes she’s just sitting there on the floor, covered in mousse and cake and blood. The radio lies across the room, having finally gone quiet at some point during her blind rage. She can see the mark on the wall where it hit after she hurled it as hard as she could. She can’t stop smiling. She has to keep smiling. She’s a responsible mare. Responsible mares do what they have to do no matter how bad things get. She’s a responsible mare.
But she’s responsible.
She hears a chime from the front room, then a stallion’s voice. “Hello? Is anypony here?” Mr. Cloak. “I’m here to pick up my cake?”
Maybe if she stays quiet he won’t hear her. Maybe he’ll just leave and never see this and everyone will forget anything ever happened. She sniffs, then sobs. Slow, measured hoofsteps make their way closer and closer, and then he pokes his head into the kitchen. His eyes bulge wide open.
“What in the princess’ name happened in here?”
She sniffles again as globs of mousse drip from her mane. “I tried,” she says through trembling lips. She has to keep smiling. “I tried as hard as I could, but—but there was an accident.” The last word comes out as a long wail; her smile, which she had kept on her face all day, finally shatters, and she breaks down into choking sobs. She feels a warm hoof pat her on the back, but that does no good. It won’t fix what she did.
She’s responsible.
Minutes pass this way, with her screaming and shrieking while this stallion whose name she can’t remember awkwardly tells her everything will be okay. Everything won’t be okay. He doesn’t know. She realizes in a moment of dark clarity exactly why everything won’t be okay. The stairway beckons to her, promises her what horrible things await her in the coming days. She knows what will happen.
So she breaks.
Her face cracks into a wide grin. Choked sobs still squeeze their way out, but she turns to Mr. What’s-His-Name anyway.
“Please, don’t bother with me,” she says, hiccuping. He notices her expression and quickly steps back. “I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to ruin your wife’s birthday!”
He gulps. “I’m sure she’ll understand,” he answers in a shaky voice. “I’ll—will you be alright?”
“Yeppers!” She hides her injured leg; he must not have noticed the bleeding. Good. “Hey, tell ya what—it won’t be a chocolate mousse cake, but please pick whichever cake out front you want. On the house.”
“I couldn’t—”
She jerks to her feet. “Really, I insist.”
A moment passes where he stares hard into her eyes, then finally nods. “Very well. Thank you for the kindness.” He turns to leave, then glances back once more. “And… take care of yourself.”
With that, he walks quickly out of the kitchen.
She takes the time to clean up the mess, even going so far as to mop the entire floor, because that’s what responsible mares do. She washes her leg and disinfects it, because that’s what responsible mares do. Then she goes out front and stands behind the counter in the dark bakery, because that’s what responsible mares do. The stairway still calls her name, but she can no longer hear the words, no longer feel its magnetic draw. Today's a new day, a day where she can prove that she's a responsible mare and not just the mare responsible. She glances down at where she left the letter; it’s gone. She wonders if it ever was real in the first place. Perhaps it was.
The moon is already high in the air by the time They return home. The lights flick on.
“Hi!” she says in a chirping voice.
Mr. Cake yelps and jumps backwards. “Pinkie!” After a moment of silence, his wife pats him on the back to calm him. “Pinkie, I—what were you doing here?”
“Keeping watch on the shop,” she says. She has to smile. Responsible mares smile and leave their woes behind until they’re done for the day.
“Well, that’s…” Mrs. Cake clears her throat. “Admirable. Are the twins in bed?”
“Yep!”
“Did they cause you any trouble?”
“Nope!”
Mrs. Cake smiles, then prances to the howling stairway. “I’ll just go say goodnight, then.” She can’t see the darkness that engulfs her, swallows her, never to let her out again.
“Say, uh, Pinkie,” Mr. Cake says as he turns the “Open” sign to “Closed” in the window. “You didn’t have to stay open this late.” Then, on his way into the kitchen, he glances at her and sees the bandage wrapped around her leg. “Hey, what happened to your—”
A shriek from upstairs slices through his sentence, and without pause, Mr. Cake gallops up into the abyss. She knows she’ll never see him again either. Mrs. Cake’s cries are soon joined by her husband’s.
Without dropping her smile, she slowly walks out from behind the counter and over to the window, where she turns the sign back to “Open”. The store can’t close, not yet. She’s a responsible mare. She has to prove to Them that she can be trusted, that she can be loved.
Because she was responsible for everything.
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I was pretty thoroughly confused throughout most of this fic, then there's that 'oh shit' moment when I realized what actually happened.
Good story. Dark as fuck.
Oh god.
I wasn't ready.
7011321
Spoiler that shit.
7011321
Thanks for hiding the spoilers. I appreciate your discretion.
Well, I understand why it has the dark tag... but fuck dude. That's heavy.
ruined cake has two meanings.
7011351
I need to get on a computer before I can read under the spoiler, but if it's the word I think it is...
I KNOW, RIGHT? : D
After reading it a few times, I get it now :D
I think...
Still confused about the Dark tag...
So correct me if I'm wrong, but are the radio and the cake that is ruined actually the cake twins and Pinkie kills them?
That's how I understood it...
7011446
Yes. The radio and cake are metaphors for what happened earlier. She accidentally killed the twins while playing with them.
Well written, but dark.
Shrugs. personal opinions, i could never see pinkie pie even accidentally killing them. Think that effects my opinion on the story.
7011481
spoiler, please
Oh.
7011453 Ok, thanks :D
7011309 Nor was I.
I would be interested in seeing a follow-up piece showing how Ponyville deals with both this tragedy and a thoroughly broken Pinkie.
At first, when I read the end of the story, I didn't get it. But I think I finally got it now by reading the comments.
Welp. Took two reads to get it all, and that was terrifying.
What the hell did I just read?
I still don't get it, but it was amazing nonetheless
It's not an easy fic to decipher at first with its confusing prose and development, but becomes almost terrifying between the lines. It's chilling, at the very least, without that. It's exactly the kind of story that deserves the dark tag and utilises it to its full potential. For that, a job well done.
Just as a sidenote:
Just a small proofing thing.
Good Lord, sir.
I applaud you deeply 
Well.....THIS is a different way of using the psychotic Pinkie personality that I have NEVER seen before.
7011397 I might be a little confused: How is this a secret murder and not voluntary manslaughter (ponyslaugher?) followed by a coverup?
Well, this managed to creep the hell out of me.
And you are responsible.
THE BOMB HAS BEEN PLANTED.
PUNCH THE BABY TO DISARM IT.
I had to read the ending again but...
Bruh.
NO.
BEST DARK FIC YET
And gradually loses it after that one.
7011739
I'm glad it worked! Not glad that it scared you, I mean, just that the fic did what it was supposed to do.
I don't think that "but really needs to be there, I think the story would flow much better without it.
Wonderfully written story, by the way, liked and faved.
Shouldn't this also have the "sad" and "tragedy" tags too?
7012697
This tripped me up when I first read it too.
Read some more, and think about it.
7012697
Aye, what TGM said. The discrepancies are deliberate.
7012704
7012744
I...understand now...
Oh god this was dark. Really really well written, I enjoyed it don't get me wrong but holy crap dude!
Very Lovecraftian with the anthropomophisation of the murders as the darkness, as something sentient.
Very well written and also very spooky. Also, exceptionally possible. A child brings such stress after all and as we saw with the clock...if something happens then it can go so very badly.
Cheers
GM
7012609
Voluntary manslaughter is the killing of a human being (or ponies in this case) in which the offender had no prior intent to kill and acted during "the heat of passion", under circumstances that would cause a reasonable person to become emotionally or mentally disturbed. Like a frustrated babysitters shaking a baby to the point of death because they won't stop crying, for example.
7013310
I-I dunno, man. I dunno. Am I rich now?
7013879
No, second degree murder requires clear intent to kill and Pinkie certainly didn't have that. But a good lawyer could get her off with involuntary manslaughter instead of the voluntary charge. The problem is not all law codes treat manslaughter the same way. In some countries or states, manslaughter is not considered murder. In some places, voluntary manslaughter is considered murder while involuntary is not. Finally, some places consider all manslaughter as a lesser murder charge. There's almost no indication of how Equestrian courts look at the matter.
7014062
7014087
I swear, when I get home and can actually read whatever it is you're saying behind those spoiler tags, I'm going to have words with you both.
7014093
You ARE talking about me, aren't you? I know it! I can smell it!
7014087 Well until they establish Equestrian law, that's all I have to go by.
I'll admit it - I'm a sucker for these kinds of stories, where we get to see our favorite equines being put through horrible circumstances. That bit of sadism aside, it's amazing how your writing can instill such a sense of discomfort and horror without fully stating what exactly has happened. The bit where Pinkie desperately tries to put the cake back together really unnerved me.
And the dread when Mr. and Mrs. Cake returned home, and how you left the ending of the story with Pinkie trying to set things right - it really came together. A really good and chilling one-shot story overall.
7013310 stop ripping off cinema sins. this comment was honestly the single most annoying thing I have ever read. PERIOD. Its like making it through four hundred pages of an eight hundred page novel, then you see a typo and ALL immersion is broken. except this... was CONSTANT.
*makes near rabid sounding angry noises whilst flinging my head about in an effort to return to a normal, NON murderous, temperament*
(EDIT: your name is PegasusMesa. sorry bout that.) Okay author whose name I have forgotten during my rant, and subsequent spaz out... This was beautiful. I have not seen anything of it's like in quite awhile. I have written some darker material myself and fully intend to try my hand at some form of an anxiety filled, tension inducing, disturbing as all hell story at some point... but this, this was beautiful. Most of the time when you see a "dark" story its another Rainbow Factory clone, or a "creepy pasta" that's essentially "smile dog" in Pinkie Pie form with the only twist being molestation. This was the beginning of any great horror story. The very beginning, when everything seems fine and then you get the one little thing that makes you shrug as you progress. Then it comes back and you double take, after that your mind slowly starts to try to form a bigger picture. Tension is built as the character does something that is slightly off while that same thing repeats... god I loved this! Most of the best scares for horror happen in the "foreplay" of the story when the threat, the evil, the horror is something in the shadows. You are close to perfecting that part of horror. Well done!
That having bee said there a few issues with the story. In most places actually. These are my own PERSONAL biased opinions however, so instead I will keep them to myself unless asked for them. Thank you for the story, and please write more of them!
7020610
thanks. No sarcasm intended, that was funny. Also thank you for bringing me back to this story, I actually forgot to give it a like. That having been said... I do understand the why, doesn't mean there was any conceivable way I could learn that I disliked the comment without reading it first. I mean no personal disrespect. The comment itself, the way it was done made me murderous, not you as a person. That having been said, there are probably millions of other comments that would make me angry like that did, they just don't have the sheer length that yours did. I mean no disrespect at all when I say that if you use the same format in the future, it would likely go a long way if you were to provide meaningful insight. Not just quote the story verbatim. Again, my opinion, no disrespect. I know it probably took awhile to make that comment as well. And while I honestly don't give a Naughtyword! as to it being poorly received, I do understand that I might be the first person to respond to you directly instead of reading it, and just giving a thumbs down. The way I went about it was wrong, and I do apologize for that.
7020610
7021201
Boys, boys, it's alright—you don't have to fight over little ol' me. But, if you insist, I suppose I can't stop you.
It's been quite a while since I did a review, hell, even read another story. I guess this is a blessing bestowed onto you. Now, where do I begin?
I have a taste for almost all genres and Dark fics can tickle my fancy. The beginning of the story is set up perfectly, the atmosphere seeming to be friendly, but also rather heavy. It was a feeling that didn't seem to be quite right. The first "She is responsible" set in the mood to be very deep and pressuring. It was a revolving door that seemed to cycle over and over again. A perfect element in a dark piece of work like this. I could feel the emotions Pinkie Pie was expressing. I could feel what she meant with the cakes she had.
This story is well done with the take on with Pinkie Pie's perspective. With the world seen from her point of view, I felt the chilling madness that began to haunt her. I imagined Sugarcube Corner to be darker than usual. Creepier than usual. I got a constant eerie vibe when Pinkie Pie was alone. Her interaction with the other ponies was uncomfortable, but the individual interaction with herself was outright disturbing. Especially with the cakes she held in her hooves.
gr8 story i r8 8/8 m8
7021412 its fine we'll just settle this like men. 1v1 snipers only!
Fine, Fine, Fine. I'll make one more bookshelf for amazing stories like this. Gosh
I don't think I'be read anything, to date, that does "dark" as perfectly as this. The feel is intense and it flowed nicely.
Here, have a like!
(That ending gave me chills, bro.)
I know this might be an unpopular opinion, but I blame the Cakes for this. If you don't trust someone to watch over your children, you don't ask them to watch over your children, period, the end. I don't care if you're afraid of hurting their feelings, I don't care if you really need a sitter. If you trust somebody with something you know they can't handle YOU, not they, are responsible for what happens next. Pinkie Pie is a wonderful, amazing pony, but if there is one thing she is NOT, that thing is gentle. And when what you're dealing with is a very young child you need to be gentle, because they are so very, very fragile, and if you mess up they break. Honestly, I would be utterly pissed if Pinkie were the one to take the blame for this, as she quite likely had no earthly clue what she should be doing.
On-point with the immersion here. I... Oof.
10/10, read twice, would read a third time.
Then I read it a third time, realized that it was far too soon for me, and that seeing what truly happened makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I read this and was a bit confused. Then I read it again and I understood. Wow. Everything about this just flows so perfectly. Everything, down to the choice of words for everything that happens. The symbolism is well done and well thought-out. Not a single word serves no purpose, and the emotions and dialogue all feel real, and deeply chilling.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Other aspiring dark writers should look to this story as a role model. This definitely deserved first place in the contest.