Bast Sins: “a young filly discovers she is the reincarnation of the ancient cat goddess”

“I’m telling you, DT: I can control the cats with my mind.”

It was lucky Silver Spoon’s head was currently turned downwards, towards her notebook. Otherwise, Diamond Tiara’s eye roll might have been caught and consequences might have been had.

“I like, tell them what to do.” Silver’s hoof made an exaggerated motion, pen staining the paper black behind it. “And then they do it! How, like, totally cool is that?”

Diamond Tiara gave a flick of her perfectly groomed mane. “Listen, SS. It’s, like, not cool at all when you start talking like this, okay? The other foals are starting to whisper behind our back, and you know how much I hate it when ponies aren’t whispering about me.”

“But DT, you don’t understand.” Silver Spoon’s head was up and turned towards Tiara’s; her smile was wide and hopeful. “I talked it through with Pinkie, and, like, she said that her crystal ball said I was totally the reincarnation of some cat goddess from ancient pony times! So I went to Golden Oaks Library, and then I--”

“SS, enough!” Diamond Tiara’s face was a frown, though it was focused down at the gradually sharpening pencil in her hoof. “I don’t want to hear about Pinkie’s craziness, okay? And I don’t want to hear about your craziness either! This is just like... like that time you said you were the reincarnation of some famous opera singer!”

“I said she was my mum...”

“Whatever! Look, you can think whatever you want, but you’d best not go around saying it, ok?” Diamond Tiara pushed the chair back, pencil shavings balanced on one hoof. She paused, tail swishing as her back faced Silver. “Cause if you keep going like this, you’re just gonna end up some crazy old cat lady living on her own. And I’m not gonna be seen visiting some crazy old cat lady, okay?”

She walked away.

Outside of the school, after having trudged across miles and miles of Equestrian terrain, from the far cities of Manehatten and Vanhoover, and slowly -- oh so slowly -- growing into a tightening ring of whites and black and ruddy browns, the cats gathered.

Bastille Sins: The sad tale of a pony's unjust imprisonment.

“I thought she said we could have it,” the pegasus muttered.

He looked older than he was, with slight tinges of grey already spreading fungus-like across his mane and coat. The cell he was in was dirty and badly lit, with only a high-up slit into the stone allowing light to come through. The rotting hay scratched against his coat as he shuffled in place, and the chains round his wings and legs clanked together.

“Let them eat cake, she said.” A slow tear leaked out of one eye, trickling down his face like a glacier ‘cross a mountain. “I thought she meant it.”

Pastry Sins: “The story of a young filly being unjustly eaten by Celestia” + “Woah no that's not right”

“No! Princess Celestia, you can’t eat me!” Sweetie Belle squeaked, hooves clattering against the floor as she backpedaled away. Her eyes widened as her back thumped against a wall; her legs spun on, regardless.

“Oh yes I can,” Celestia murmured, lips cracking open into a smile of incisors. “I am cannibal.”

“Nooooo!!!” Sweetie Belle squeaked, and it was her loudest squeak yet. Celestia’s jaws widened further, and with a flap of wings causing a sudden burst of speed, she pounced and --

“Cut! Cut, we’ve already done this scene.”

The two paused. “We have?” Sweetie Belle said, face inches away from Celestia’s muzzle and mildly coated in her heavenly saliva.

“Uh huh.” I said. "See this. It’s a troll fic all about Celestia being a cannibal who ate Pinkie Pie, which is why she was pink. Hell, Celestia, you ever quote yourself in this.”

Celestia shrugged. “You’re the one who wrote it,” she said. “And this too. Which is a pretty lazy cop out, if you ask me.”

I waved my hand at her. “They’re all lazy cop outs. Are you really expecting me to put any effort into this? Screw that, I’ve got lots more important stuff to waste my time on.”

I turned and left. Whilst I wasn’t looking, Celestia gobbled up Sweetie Belle.

Bastila Sins: A pony accompanies the notable Jedi on her voyage and discovers that she's fairly insufferable.

“YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!” There was the flash of blaster fire, and a passing Ithorian exploded.

“Really? We’ve just spent, what, the last day getting that swoop bike together, and you’re just going to run in all gung ho like you did against the rancor?” Carth’s voice was echoing, and a tad incredulous. “Seriously, I don’t know how you expect me to trust you when you keep on taking risks like this!”

“Waa waa woobie waa waa wooo!” one of the aliens shouted, which, given what happened next, was apparently an order to return fire.

“What should we do? Bastilla could get hit!” Mission shouted.

“Wooooooom!” Zaalbar crooned.

Pushing past them, Snowball balled his way out onto the swoop track proper, guns blazing and miniature wings flapping up a storm. “YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!” he bellowed, and gave them hell.

Ten seconds later, after he’d given all the hell he had, Snowball settled down. Bastilla strutted over. “What on earth were you thinking?! Of all the irresponsible, reckless, downright stupid things to --”

Snowball let her talk. And then, when she had finished, he gave her his rebuttal.

“YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!”

And all was well.

Pasta Sins: a filly is taken in by a family of famous spaghetti chefs

“Why won’t you talk to me, eh? Am I not being a nice enough for you?”

“Please, Ah... Ah don’t know any more,” Applebloom sobbed, the hairs beneath her eyes flat from tears, whilst the eyes themselves were red and puffy. “Ah’ve already told you everything I know!”

“No, Applebloom. You still haven’t answered the question. The one question everyone must answer; the most important question that has ever been asked.” The shadow who’d spoken made a gesture, and the lamp pointed at her face moved closer, further darkening the rest of the world.

“When’s a your Dolmio day?”

“Ah j-just don’t know!”

Basterd Sins. A cast of ponies retell World War II in gory action-movie style.

…

No. I can’t work with this. I’m done, you hear me. I’m fucking done. I can’t cover the whole of World War two in the amount of time I’m willing to give this. Gore, too. There’s a limit to what can be asked of a man, and you just crossed over that limit.

Fuck you. I’m outta here.

Oh, wait the next one has pirates,

Mast Sins: “No relation to any of the other stories” + “Just has pirates.” + “Yar.”

“Yar,” Captain Pugwash muttered to his first mate, Long John Silver. Long John nodded. It was a good reply.

“Yar,” he said back, confident in his own abilities at debating. The frown on Pugwash’s face only confirmed it. He’d won.

The riggings creaked as the great ship Aldehyde bobbed up and down, helpless to the actions of even the smallest wave across the wide and vast ocean. An ocean that reflected the stars above, shining through the wisps of dark-grey cloud scattered like the discarded shell of the moon, which, inside the dotted blackness, seemed like a lighthouse glaring out of some skyward shore.

Pugwash rose and strode animatedly back and forth across the deck, hands waving as he spoke. He talked about pride and honesty, about integrity and honour. He spoke of the things that make us more than matter recombined, more than an accidental fluctuation in an ever-changing gene pool. He talked about what it means to be human in the quiet times of night, when there’s nothing between you and your mistakes but a thin scrap of blanket and the shuddering horror of causality. He talked about life, and all that it was and all that it could be.

But mostly, he just said “Yar.”

Pastern Sins. A clopfic about ponies with foot fetishes.

“Bon Bon, I want to tell you about my fetish.”

“Not now, Lyra. I’m reading.”

Blast Sins:  the story of a young filly's love of demolitions, and the society that tried to reject her

Twilight’s mane was frazzled, and had been for some days now. Parts of it were singed, and other parts were cut haphazardly off: both were the victims of the many, many times she’d accidentally set her hair alight.

But that wasn’t important; what was was the murky streets of Trottingham down below, hidden beneath patches of morning mist as of yet uncleared. A peal of bells sounded out from somewhere in the city: the call for all the happy ponies down below to wake and go about their happy pony buisness.

Twilight didn’t like the happy ponies, because, all too often, the happy ponies didn’t like her. And not liking ponies who didn’t like her was just fine. In fact, ponies who didn’t like her should be punished.

Twilight’s eyes roamed again over the city, and smiled.

“I will make it all go boom,” she said, and did.

Pasteurized Sins: A documentary about the Milkmare of Trottingham.

“Erm... Who are you?”  

Milky tried her best to be polite, but she still wasn’t quite sure if she’d managed it. Talking to somepon... something without... it having talked to her first of all wasn’t something she did all that often, after all. She hoped she’d done it right.

“Who, me?” The thing’s head -- like a great, green watermelon -- peered out from the side of the camera he was pointing at her. The /mlp/ splayed across his chest flashed in the sunlight. “I’m Anon, baby.” He smiled, somehow. “S’name your gonna be saying a lot tonight.”

Milky decided she didn’t quite like this anon; he had a real shifty look about him, and his eyes wouldn’t quite meet hers. He seemed to be focusing on something just behind and a bit be... Oh.

She crossed her legs. “Erm, why are you filming me, Mister Anon?”

“Because he’s a huge furry faggot, that’s why.” Somepon... Ok, something else said. There was another one of the things walking up to her, a smouldering something-else in its left hand. It was identical to the other, save for a /co/ where the /mlp/ was. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, /mlp/. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“What the hell’s wrong with me? What the hell’s wrong with you, you basement dwelling fuckbeard! This is mah pone, not yours. You’re the faggots who turned your back on us.”

The second thing took a long drag on its stick, the end lighting up like a cherry then dying back down, as if blushing. “Course we did,” he muttered. “/co/’s been less shit than usual ever since we got rid of you and packed all the pedophiles off to Gravity Falls General. You honestly think we want you lot back?”

“Then why you here, /co/?” the first one said, arms spread wide and camera forgotten. “Why you here?”

The argument continued as Milky slunk away, shivering to herself as their neckbeards waggled in the breeze.

Pasty Sins: A Dungeons and Dragons game devolves into backstabbing and betrayal.

Rainbow Dash gave a quick knock to the top door of the library before glancing back down at the invitation in her other hoof. Some sort of Pinkie party, by the looks of it; one that Twilight had apparently help set up.

Dash hadn’t known what a ssd was. Or at least, she hoped that what she thought a ssd was wasn’t what they thought an ssd was, ‘cause Pinkie had told her to bring one. Or Twilight. Whoever’d written the note.

The door opening broke her from her reverie of trying to figure out which one of the two’d be closeted enough to make a slip up like that. She shook out her mane and focused.

Pinkie was in front of her, a long white beard sloping from her chin and a tall blue hat perched upon her head. “Glad you could make it, Dashie! Come on in. I’m gonna be a wizard, so maybe you could be a knight or --”

“Hold it,” Dash said, not allowing herself to be dragged inside. “What’s going on exactly?”

Pinkie tugged the beard down, freeing her mouth. “We’re playing Dungeons and Dragons! Why?”

Dash turned and left with nary a word.

Pastie Sins: The tell-all memoir of the most famous burlesque dancer in Equestria.

Featherweight’s breaths were fast and thick together, his heart pounding loudly against the confines of his chest. His wings fluttered, propelling him faster up the stairs. His hoof shot out, helping twist round a banister and fling towards his room. The door slammed open in front of him, then shuddered closed behind.

He placed the book down carefully on the desk, and began to read:

Dear diary,

I have decided that keeping a physical diary was a bad idea in this day and age. Scanned all of the pages into my PC this morning and burned the originals. Decided to sell you to that annoying reporter who’s been buzzing around here looking for a scoop.

So long.

Feather Weight’s “Curses!” was loud and poignant.

Parsed Sins: a sordid tale of grammar and debauchery

“Hello there, Twilight, I am Pinkie Pie,” Pinkie says to Twilight. They both pause and turn to you.

“Any of you fuckers notice what she just did?” Twilight asks, menacingly. The gleam in her eyes from four prompts before returns.

“I did it on purpose,” Pinkie interjects. “Cause I’m not so goddamn stupid I’d do this normally. Like most of you a-holes do.”

“What Pinkie just did was spilt a comma. I know most of you won’t see it, but take a close look, you shit-eating horse-sodomisers. Those commas around my name have two meanings, here: they’re parenthetical comma that also signify direct address. And because of that, one of them’s been split like your mama’s legs when your grandfather comes round.”

Pinkie takes over: “What parenthetical means, you goddamn dirty apes, is that the information can be either moved or removed from the sentence without changing its meaning. It doesn’t mean brackets, which I know’ll be confusing some of those with weight issues in the audience, but fuck you. And what happens when you take it out, Twilight?”

“You get a bastard comma without a home, Pinkie: one ready to split hairs and anger the grammar fascists of the English language.”

“So what should we do to get rid of it, Twilight?”

“Fucking period, Pinkie. Or a semicolon too, I guess, but only if you want to be the most pretentious faggot this side of the author.”

And then they have sex.

Vast Sins: One filly, a thousand eating disorders

It was too much. The pressure had gotten to Nyx quickly, and after that, the depression had snowballed. It had started small, with only a lick of cream a night. But when you’re a child-like tyrant with no-pony to tell you no, one lick just ain’t enough.

She’d moved onto salt after three weeks. Two days later, and all the salt was gone. A week after that, and with the eternal night killing all the crops, there was no food left in all of Equestria.

But when they told her this, she’d only murmured “more!” in a voice that echoed like whale-song, and her minions had scurried to obey.

By the time the Cutie Mark Crusaders came a-visiting, there was nothing left of Nyx. There was nothing left of her castle, either: nothing left but a rippling mountain of pudgy flesh that wallowed about the countryside like a slowed ocean of fat.

You could even see her from space.

Pasty Sins: She can make meat pies with the best of them, but her love is rotten from the inside.

“Hah! That’s fifty two, now!” Rarity’s laugh was a high and happy thing, ringing clearly across the gathered crowds. There was a babble of contentment as ponies nodded at her and her stacked array of pies. Rarity threw a coquettish glance over at the competition to her left: a jet-black mare with a dirty green mane and a look of deep confusion.

“What the hay’s going on?” Chrysalis asked, her face all befuddlement. “What am I doing here, in Ponyville of all places?”

“We are having a competition for the love of Spikey-Wikey,” Rarity replied, with a toss of her dazzling mane. The crowd cooed. “And I think you’ll find that I am winning!” She pointed at a stack of beautifully constructed pies to the right of her. “You can’t hope to match my output.”

Chrysalis looked up at the pies and then over at the adoring crowd. “This competition is stupid,” she said, and wandered away.

Paste Sins: One stallion's scrapbooking hobby takes a dark turn.

Flim & Flam ran, and they ran fast, hooves clattering loudly against the ground as they rushed over scattered garbage and the decaying remains of old posters. Light from the broken sun flashed off shattered windows and sparking sheets of metal: ruined armour with the magic still trying to hold against the great gashes carved into them.

Flim’s hoof hit a skull, and he stumbled, legs splaying out like a newborn foal. His brother stopped two yards away, having finally noticed his absence, and threw a worried look over.

Flam’s eyes closed, and his mouth tightened along his grizzled jawline; he had not shaved for months and months, and his dishevelled face told of it. Turning, he ran and left his brother behind.

The only sound louder than those fading hoofbeats to Flim were the hoofbeats coming up behind him. Heart in his throat, he turned over, and the jagged remains of a broken cart dug in to his spine.

Big Macintosh stood a few feet away from him, an impassive look of almost boredom on his face. A cart was hitched onto his side, a cart filled with passengers: small dolls of various shapes and sizes. A floppy Smartypants rocked back and forth as Macintosh approached.

“Hold still,” he said bluntly, pulling the straw from out of his mouth and pointing a camera down at him. “I gotta take your picture for the card, and I don’t wanna be messing this one up. Scrapbook’s nearly complete.

“Then we’ll see about getting the doll.”

(Dun Dun DUNNNNN!!!!!)