//------------------------------// // Chapter Four // Story: Tribulation is the Face of Fashion // by Hivemind //------------------------------// A couple minutes down, take a swig of seltzer. Another couple, and another swig. It was the only thing I could do to sate my churning stomach, which was a toxic train wreck after the fiasco at the piano bar. Downing healing bubbly replaced my usual morning routine, and by morning I meant two in the afternoon. Numerous sangrias later, I made my stupid decision to stay that night and I couldn’t even tell my ups from my downs. Those drinks were so tutti frutti that they could have been alcoholic and I wouldn’t have even known it. Lily had already drank herself into a lazy stupor by the half-hour mark anyway. The flow of drinks stopped when she did, so I was a little thankful that she was unable to move in any direction resembling a straight line. No more wild parties for this mare. I had to kick it into high gear if I wanted to keep my chance at entering the contest. I wanted the design stage to span just one day, but I made my foolish decision and had to make due with the weight of the consequences bearing down on my already aching forehead. Even worse, I couldn’t think any better now than I did before. Experimenting with multiple designs to somehow better include the universal fitting scheme crossed my mind, but my waste bin became fuller than my head after the first hour. I wasn’t trying to sketch out a modern art masterpiece off the top of my head, colt dangit! Another hour passed and the floor space around my waste bin was no longer visible on account of how many balls of wasted sketch paper covered it; hundreds, I think. I set my pencil and protractor aside and breathed a tired sigh, laying my head down sideways on the table. I stared forlornly off into the distance feeling my every hope slip away one by one in queue with the minutes that were just floating off. But I wasn’t that quick to give up, otherwise I would have been out of business long ago. What would my friends have thought if I deliberately let an opportunity like this pass me by? What would Snazzy, Cross Stitch, or even Rarity do at a time like this? I sat on this question like a bump on a log for a while until I heard a familiar jingle coming from the front of the store and was pulled from my deliberating. It wasn’t right to get angry, not while my head was already pounding. If I was going to face a customer I had to look and act professionally regardless of my everyday gripes. “Welcome, welcome!” I called out in an inviting manner as I strolled out of my workshop, continuing to let them know I was on my way just as I rounded the corner that lead to the sales floor. “How may I--” I stopped as soon as I walked in. Nopony was there, as if they either up and vanished or thought the place was closed. I was starting to get worried until I noticed a stack of mail sitting neatly on the countertop; the daily delivery...only in the afternoon, late as usual. It wasn’t like the postal service was going to prioritize the downtown areas any time this century. I reached for the newspaper at the bottom of the stack. It was the only paper worth bothering with among the countless articles of junk mail. A heavy, irritated groan was all I managed to express of my distaste before decisively giving up on work for the day. Not that I was lazy, but a moment’s rest was starting to become an unnecessary luxury. The oaken door that separated the sales floor from the workshop slammed shut after I returned, the newspaper laying flat on my back. I gave what I had completed of my sketch a slow once-over, shaking my head in solemn dejection. I then made myself comfortable in a nearby armchair and took to sitting in as relaxing of a position as I could, my back laying flush in the crevice between the middle and back cushions, and my forelegs hanging over the edge of the seat. Sometime in the future I would come to realize that this sort of position creeped out more ponies than it did encourage them to at least give it a try; their complaints mainly consisted of how it gave me a strange “pot-bellied” look. I thought it was comfortable anyway. The next five minutes were akin to a day at the spa in that it was something I sorely needed. I read through what the weather team was planning to hit the city with over the week, the funnies, some coupons, but then, I just wasn't prepared for what I saw next. As quick as it came, my treatment was over, and I flipped the next big page wide open and beheld a massive advertisement for Sabot Petite’s contest with terrifying shock and awe. It looked exactly like the posters and flyers that were put up around town, taking up both pages of the newspaper and mocking me visibly with the company’s revered epithet. My nerves had been pushed to their limit. I crumpled the whole newspaper into one big ball and chucked it clear across the room as though it were a boulder, somehow landing it on the peak of the mountain of paper in the opposite waste bin. The precision with which it remained still without falling was remarkable enough to at least earn me some emotional payout. If only it would have been. A harsh, unforgiving crack and a subsequent howl of pain forced me out of my barbaric mood. I winced while clenching my teeth and leapt out of my seat, whirling around to face the door. There was no way that could have come from me. My back wasn’t that bad from countless hours spent slaving over a sewing machine. And then it hit me. “Darn fancy schmancy new-fangled corset!” A ragged voice from outside the door yelled out in anger. I was halfway through with calling out a who’s there before the door was flung open. Cross Stitch came through in a clumsy backpedal on her hind legs like a spinning top out of control. Alarmed by the fact that a single fall would do more than just leave a bruise, I gasped and rushed towards her, but she came to a quick, upright stop only a few feet from the back wall just in the nick of time. “C-Cross Stitch! Oh my goodness, are you alright?!” I stammered out as I teetered in place from left to right, mirroring the old mare’s wobbly movements as she tried to keep her balance, which proved to be problematic with that...thing she was wearing around her entire midsection. “Blast it all, those doctors, demanding that I wear this accursed back brace!” Cross Stitch yelled out with fire on her tongue, holding out her flabby arms to keep herself steady until she came to rest at last. I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead and looked down to her metal brace, wondering how anypony in the world could have, or would have, ever decided to entrust the health of any bone in their body to that nightmarish contraption. “Well don’t just stand there eyeballing it, Coco. Help me out of this thing!” As hard as I tried, I failed to find any way to remove the oddity of medical science. It was clamped on with four bolts and tightened down with adjustable straps at the sides, but they provided only so much breathing room for whoever was unfortunate enough to wear it. “Oh fiddlesticks, just forget it. It was Frumpy who wanted me to wear this vile thing anyway.” I wasn’t too happy with being unable to set her free, but there was only so much I could do anyway. I helped lower her to the ground, stepping away before letting her work out how to stand again. “Thanks for your help, Coco.” “A back brace? I thought you hated these things with a ‘fiery’ passion?” I asked, working out how long she may put up with it after reminiscing on an old memory. “I still do! But I guess Frumpy remembered that he had some concerns to speak up about, of all things. We went to the doctor and this is what I came out with, looking like I was some kind of broken mare.” I winced when my forehead somehow remembered that I had a killer migraine. I figured I would be able to cope with speaking for a little while longer. “Well, I won’t say that you didn’t need it, but it would benefit more ponies to see you in a better state, medically-speaking, that is. Though, I do want to ask what you’re doing here this time of day. Is anypony watching the store?” “I’m pretty confident with saying Frumpy can handle himself for a little while.” Cross Stitch smiled. “Speaking of Frumpy, I wanted to stop on by and see how my favorite little needle jockey’s coming along with her dress. Can you smell that winner’s circle yet?” She cackled, nudging my shoulder. “With Frumpy’s work for guidance, you’ll be a shoo-in!” “It’s coming along, or at least that's one way to say it.” I nervously paused and glanced over my shoulder at my sketch paper, meagerly filled. Cross Stitch’s tail bounced with excitement as she hobbled to my work desk, but a frown replaced her timeless crooked smirk on arrival. “Oh come now, what’s all this? Where’s the rest of it?” “Not there.” Cross Stitch looked at me with a disapproving glare. I guess that my number was up. “Laziness ain’t no acceptable excuse I’ve ever heard of, Coco. Art ain’t nothing to slack off on.” “I try, really I do!” I replied in desperation, slowly moving to her side. “Look there, and right here at these measurements! See, I can work this out. I don’t have your skill, but--” I sighed, turning around to face Frumpy’s dress, exposed and hanging on its rolling clothing rack. A hard lump fell down my throat. “I just don’t know anymore. It feels like I’m going back to basics too quickly. To be honest, it feels like I’m cheating.” “Cheating?” I nodded, my lips easing into a frown. “By using Frumpy’s dress. I wanted to utilize his universal fitting concept in my own way, but that’s not exactly original. I’m sorry, Cross Stitch, but this doesn’t feel right at all, taking art like this away from you. I wasn't trying to be inspired, I was trying to copy more like. I’m selfishly profiting off of somepony else’s hard work, and I swore a long time ago that I would never stoop that low, not after what Suri did. I never realized I was doing just that until now.” “Are you sure that it’s too much for you to handle, Coco? Frumpy’s dress never actually made it to the judges so I don’t think they counted any part of it. That still gives you a bit of a chance,” Cross Stitch insisted perkily. “No, I can’t. Deep down, I’ll remember that I didn’t give it my all in the design, even if I don’t win the contest, and if I do then the real genius won’t get the credit he deserves.” I removed the dress from the rack and slipped it into its carrying bag, holding it out to Cross Stitch who glanced between me and the bag before gently relieving me of it. I felt a spark when it left my hooves. It was tough to let it go, but for the sake of preserving my honor as a mare of the spool it was well worth doing away with. No more would its presence trouble me. I gave her a little smile. “Well, Coco, if you think it’ll help keep your head on straight—” Cross Stitch smiled with me. “—I’ll just put this right back where it belongs.” I relieved myself through a sigh and wipe of the forehead. My desperate struggle to lift the huge weight off of my shoulders was finally over. Cross Stitch turned and trotted towards the door, her metal brace clinking and clanking as she hobbled, only slightly muffled by Frumpy's dress on her back. She stopped at the doorway and looked back at me. “Good luck, Coco. If you ever need a little help, you know where to find me.” Cross Stitch took her leave after managing through a few embarrassing bumps in the doorway courtesy of her brace. She mumbled a few choice curse words under her breath after each one until I heard the front door jingle and shut. I took in the ethereal quiet of the workshop again. It felt so homely when it was just me and my dresses. It may well have been the quietest room this side of downtown, and I never felt better. ... My migraine vanished. I was as puzzled as anypony would be. The fog had rolled away, and I could think clearly again. The reticence brought me to ponder. That darned dress nearly ruined me, and I meant that with absolutely zero shame. Art is as art would be. Along with my desire to improve quickly enough in time for the contest, I would be seen only as an even bigger neophyte if I were to even attempt to replicate it. And I was happy. I can do this. I know I can! When did I begin to really learn about fashion? Typical of any student in the big city, I rarely paid attention in my classes. Giant, overcrowded lecture halls where all the seriousness advertised in the importance of getting an education was just not my forte, until extracurriculars rolled around. Working with real fabric with real volunteer artisans was a far better medium for learning from than pen, paper, and textbooks. It was paradise. It was how I met Snazzy, and how Lily met the two of us when we were paired for a collaboration project with her music. Even if she couldn’t tie a knot in a bow in save her life, we had genuine fun while we learned, the least that could be said for less proactive pursuits. I suddenly came back down to Equestria. My pencil was between my teeth, and my old sketch lay on the floor nearby, a newer, cleaner, less irritating sheet in its place. I had sketched out numerous design possibilities during my trance, and I was elated to find that I actually looked at some of them with a sense of pride rather than teetering despair. What would have been an hour’s passing taken to draw a single curve or line across an already-flawed draft had been turned into progress. I had to discard that sheet, or at least I set it off to the side for the initial layout. I recalled each of those designs from working with past clients, but getting inspired by my own work again made me feel like a whole new graduate. The hours flew by like the birds that darted above the Manehatten skyline. I had never seen my hooves move so quickly before. So exhilarating! I felt the creator within me emerge from within its shell, ready to blaze a new trail into uncharted territory donned in formal attire of its own one-hundred percent original design. Pencil and pen went to paper and melded with it perfectly, spilling out years worth of afflatus as ink and dreams until I swore I could see a thin trail of smoke arising from the tips of my writing utensils. A chance to make something of myself was just four days away, and I couldn’t stop. Not now, and not ever. Then, I had done it...sort of. I leaned back in my seat to observe. My paper was embellished with notes, dimensional figures, and a single core sketch of the dress of my dreams. How I did it is a mystery of which I still lack the answer to this day. I was so proud, yet so worried that I may have done something, added something in that screwed everything up. For close to another hour I sat there cross-referencing everything I knew about my own work and the work of a few other choice designers. The dress was flawless. “I’ve actually done it,” I murmured to myself, lowering my paper with a look of astonishment on my face. “Heh...hehe...I-I did it! I did it, I did it, I did it!” I screamed, bouncing around the workshop in an erratic path that eventually found its way back to the drawing table. I speckled the docket with rosebud kisses and clutched it hard whilst spinning around in circles, overjoyed to see that my decision worked out for the better after all. Of course, I was far from ready to light the scented candles and hit the sewing machine with a touch of jazzy ambiance. I didn’t even have the fabric to get started. How clumsy of me to be so under-supplied. It was a good thing I remembered where I hid my monetary strongbox. ~~~~~ Stripping my emergency funds apart for a bit of coin was something I bitterly hoped I would never have to resort to, but the contest was in three days. Three! This was no time to stammer out excuses for poor quality fabric. I had a feeling I would start sounding like Rarity sooner or later. The next morning, I headed into town and into Cross Stitch’s store. I waved how-do-you-do to the browsing elderly and a few other ponies I considered distant neighbors as I made my way to the fabric aisles. I felt like a colt in a candy store with how broad and enticing the selection was. Cross Stitch sure knew how to satisfy her customers. I couldn’t resist counting at least a dozen different shades of the most common colors before I could bring myself to start stuffing my bags with reel after reel of textiles. I was starting to feel really confident about this, provided that I worked at it hard enough. While I moved down the display line, my ears twitched and signaled for my hearing to even out. I picked up commotion coming from the other end of the store. It was faint, but it sounded angry, so I moved cautiously to investigate. As I drew closer the voices became clearer in tone rather than word. Cross Stitch was one of them, but she wasn’t the angry one. I rounded the corner of a shelf and my eyes went wide in horror. Of all the ponies in the world to be there right then, I never imagined one of them to be a member of the scum of the earth. “Suri Polomare...” I grumbled. Suri was in a standoff with Cross Stitch like two vipers facing each other for territory. She was flanked by two mares -who I assumed to be part of her entourage- in the most ridiculously retro getups this side of Equestria. Did that particular leg of fashion come in twenty years too late for them or something? Neither of them compared to Suri's look, though. Her face alone was as despised by me as ever. “And I told you that we’re fresh out. Don’t go asking me if I have any in the back again for the umpteenth time because I sure as sugar don’t!” Cross Stitch yelled directly to Suri’s face while a crowd of her familiars stood behind her in support. “You have some nerve talking to me like that!” Suri retaliated. “Do you have any idea who I am? I could have this decrepit huddle house shut down in a heartbeat. You wouldn’t even see it coming.” I did not know for certain what she was off on a rant about. More and more of the store’s patrons gathered around as their shouting became louder. I debated over whether or not to make a stand with them and let my voice be heard against the pragmatic menace, but the pride that would come from doing so of my own volition would not come to be when I heard said menace speak my name in a growl. “You leave her out of this!” Cross Stitch replied. “She told me way back when all about you.” There wasn’t any point in acting like I didn’t hear her, so I muscled up the courage and stood my ground alongside Cross Stitch. This throng of the elderly and differentiated tastes in fashion felt closer to an army now, radiating with a power of friendship and respect for one another. Suddenly, Suri realized she wasn’t in the best of positions, but she wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Really?” she scoffed, glancing over at me like I was just another hapless peon deserving of her disapproval for merely existing. “I suppose it is true what they say about the bottom of the barrel —seeing this is obviously where you get your lost causes from.” I bared my teeth angrily at that. “Get lost, Suri. This isn’t just another high-end outlet where you can practically pay to insult and smarm off to other ponies for as long as you want.” “For your information, Coco, I arrived here as a paying customer because I heard this was the only store left in this city that sold a very special kind of thread. One that I was once willing to pay very handsomely for to get my hooves on, but it looks to be that will never happen, all because of the incompetence of its owner who boasts about how her face has more wrinkles than her brain has cells.” That alone nearly pushed me over the edge. Cross Stitch snorted, a puff of steam escaping from her nostrils. “To think that you would have been part of another of my greatest achievements now would be silly. I would never want to deal with a supplier with such a repugnant attitude. Especially not while I’m on my way to becoming the biggest name in Manehatten with a dress that will stun the world.” Suri smirked, staring me down with a coy smile before waving a hoof at one the mares next to her. The attendant, a unicorn, tilted her head upward in a posh manner while her horn lit up with a magical pink glow. A dress carrier was levitated into the air from her back and floated around to her front for all to see while the zipper was haltingly pulled down. Within and then without it, a dress, but this was as far from describing an ordinary dress as one could get without flying off the handle with enthusiasm and praise. I’m not going to do that. Rather, I will say its design was a bit of a generational farce. Determining which era of fashion the inspiration was taken from was and remains a mystery. Its upper and lower halves looked modest for their time, but the degenerating aesthetics that encompassed the appendages and the midsection said otherwise, like a complex brain teaser that one would rather guess at than expend the energy trying to solve it. And that’s what made me angry. It was good —better than good— and I couldn’t resist locking my gaze onto it. And I feared it. I knew Suri, and she couldn’t resist a chance to upstage me after I quit working for her. We were bigger rivals than most ponies made us out to be if they knew. There wasn’t a doubt left in my mind that she was entering it in the contest. “Take a good look, grandma, because there’s a pretty good chance you’ll be seeing this baby in stores all across Equestria. This rinky dink place?” Suri glanced at each of her attendants before all three of them burst into a fit of laughter. “Doubtful.” Suddenly, all the talk that I heard about the strength of the competition appeared infinitesimally puny compared to the amount of worry I set myself in. Suri was either going to win or come in second to an even more skilled designer, and it was the latter that I feared the most. My miracle sketch from the previous day might have given me a chance, but it remained only a chance. It also struck me that I lacked the experience in the field to judge the elements of good design by several years. Things like uniform creases and the relativity of trimmings to their dresses and what eras they originated from were concepts that mandated a higher education, which I obviously didn't have. My dress was still just a dress, but, then again...so was Suri’s. I began formulating an idea immediately only to then back the hay off of it when I realized what it would take to guarantee me a place near the top of the chain, but it was uncannily tempting to me with an incentive that was impossible to resist. What did I want more than anything in the world, again? “Sorry to end off this lovely conversation with you all, but I’ve got contracts to fill.” Suri chuckled, turning and trotting away with her entourage as though she hadn't lost a single scrap of dignity, looking back at me from over her shoulder. “It’s been a delight seeing you again, Coco. See you around...but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Everypony in the store stared daggers into the back of Suri’s head as she nonchalantly cantered away, most notably Cross Stitch, who bolted to the doorway and shook an angry hoof at her as she crossed the opposing street, her brace seeming to have done very little to impede her sudden burst of speed. “Oh yeah? Well us neither! Good riddance to ‘ya!” Cross Stitch sighed and turned around, her brace clanking noisily as she faced a crowd of shoppers that had congregated near the door, including myself at the forefront. “Yeah, good riddance to ‘em! We don’t need that kind of sumptuous filth in these parts pushing us around!” One elderly mare spoke up within the crowd whilst waving her tennis ball-tipped cane triumphantly in the air. “Who does she think she is? Goldy Laces? Well, don’t get me wrong. Goldy’s work is pure genius, but that doesn’t give her an excuse to treat us like nobodies!” said a young, amateurish mare beside me in turn, adorning spectacles and a red scarf. Cross Stitch sighed again. “Alright, alright, everypony calm down. She’s gone now, and I’ll let that bright side shine on me all day long, I’ll tell you h’what. Go on with your day. Nothing more to discuss here.” Everypony in the crowd complied, save me, going willingly with mumbles and grumbles hanging on their disgruntled breaths. They may have been a little glad to finally see Suri leave, but, even more than they, I wished I had never seen her in the first place. It only made me jealous, worrisome, and most of all, unusually irrational. My dress may be a little different, I reflected, thinking back to the moment when my magnum opus was finally pieced together whilst biting my lower lip in trepidation. But Suri’s dress is something else entirely. Once, twice, and now three times over have I seen the stakes go up. What do you do if your absolute best just won’t cut it? My concentration was broken by the sound of a corn husk broom sweeping across the floor. I looked over to find Cross Stitch tidying up the exterior of the store’s entrance by brushing dust off of the doormat, still looking a little crabby since her encounter. Then, an imaginary light bulb flashed on over my head. An idea had been born, but it wasn’t one I particularly liked. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if I... I started as I made my way over to her. I could just say I’ve had a change of heart and stuff. It’d be for a noble cause, right? “Umm...Cross Stitch?” I said as I stood behind her. “Hmm?” The old mare put her sweeping on hold, looking at me over her shoulder. It sounded as if all her frustration with Suri beforehoof had vanished just as soon as her eyes fell on me. “Need something, Coco?” Just let it out, Coco! C’mon, show her that you care. “Y...yes, I do. How many championships did you say you won again?”