• Published 25th Aug 2016
  • 1,080 Views, 40 Comments

A Pony a Day - OfTheIronwilled



Little ponies go through endless scenarios. And by "endless" I mean "one hundred".

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Fabric (12/26/2019)

On her absolute best days, Rarity saw her dresses as pieces of fine art. As those models strutted down the stage, hips alight with flaming color as the sheen fabric fell about them like water, her heart would pump with something... so very beautiful. Respectful. Her awe-filled eyes would gaze at the fashion before her as if she herself had not made it - that was impossible! Surely, surely, this had to have been made by somepony, some one, some thing far more smart than she, some goddess above who crafted every seam and stitch with effortless clarity. It was that easy for her to produce such results. That gorgeous. And the audience? Well, they agreed of course.

Today, Rarity looked at her finished work and felt nothing. It was fabric. Just fabric. Draped over a mannequin like a ghost, a pale image of what could have been, if only she had done a better job. Been better. Been...

Normal. How she used to be. As good as she used to be. But she wasn't, not any more. She hadn't been for a very, very long time.

Now, Rarity wasn't one to wallow in self pity without good reason, not after that incident with her friends' frightful Gala dresses ages ago, but this was altogether another beast. Sure, from the outside it must seem to other ponies like just a slump or art block, as any creative type goes through every once and awhile, but she knew better. She wouldn't be lying on the floor in her dank and dusty workroom feeling sorry for herself if this were just a small bump in the road. No, she'd be kicking herself in the tail and getting back to sketching until she'd worked it out and once again gotten back to her usual grace. Or at least she would go see her friends, and maybe even ask Coco Pommel or Sassy Saddles for advice. But this was different. She could feel it.

Deep in her bones, this ache tore at her. Heavy, an anchor tied to a balloon above her head, ready to fall and crush her the moment she picked up a sewing needle. More than a slump. More than sadness.

The public didn't know just how long she'd spent pushing out rehashes - their eyes weren't trained enough, and even if they were they couldn't possibly know. They didn't know how many days she had tried, again and again, to feel anything but this awful, clinging, rotting apathy that ate away her very bones, very spirit.

At least twenty-four months by now, she'd wager. Twenty-four months of churning out pieces that meant nothing. Just sitting here. Feeling so lost.

Earlier today she had given it one more chance, a real college try, as they say. The sewing needle wobbled in her magical grip from disuse, and she tore at the fabric clumsily from how out of practice she was, but she did it in the end, and she hoped that now, after all this time, she would be able to move on and once again create her art and feel that spark of pure happiness it once brought her.

Rarity looked at her finished product, her makeup a mess, her mane clumped up and frizzy atop her head.

She saw nothing. Only fabric. It was in the shape of a dress, of course, and her clientele would surely be unable to see a difference. But she knew better.

It was nothing. And today, so was she.

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