Fashion
Bolts of cloth of many different textures and patterns were everywhere. So many different hues. Shades of sea blue, sunshine yellow and flame red bombarded her eyes. She sighed. Such a dizzying array of choices indeed. She was at John’s at Westover. The prices frightened her, and she was intimidated by the size of the place, the chic ladies in their light spring dresses, wooden sandals and Gucci sunglasses, wandering here and there, examining bolts of cloth. There was an echoing strangeness in the atmosphere and it was worlds from the Woolworth store in the north of Nice, where she usually bought her material.
She was intimidated, but not stopped. Tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear, a sign she was getting down to work and with her hazel eyes twinkling with excitement, she walked down the aisle. What treasure was she going to find here? As she walked around, peering at the materials, feeling the texture of the cloth as she ran her fingers on their surfaces, she felt a sense of nostalgia. The familiar musky scent of cloth shops brought back memories of her mother who would bring her to such places for materials to make her clothings. Oh, how beautiful her mother had looked in her masterpieces. Those memories served as her passion and her inspiration. She wanted women to feel beautiful. And she wanted them to smile like how her mother did. Thankfully, she inherited her mother’s tailoring skills.
And in the corner, a shade of blue caught her eye. She had found her treasure. A beautiful bolt of cloth lay there, in a shade of greenish blue. A closer look revealed intricate designs travelling across its surface, beautiful roses blooming with butterflies fluttering around.
“This is what I want,” she whispered.
She beckoned the shop assistant towards her, a plain young lady with very thick lips and a ginger afro, asking her for the price.
“65 dollars a bunch, aye.” she replied with her thick Australian accent.
The price took her by surprise. But it was worth it. She fished out her credit card and bundled the cloth in her arms as she would a baby. The heavy, rich, velvety material felt alien to her skin, which was used to only cotton and wool.
“You’ll make the most beautiful gown in the world.”
The next morning, in her studio at Paris Boulevard, she waited for her model. Her studio, with its cracked yellow walls and her sketching of clothes pasted on the surface, looked messy and old. She never bothered to clean it up. She was no housekeeper.
Then, a figure stumbled in, almost crashing to the floor.
“Adriana,” gasped Vittoria, her model. Vittoria rushed over to her, gathering Adriana in a tight embrace while mumbling French words of apology.
“Ah, darling, the traffic was terrible! Horrible! Monstrous!” Vittoria’s flame red was a mess, her pale skin flushed and her hand clammy with sweat. She was the perfect model. With her red hair serving as a perfect contrast to the greenish blue cloth and eyes that matched the colour of the material. Vittoria was a godsend.
Adriana took out her measuring tape. “Let’s make up for lost time.” she smiled. She measured Vittoria’s slim body from head to toe, ensuring a perfect fit, while Vittoria giggled, for it was ticklish. When she had her measurements, she told Vittoria that she could go. “Come back three days later for the fitting, okay? Don’t be late.”
She worked day and night, obsessively, with a haunted look on her face, dark circles forming under her eyes. She did not bother to eat too. No time for that, she had said to herself. Each action she took the cutting, the measuring, the tailoring and the embroidery, she did them precisely. But this was not good for her already weak heart, all this stress and tension. And she knew it. The medicine she had to take everyday lay forgotten it its drawer. She felt faint, dizzy, but she soldiered on with her unwavering determination. Her hunger for victory was just too strong.
“It’s a perfect fit.”
That was what she had thought as she glanced at Vittoria, now wearing the gown. It was the day of the fitting, and Vittoria was punctual this time. There was no need for adjustments. The gown was just perfect on Vittoria, showing the right amount of flesh, and tight and loose in the right places.
Vittoria admired herself in the mirror, but she was worried. Adriana looked awfully pale, her face sunken and sickly. But Adriana had brushed off her concerns, claiming that she was just a wee bit tired. “Maybe I’m just worrying too much.” Vittoria thought. She caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled. A smile full of happiness, satisfaction and pride. The same smile that Adriana’s mother had when she modelled her own clothes.
“Do you think I can win? Do I even stand a chance?” mused Adriana.
“I do not know. The gown is stunning. But...but they are other designers too.” replied Vittoria rather hesitantly, fearing that such an answer would upset Adriana.
With a sigh, Adriana slumped into a chair, clutching a wine glass and peering at its contents.
“To victory.” She said as she raised the glass.
Vittoria smiled. “Yes, to victory.”
She hated waiting. The feeling of nervousness and uncertainty filled her. It was dreadful, those feelings. Sitting in her place with the other contestants while watching models strutting on the catwalk in their creations, she waited for Vittoria. She judged each designs. Some impressed her, but most were rubbish, lacking finesse and showing the designer’s lack of tailoring skills. Her heartbeat was racing, she could feel her heart thumping against her rib cage. This was not good. “Where is my medicine when I need it?” She digged around inside her canvas bag. But the bottle of pills cannot be found. It was hurting quite a bit now. But she maintained her composure and prayed.
Vittoria was ready when her name was called. She was always ready, that was her motto. She walked out with an air of confidence and a pair of sexy high heels. Her make-up was done so that she would look more enchanting, with emphasis on her eyes and her sensuous lips. Her hair was let down, and fell on her shoulders like crimson silk curtains. All eyes were on her and she liked it that way. The crowd looked at her, in awe, as if she was an angel that was sent down to Earth to bless them all with her presence. The judges peered at the gown, whispered and nodded to each other in agreement, without expression. But the gown turned everybody’s head. They whispered amongst themselves, praising its beauty, its craftsmanship, its style.
Adriana felt as if her heart was going to burst. She could die of this pain. She was sure of it. Clutching her chest, she tried to control this unbearable pain. Tears glittered in her eyes. “Oh why now? Of all times.” She saw Vittoria descended down the catwalk and sashayed with her gown. She saw how the crowd stared. It was clear who was the winner. A smile of euphoria crept into her face despite the pain. She knew victory was hers to savour. And with a flash of pain, her heart stopped. She closed her eyes with a smile on her face and slumped into her seat. Nobody noticed she died.
As one as the judges climbed up the stage and announced the result, it was no surprise to her that her name was announced. But something was amiss. Where was Adriana? The judge called her name repeatedly. And Vittoria was hit with an unexpected sense of dread.
Suddenly, a scream echoed throughout the room. A scream of terror, a scream of horror.
“She’s dead! She’s dead! Oh gosh, somebody help!”
Vittoria looked towards the direction of the scream. And there she saw Adriana lying slumped on her seat, face as pale as death itself, with tears streaming down her face but with a smile on her lips.
It could not be. It must not be. Vittoria raced toward Adriana’s body, clawing her way through the crowd that had gathered around the body.
No, no, no. It could not be. Why? How? These questions were ringing inside her head.
“No! No! No!” she screamed. She was in hysterics. Vittoria screamed and cried as she hugged Adriana’s body. Tears ran down her face, smudging her mascara, making her such a sight. She does not look so perfect anymore, the crowd thought. More like a mad woman.
As the crowd gathered around this sad scene, hushed whispers rose amongst them. Questions were asked. “Why? How? A heart attack you say? She wasn’t well? Ohh, no wonder she had looked so pale. Must be the stress. Worked herself to death that girl. Such a pity. She’s so young”
And the crowd shook their heads. Such a sad thing to happen. And it was so ironic. The poor girl had died just for the sake of fashion.

This post has been edited by IWanUrMoney: Oct 12 2009, 10:00 PM

SPM 2008


My future wife or husband




“Sweetheart. I’m home..!”


I am allergic to honey. It gives me headache. My future husband has to know this. That will bring him one step closer to being perfect.


My perfect future husband will have the name Alex. Because it was my favourite name. He will also have a head full of hair and be a foot taller than myself. That really should not be a problem. He also need to be fit and healthy with a trim body as a proof.


He must also be very successful at his career whatever that may be as long as he is not a policemen, a fireman,a lawyer, an accountant, a dentist,a surgeon,a reporter, a rap artist or a graphic designer. Anything else is fine. A salary with six figures per month undeniably brings him three steps forward to becoming perfect.


His middle name need to be Confident and his last name Power. He has to be a man who walks with confidence in his graceful stride. A man who is sure of what he wants and not stop walking until he gets it. He must have the power of panda just like a movie of ‘Kung Fu Panda’. The ability to make people succumb to his every wish. Fulfill his every whim and fancy. Panda do that really well because they are really cute..! They just melt your heart.


He must also shower me with luxuries every other day. Roses, chocolates, high heels, dresses and gowns and basically his credit cards. If he expects me just to sit at home and watch reruns of Desperate Housewives, that places him five steps behind the not knowing of my honey allergy. No, I ned to be wake up everyday and have something glamorous on my agenda. Like brunch at the Hilton and tea in Bali. Privates jets and helicopters of course. Things that keep me happy. And more importantly, happy wives do not kill their husbands.


He also have to make time for me. A little trip off to the Caribbean during the weekends and maybe Paris every few months. Now would a husband be a perfect if he leaves his wife out of his life? No, he certainly would not be perfect. I fully expect him to share every detail of his life with me. Communication. Extremely vital.


So there we have it. Greek god, filthy rich, powerful, succumbs to my heart’s desire and revolves his life only around mine. It does not get much better than that. He is truly a perfect husband. He is just not my perfect husband. That was a snobby, upper east side caviar eating lady who was speaking before this.


I do not care what my husband’s name is. I do not care if his abs are rock hard. As long as he can save me from lizars and spiders, he is the most powerful man on earth to me. My heart’s desire is to have his heart and soul. I may resort to murder if he is around me at all the time.


My perfect husband will love me even if I do not have slim tights, cannot cook to save a life and despise dressing up. He will show me how much he loves me by the look in his eyes and how he kisses me even while I am scolding him.


“Goodnight beautiful.”


Not Alex. Not Adonis, not Greek god. This man. This man is my perfect future husband.