#alaina8

I was less than thrilled when Portia, my stylist, handed me a half-sewn dress. It was a sheer cotton, a fabric I had handled in the factory but never worn as it was reserved for those who had the time to lay about in the sunshine. She fitted the garment so that it flowed loosely to the ground. It was nice, sure, but it was incomplete: there were raw edges and loose seams noticeable by even an untrained eye. I opened my mouth to protest but she placed a bright pink finger over my lips and showed me a container of shimmering, silver worms.   “These, right here, are seworms! While you’re on your chariot, these little ones are going to turn your dress into a masterpiece,” she bubbled.  Portia picked a few out, tied the thread to their duller end, and placed them at the bottom of my dress. I watched as the wriggled about before starting to work on the hem. She then presented to me a picture of what the finished product would look like, and I knew that I had no choice but to trust that I would arrive at the end of the parade in that finished outfit.