This is based on some characters  Toonvasion and I developed for an interactive story. Though in that the DIVA is a hair dresser, I believe. Anyway, here it is. Hammed this out in a hurry to try to get the juices flowing again.

---

The llama diva walked in circles around her latest model, hoof cradling her chin as she considered the new client’s form. In the seemingly inexhaustible spectrum of toon archetypes, she was the “fashion icon” type. Elegant, inspired, intense. She peered through her fashionable angled sunglasses and measured the figure of her model, formulating what sort of outfit would perfectly accentuate it.

“A narrow waist. And slender shoulders,” she murmured.

“Narrow waist, slender shoulders…” remarked her new assistant as he marched dutifully behind her, taking notes.

He was a secretary bird, though that was his occupation, not his species. He was a peacock. In a way he was almost more flamboyant and elegant than the diva. He fluttered his eye lashes as he took notes.

“She’ll need something flowing to give her figure form,” she observed.

“Flowing…” he repeated.

She snapped her hoof. “Ah-ha! I have it. Get me a bolt of cloth!”

He looked up from his notes, stricken. “I’m ever so sorry, boss. But the cloth hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Are you telling me that my muse may escape me because you failed to place an order?” she said, threat in her voice.

“No, no. I placed the order, but it hasn’t arrived. The delivery is late. I sent your other employees out to pick it up personally.”

“I must have cloth. Inspiration is fleeting,” she turned to him. “You know what this means…”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, boss.”

He shakily placed his notes aside. And lowered his wings to his sides. The diva produced a mallet from nowhere, in the usual toon fashion.

“I expect you to be supple and to hold creases well,” she said, hefting the hammer.

“I’ll do my best, boss.”

She raised the mallet and brought it down. The heavy hammer mashed him flat to the ground. His body disked nicely, flattening to a consistent thickness. His face, complete with its gorgeous lashes, was at the center of the top of the disk. She pulled him from the floor and gave him a flap, pinching and testing his softness.

“You’ll do,” she said, pulling out her scissors.

In a flurry of motion, she set about snipping and stitching. Each time the scissors sliced or the needle poked, he twitched and whimpered lightly. Soon it was difficult to tell which part of him had been which as she crafted him into a stunning blouse. She fitted him over the model, his warm, soft fabric-like flesh flattering her magnificently.

The model turned and strutted, walking the length of the room and pausing to strike a pose. Flashes from unseen photographers, seemingly conjured through the power of raw fashion, filled the room.

The diva raised her hoof and the flashes ceased.

“It is good. Brilliant tailoring, and impeccable design. Naturally.” She brushed the flowing form fashioned from her former assistant, producing a soft murmur and a barely perceptible flutter. “But the colors are all wrong. Too busy. Too vivid. They draw the eye in all the wrong ways.

The doors opened and a pony and sparrow toon trotted in, arms heaped with bolts of cloth.

“Where were you,” she asked impatiently. “I had to improvise lest the inspiration vanish into the ether.”

She selected a roll of cream-colored cloth and, with a startling blur of thread, scissors, and utter brilliance, produced a duplicate of the outfit. With a flick of her hoof, she tugged the assistant-turned-blouse from her and dropped it into a crumpled heap on the floor. The model donned the new blouse and instantly the lightning flash of cameras returned with a vengeance. The model struck her poses. An unseen crowd ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Then, with another raised hoof, they were silenced.

“It will do. Another flawless creation. Have it ready for the Paris runways by spring. Now run along.”

The model and the employees hurried away. The diva marched toward her office, but her tasteful heels came down on something soft and yielding. The glanced down and spotted the crumpled form of the prototype blouse. She reached down and plucked it from the ground. After a furtive glance to ensure she was alone, she raised the blouse and unfurled it. She shut her eyes and gathered the soft warm garment to her face. It was so gloriously warm and lively. She rubbed it on her cheek and sighed, then pressed her nose into the wrinkles of the garment and breathed in a whiff of her assistant’s scent.

A door opened. The diva looked up quickly, clutching the toon-turned-blouse to her chest like a security blanket. It was one of her employees. Specifically, the sparrow. The diva snapped back into her sharp, elegant demeanor and held out the floppy garment she’d turned her assistant into.

“You. Get him back into shape. He’s the only one with the focus to properly record my genius.”

The sparrow nodded and snatched him away, scurrying off to perform whatever steps were necessary to unblouse a toon.

“A pity,” the diva said. “He did hang rather well on that model. Eh, no matter. There will always be other designs…”