Origamy
By: Margaret Collins
After a few folds,
and a few strokes of pencil,
and two dots for eyes,
you’re alive.
What a beautiful tiger you are,
says the Creator as they loom above you,
and you instinctively know that
they are someone who loves you.
You wonder how you know them.
You wonder a lot of things--
as things do
at the beginning of their conscious existence.
You look around, your head turning with a rustle.
Sheets of paper are scattered across the desk,
all sorts of different colours, shapes, and sizes,
each one another thing to wonder about.
Some are flat and waiting,
edges crisp and sharp with potential.
Some are folded like you,
creased into birds and bugs and beasts,
A red crane tilts its head at you.
“Welcome,” it says, its voice
still warm, as if it just came from a sunbeam.
“You’re new.”
You blink--
or, rather, you think you do,
as your eyes are only dots,
but the feeling is the same.
“New to what?”
Your voice is paper-thin, like the crane’s,
but there’s a hint of strength and power
beneath your words.
“To being,” says the crane,
wings ruffling as if shrugging.
“You were nothing. Now you are.
Strange, isn’t it?”
You think about this.
It is strange.
You were creased into shape and
brought to being by a gentle will.
The Creator watches, smiling
with their teeth and their eyes.
They reach down, fingers careful,
and lift you from the desk.
You’ll like it here, they murmur.
Their voice is the first sound you have ever known.
And though you do not know much else yet,
you know this:
You were made with love.
And that, you think, is a very good place to begin.
and a few strokes of pencil,
and two dots for eyes,
you’re alive.
What a beautiful tiger you are,
says the Creator as they loom above you,
and you instinctively know that
they are someone who loves you.
You wonder how you know them.
You wonder a lot of things--
as things do
at the beginning of their conscious existence.
You look around, your head turning with a rustle.
Sheets of paper are scattered across the desk,
all sorts of different colours, shapes, and sizes,
each one another thing to wonder about.
Some are flat and waiting,
edges crisp and sharp with potential.
Some are folded like you,
creased into birds and bugs and beasts,
A red crane tilts its head at you.
“Welcome,” it says, its voice
still warm, as if it just came from a sunbeam.
“You’re new.”
You blink--
or, rather, you think you do,
as your eyes are only dots,
but the feeling is the same.
“New to what?”
Your voice is paper-thin, like the crane’s,
but there’s a hint of strength and power
beneath your words.
“To being,” says the crane,
wings ruffling as if shrugging.
“You were nothing. Now you are.
Strange, isn’t it?”
You think about this.
It is strange.
You were creased into shape and
brought to being by a gentle will.
The Creator watches, smiling
with their teeth and their eyes.
They reach down, fingers careful,
and lift you from the desk.
You’ll like it here, they murmur.
Their voice is the first sound you have ever known.
And though you do not know much else yet,
you know this:
You were made with love.
And that, you think, is a very good place to begin.
Writer's Statement: The word PAPER came up when I used a random word generator. I also got TIGER after I used a random animal generator. For a few hours, I wondered how to use these prompts together, but I eventually got my idea and stuck to it.