It was like a world full of men made of paper, and the world was coming to an end as there came a great downpour. Torrential rain and thunder tearing through the skies. The little papermen huddled together under trees, underground, under whatever makeshift shelter they had made. Among these papermen, almost glowing in pink, was a human child, huddled with his paper comrades, hiding from that fearful pitter-patter of death. All was lost.
As he peered into the hazy distance of the rain-filled air, suddenly, he caught sight of movement. Movement which he had never seen before, yet familiar. Colours which often he saw on the murky faces of ponds and rivers. A pink which was a shade never quite the same as the Pink family downtown. A shade of pink that is all at once dull, yet glowing with life. And as he squinted, he could make out shapes. Solid and firm, the death all around seemed to fall onto them and bounce off harmlessly. Shapes that the Origami Circus, with all their flowers and spaceships, could never quite accomplish.
He squinted hard, straining to see that strange vision.
"There's something there!" He mumbled, but the roar of the rain drowned him out.
Mr White shuffled into view, his surface was wrinkly. A little wet spots here and there, a veteran, a paper who had seen death.
"Don't look at them," He puffed, "They are papers gone crazy. You don't want to be like them, dancing in the rain like that. Its going to be the death of us all!"
The child looked at his hands. They were not glowing like the ones in the distance, but they did look different. Maybe he was different.