Cheerielee's School for Peculiar Girls

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I had enjoyed a moment alone with my new sister, in a rather intimate fashion. We had just been enjoying the fashion, lent to us by Rarity; before we returned to the room, apparently adjusted to house us at Cheerilee’s school for Peculiar Girls. Girls, just like us.

Walking down the hall is no challenge, even after Rarity imparted us with the identity, she had envisioned for us. I still do wear that one original, first skirt and top. I have not quite had the time to consider my fashion.

Every door has a plaque, just as the door to our room has one. It is, how I can open the doors to the rooms where I am permitted entrance. If I am permitted to be in the room, I can open the door; if I am not supposed to be in the room, the door will simply not open for me.

I had come to notice, how every door on campus has one of these plaques. Typically just a black surface coated with glossy rubber; with the underlying Equestrian magic operating the device hidden beneath the surface. If this is an Equestrian installation, everything here will work on the principles of how things could work there; as opposed to how it would have worked, on Earth. Nothing here is built or crafted by human hands, or thought up by human minds. At least, it is the impression I had gathered, during my still rather brief stay at the school.

I had followed the instruction, going to this class; following the description of the layout of the building. Now I stand before the door to the class, I had been signed up of.

I extend my right hand towards the door, the palm of my right hand out. As I place my hand onto the device, I spread my fingers wide, only to see the door open before me. I knew I had been expected to take the class, so it is no surprise I am permitted entrance.

“Ponies can’t use regular door-handles, even if a Unicorn probably could handle the doorknob!” I realize.

My sister is signed up to the same class, she is thus following me a step behind. Inside, the seats are lined up, in a typical horse shoe formation. I take a seat, and my sister takes the companion seat beside me.

A few pairs of girls had already taken their seats and the rest came shortly after. Each girl, curious as to what the class would be, and how the lesson is going to advance her in the future before us as peculiar girls.

Once everyone is seated, the room is quiet, dead quiet. The quiet lasts, for but a short moment; before a pink mare with tightly curled up mane steps right into the room, through a previously unseen door. As opposed to my expectation, she is walking upright in a bipedal stance like any girl I ever knew. What will become of these girls now, I have no idea. I push them out of my mind, for what is before me.

“I am Diane!” she exclaims, just an instant before she extracts a large book from within the confines of the volume that is her deep purple mane.

“The unabridged version of the complete school of Origami!” the book reads.

I can see her holding up the ultra heavy tome before me and the rest of the class, demonstrating the title. I can see a sub-title in standard English; under the Japanese title in original Kanji calligraphy.

After she had demonstrated the book, she is gripping it in the bangs of her hair. I notice; how she is picking up a sheet of pristine, white paper and folds it into an Origami, from the depths of the book before her.

There is a deep and heavy gasp, as the accomplishment hit home among the girls in the gathering.

Once she finished the first, demonstration origami; she pulls out another arch of paper, identical to the one she just used. She steps forwards, stopping in the middle of the formation; giving me, and every other girl a chance to see her work her magic, while she is crafting the next Origami.

I see her eyes following the images, demonstrating exactly how to fold the origami on the page. Step by step, she follows the instructions, folding the paper into the perfect piece of art it had originally been intended to be. She continues folding paper; leaving a fresh origami in the wake of her action. Another sheet of paper, resulting in another origami. Once, twice and thrice; another and another.

There is a crane, flying in the air, a tiger pouncing and followed by yet other forms and creatures in perfect depiction. Now she is folding Origamis in light speed, following the instructions perfectly, to the letter.

One by one, new sheets of paper appears and being turned into a new origami. Page by page, she crafts the origami from A to Z.

If she is actually reading the Kanji at all, or going by picture or even intuition is not for me to say. She works faster than even I could possibly follow or see.

“The unabridged version, of the complete Origami school? Is she intending to actually create each of these Origamis?” I ponder; knowing the others have considered exactly the same, at some point of this class.

None dares to speak, in the hopes of not missing an instant of her work. Even if the comedy lies, in the speed and position at which she is working; rather than exactly what she is doing, or why.

Page, by page; page by page page by page. She is consuming these pristine arches of white paper so fast, one’s mind boggle under the sheer effort of what she is doing. She clearly used up package by package, faster than one should even attempt, to fold a beginner’s Origami.

If the sheer amount of Origami she is putting forth is mind-boggling, then have a look at the quality she is presenting. The Master is proud of lesser works, than she is literally and
figuratively dumping onto the floor. The speed is that of an industrial machine producing user’s goods at bulk capacity.

Jaws agape, dropping left and right. The scene is in and of itself comedy.

As suddenly as she had appeared, she disappears. Origami everywhere. She had used up the book and the paper she brought with her. The class is at an end. Never stopping, never slowing down. The trademark, of this one pink pony and mare.

She had left the room and closed the door behind herself, not a trace of where she came from or where she had gone. She is simply not there, as if she had never been here, in the first place.

Yet, the piles of Origami is testimony of her entering the room. Undeniable and indisputable as Death itself. There is no escape.

Of course, she has slipped the book back where she had found it, from the void that is the volume of her mane. We had all seen it; even if one never could comprehend it, when it had just happened.

“Class dismissed!” she had cooed, in that chirp of a female voice of hers.

Everyone files out, in pairs. I had been in the group of girls filing out. From there, I walk back to my room.

“Class dismissed!” I ponder.

“What happened?” my sister inquire, as if she had been considering if any of what she had witnessed had even happened.