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Ken
Liu's
incredible
story
"Paper
Menagerie"
just
became
the
first
work
of
fiction
to
win
all
three
of
SF's
major
awards:
the
Hugo,
the
Nebula
and
the
World
Fantasy
Award.
And
we're
proud
to
be
able
to
reprint
the
whole
story,
right
here
at
io9.
Here's
your
chance
to
find
out
what
all
the
excitement
is
about,
and
discover
one
of
science
fiction's
fastest
rising
stars.
One
of
my
earliest
memories
starts
with
me
sobbing.
I
refused
to
be
soothed
no
matter
what
Mom
and
Dad
tried.
Dad
gave
up
and
left
the
bedroom,
but
Mom
took
me
into
the
kitchen
and
sat
me
down
at
the
breakfast
table.
"Kan,
kan,"
she
said,
as
she
pulled
a
sheet
of
wrapping
paper
from
on
top
of
the
fridge.
For
years,
Mom
carefully
sliced
open
the
wrappings
around
Christmas
gifts
and
saved
them
on
top
of
the
fridge
in
a
thick
stack.
She
set
the
paper
down,
plain
side
facing
up,
and
began
to
fold
it.
I
stopped
crying
and
watched
her,
curious.
She
turned
the
paper
over
and
folded
it
again.
She
pleated,
packed,
tucked,
rolled,
and
twisted
until
the
paper
disappeared
between
her
cupped
hands.
Then
she
lifted
the
folded-up
paper
packet
to
her
mouth
and
blew
into
it,
like
a
balloon.
"Kan,"
she
said.
"Laohu."
She
put
her
hands
down
on
the
table
and
let
go.
A
little
paper
tiger
stood
on
the
table,
the
size
of
two
fists
placed
together.
The
skin
of
the
tiger
was
the
pattern
on
the
wrapping
paper,
white
background
with
red
candy
canes
and
green
Christmas
trees.
I
reached
out
to
Mom's
creation.
Its
tail
twitched,
and
it
pounced
playfully
at
my
finger.
"Rawrr-sa,"
it
growled,
the
sound
somewhere
between
a
cat
and
rustling
newspapers.
I
laughed,
startled,
and
stroked
its
back
with
an
index
finger.
The
paper
tiger
vibrated
under
my
finger,
purring.
"Zhe
jiao
zhezhi,"
Mom
said.
This
is
called
origami.
I
didn't
know
this
at
the
time,
but
Mom's
kind
was
special.
She
breathed
into
them
so
that
they
shared
her
breath,
and
thus
moved
with
her
life.
This
was
her
magic.
Dad
had
picked
Mom
out
of
a
catalog.
One
time,
when
I
was
in
high
school,
I
asked
Dad
about
the
details.
He
was
trying
to
get
me
to
speak
to
Mom
again.
He
had
signed
up
for
the
introduction
service
back
in
the
spring
of
1973.
Flipping
through
the
pages
steadily,
he
had
spent
no
more
than
a
few
seconds
on
each
page
until
he
saw
the
picture
of
Mom.
I've
never
seen
this
picture.
Dad
described
it:
Mom
was
sitting
in
a
chair,
her
side
to
the
camera,
wearing
a
tight
green
silk
cheongsam.
Her
head
was
turned
to
the
camera
so
that
her
long
black
hair
was
draped
artfully
over
her
chest
and
shoulder.
She
looked
out
at
him
with
the
eyes
of
a
calm
child.
"That
was
the
last
page
of
the
catalog
I
saw,"
he
said.
The
catalog
said
she
was
eighteen,
loved
to
dance,
and
spoke
good
English
because
she
was
from
Hong
Kong.
None
of
these
facts
turned
out
to
be
true.
He
wrote
to
her,
and
the
company
passed
their
messages
back
and
forth.
Finally,
he
flew
to
Hong
Kong
to
meet
her.
"The
people
at
the
company
had
been
writing
her
responses.
She
didn't
know
any
English
other
than
'hello'
and
'goodbye.'"
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