Subject: [FFML] [ORIG] In A Small Box
From: "Matthew Johnston" <matthew@kingdomofmel.com>
Date: 6/27/2001, 1:06 PM
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                         *    *    *    *

                   I N   A   S M A L L   B O X

                              *    *

           "In A Small Box" (c) 2001 Matthew Johnston.
                       All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance of the characters
     to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  

                         *    *    *    *

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     Think for yourself.
     Question authority.

Itsuko stared at the scribbled words.  They seemed to stare back 
at her from the wall of the train, permanent black ink scrawled on 
white plastic.  It was so unusual, she thought.  Graffiti itself 
was so unusual.  But there it was, drawing her attention.
     She wondered, who wrote it?  Who would write it?  It seemed 
such an American thing, putting graffiti on a wall.  Not that 
she'd spent any big time studying Americans.  She wasn't like 
that.  A voice in the back of her head, cynical and soft, 
chuckled.  'That's right, you're Japanese.  Japanese don't do 
anything for themselves.  You always do what you're told, don't 
you?  Followers following followers.'
     Caught in her own stereotyping, Itsuko shook her head.  Did 
she really fit so easily into that box?  A shove from behind 
interrupted her though, pressing her against the back of a smart 
suit jacket.  The train was so much more crowded than usual.  
     She smiled darkly.  Here we are, she thought.  Stuck in a 
box.
     It caught her eye again.  Those scribbled words.  She took a 
quick look around.  Nobody else seemed to see them.  
     Of course, she thought.  This is where the words glow and the 
train disappears and I see the giant robots fighting.  
     She shook her head again.  "Too much TV," she muttered.
     Itsuko closed her eyes; it was so hot all of a sudden.  'It's 
bugging you,' the mental voice noted.  'You can't believe a 
Japanese would write something like that.'
     'It probably was,' Istuko relented.  'Why would a foreigner 
write it anyway?'
     'Besides,' the voice added, 'the handwriting's too good to be 
a foreigner's.'
     She heard herself chuckling, and opened her eyes.  She'd been 
laughing out loud.  People were looking at her.  Her laugh caught 
in her throat, nearly choking her.
	The silence ate at her, and she looked down at her shoes.  
'Just like every other school girl,' the voice goaded.
     Itsuko concentrated on figuring out who would write the 
graffiti.  It was a man, she figured from the handwriting.  Very 
aggressive and frustrated.  Anyone who would write such 
ideological graffiti probably wasn't a joker.  He was probably a 
college student, so he wouldn't be too much older than she.
     'You want him,' the voice was laughing.  'You're getting 
aroused.'  Itsuko blushed hard her conscience's observation.  It 
did stir something in her; was it the words that did it?  Or just 
the type of person who would have the gall to write it?  She 
wondered why he decided on this train.
     Maybe he'd return to the scene of the crime, she thought.  
Maybe he'd return and she could ask him what he did for a living.
     'Maybe he'll have a school girl fetish, and then you'd really 
have him where you want him.'
     She shook her head and closed her eyes.  That voice she was 
hearing.  It wasn't hers.  She'd never been so self-critical 
before.  She'd never even thought about something like this.  Not 
in this way.
     "I won't argue with myself," she whispered.  She hoped nobody 
was looking at her anymore.  She hoped nobody could hear her.  
What about that classic privacy stereotype, she thought.  Why 
can't they fit into that box right now?
     'So you're making progress,' the voice was smiling.  She 
could hear it smiling.  'So, if I'm not you, and you're not me, 
who am I?'
     The graffiti.  "You're..."
     'Ah, but, am I he message, or the messenger?'
     "I... I don't know."
     She felt another jerk, and she lost her balance.  She fell on 
her backside, and scrabbled to her feet, pressed so hard in a 
group of businessmen, she could barely breathe.
     'It's a good thing you're not claustrophobic.'
     She felt a hand.  "Oh damn," she grumbled.  A pervert.  She 
looked around, but couldn't move her head enough to find the 
source.  She squirmed, trying to maybe squeeze out of the way, but 
to no avail.
     'Ah, those feisty Japanese men.  Maybe we'll see every 
stereotype on this train ride...'
     The hand slid up her leg, and cupped her left cheek.  She 
clinched her eyes shut and tensed up; she wanted to vomit.
     'All packed in a nice...'
     Something in her head snapped.  She felt the pain instantly, 
moving from the back of her mind to the front, searing her brain.
     '...neat...'
     She could feel something moving on her forehead, tearing her 
skin in two, as if her scalp were peeling back, revealing her 
skull to the crowds on the train.  She felt herself get very hot, 
as the hand on her body moved to trace the line between her legs.
     '...box.'
     The first thing she became aware of was the scream, piercing 
her eardrums and shocking her into awareness.  Her eyes opened, 
and she could see with crystal clarity.  
     Everything seemed so bright, so clinical.  Everyone was 
looking at her.  Everyone was staring, their eyes open, their 
mouths moving slowly, opening in fear.  She saw the expressions 
melt, as if in a dream, changing from bored to shocked to 
horrified.
     She felt the heat in her body radiating.  She felt the hand 
on her panties jerk back as the world began to speed up again.
     "Get away..."  She heard herself speak, but the voice was 
low, foreign.
     Suddenly she had space.  Suddenly, people moved away.  She 
could breathe again.  She felt the train grind to a stop, and she 
stepped slowly, her eyes moving from the faces around her to the 
message in black ink.  
     She felt something powerful moving inside her, as if she was 
pregnant with a god.  She felt that power in her muscles, in her 
mind, in the front of her brain and on her forehead.
     Turning her gaze forward, she stepped slowly and deliberately 
off the train.  She turned, and saw the passengers staring, mouths 
agape in fear.  The doors closed slowly, as time seemed once again 
to be slowing around her.  The air slowed, and she felt the glow 
from inside herself.  She realized this is what a star must feel 
like.
     "So hot..." 
     She watched as a spark, nothing more than a glint, became a 
flame on a man's coat, then a leaping flame engulfing everyone in 
the train car.  She watched as the entire train sparked, and 
exploded in slow motion.
     It was the most amazing thing, she decided.  The smoothness 
of reality in slow motion.  There was no blur.  Everything was 
crystal; everything was like looking at photos in an album.  In 
slow motion, she thought, it doesn't even look like they're dying.  
She turned on the slowly melting scene of bare movement, and 
walked away.
     'Congratulations,' the voice chuckled.  'I didn't think you 
had it in you.'
     "What?"  The world sped up again, and she looked at the 
sudden chaos around her.  "I didn't do that."
     'You killed them because they were all the same.'
     "No... no I couldn't... I..."
     She felt a concrete wall greet her back.  She slid to the 
ground, and pressed her head to her knees.  She felt the tears 
flowing, and she went to wipe them.  She could still feel a 
trickle from somewhere, running down her nose from her forehead.  
She ran her fingers across her brow, and felt the slit.
     'Might want to check on that cut there.'
     At first, she thought the liquid was blood, then sweat.  
Taking out a pocket mirror from her purse, she tried to find the 
slit on her forehead.  Then she saw it.
     Think for yourself.
     Question authority.  
     It was tattooed to her forehead.  But that didn't explain 
the...
     She blinked, and gasped.
     In the center, opening to the light of day, slowly scanning 
the mirror.  An eye.  A terrible third eye.  She felt the world 
become suddenly brighter, and her body grew hot again.
     'The more things change...'  The voice grew faint, but no 
less biting.
     "...The more they stay the same."  Itsuko looked up.  A crowd 
of people, stopped in their tracks by the chaos, stood around her.  
They stared, their eyes in pairs, their mouths agape.  They 
ignored the flames.  They ignored her.  They stared at the eye.
     'You're different now.'  The voice seemed satisfied with 
itself.
     Itsuko looked away as a spark on a man's hat set it on fire.  
The crowd murmured as he shrieked, stamping out the fire with his 
gloved hands.
     "No," Itsuko sighed.  "I'm exactly the same."  She looked 
into the mirror.  Her eye was wide open, gazing back at her.  She 
could see the depths of the pupil, and wondered if maybe this was 
a window to something deeper.  She stared intently, hoping to find 
an epiphany.
     She felt herself going blind from within.  She could hear the 
creaking of her bones as they cracked from the heat inside her.  
The pupil remained dark, dilated.  It remained silent as she 
smiled.
     She read the message on her forehead aloud as she exploded 
into flame.
     "Think for yourself.  Question authority." 

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AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

This is a little something I wrote after joining the OFML to give 
me something to post as an introduction. This is very rough, but 
it has a little potential. Any comments or criticisms you have are 
appreciated. 

The story is built on symbolism, as clunky and unsubtle as those 
symbols are. On the whole I'd say it isn't bad for an hour's work.

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