And on to some original stuff:

                   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.

Except for those times when it's intentional, but it's never intentional in
those cases where I could be successfully sued.

     Think for yourself.
     Question authority.

Of course, if you obey these commands, you're really still behaving like
sheep.

     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

'big time' not sure if anyone says that. 'great amount of time' sounds more
natural, but that might be just me.

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?

If she didn't, then the title wouldn't be appropriate. :)

  A shove from behind

interrupted her though,

'thought' or 'thoughts' perhaps?

 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.

'notice' sounds better than 'see' since you used 'seemed' two words ago.

     Of course, she thought.  This is where the words glow and the
train disappears and I see the giant robots fighting.

Instead the train only became translucent and the fighting she saw consisted
of two overweight men wearing thongs and nothing else. She always got
screwed over in everything, even fantastic adventures.

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.'

Heh. Now that's cute.

     Itsuko concentrated on figuring out who would write the
graffiti.  It was a man, she figured from the handwriting.  Very
aggressive and frustrated.

Actually, you can make pretty good guesses about people from their
handwriting.

 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

hard at her

     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.'

Heh. Cute inner voice.

     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.

Hmm. Interesting.

     "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,

the

     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.

Hmm.

     Suddenly she

Suddenly, she

     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.

Well now, that was unexpected.

     Think for yourself.
     Question authority.
     It was tattooed to her forehead.

Suspected that.

 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.

How eerie and unsettling. Nice work in setting the mood.

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.

Nope. Pretty damn good. I liked it. Nice change of pace.

D.B. Sommer

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