The longest span of writing from an opening line I believe I’ve ever done; close to a thousand words and the story’s almost over.
If I lived inside a box, it would be a pack of Marlboros, the fliptop kind so that every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of life at nearly eye-level, suck in as much and as fast as I could before the top flipped down, then settle back packed in along the comfort of my skinny friends to whisper in the dark and ponder what we’d seen.
I suppose it’d be somewhat disconcerting–yet exciting too—the fact that every time the box was opened, one of us would be selected, taken out and never seen again, like in a wartime prison camp. I wonder if a cigarette can hear a scream, or even make the sound of one.
But Jeremy said he’d rather be inside a sturdy shipping crate. He figured he would see the world that way. Come back with some new sticker slapped along the side;
“Peru,” or “Caution – Live Animal," or simply “Fragile” just to prove the baggage handlers at some exotic airport kicked and shoved his box just because they could. That, and Jeremy was sure, because in every person there’s a Hitler stifled by good manners and consideration. And, he insisted, ruined by love for his fellow man.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology