Fiction | Caleb Kurihara ’24 I’ve been playing around with the idea of a murderous author who sees the entire world as a blank page for him to write on. The people around him are characters to “scrap” as he pleases. And nothing he does, no matter how horrible, really matters, as it’s all just fiction to him. He has no memory of his past self, but a former (probably fiancé) on the police force recognizes him in this interview. From there, an arrangement is made. Here’s his debut, so to speak. “I’m Erina Heshleton, and here on the New York streets we have the elusive author Aino, who’s agreed to do an interview with us.” Next to Heshelton, an older woman in an atrocious mauve, suit stood a taller man with shaggy white hair made to look unkempt. Bangs obscured a pair of calm, almost dead eyes. His frame was covered by a thick, black jacket that reached up to his chin when fully zipped. “Yo, everyone. I’m here to do a promo for my book, as well.” A microphone was held close to a pair of thin lips. “Can you tell us a little bit about where you grew up? Does your home provide inspiration?” He paused, leading to awkward silence. “I don’t know.” The reporter gave a weak chuckle, thinking that it was some kind of poorly executed joke. “The pseudonym ‘Aino’ is meant to sound like ‘I know’, correct?” The off-kilter author nodded his head, leading to his stark white mane falling forward. “If you don’t mind telling us, what’s your real name?” The response to this one was immediate, but his reaction was a physical one, not verbal. A sleek piece of black firepower was pointed at a head of brown hair, just millimeters away. “Don’t like that question. And you..” His finger pointed to the camera, looking as displeased as one could with half their face hidden away. “Don’t stop broadcasting. Or I’ll shoot both of them.” Nothing moved. No one breathed. It was as if all of existence had paused, watching with bated breath as this unfolded in its fullness.
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