I hope you’re not the type to kill the messenger is an experiment in form that, I believe at least, worked. There’s definitely been many such experiments on my part that have been utter failures, but I like this one.
Somewhat stream of consciousness, the feel of this short story was inspired by the song Six Feet Deep by nineteenhundredandtwelve, which has this sort of rambling out of controlness that I really like and haven’t ever heard done in quite the same way so it always stuck with me. And so I took the title from the second line of the song.
The content of the story was inspired by two things: Billie Holiday’s (aka Eleanora Fagan’s) version of Gloomy Sunday, and trips I used to take on the train from the western suburbs to Chicago. I always sat on the top where there was a series of single seats next to windows, with a set of 3 or 4 seats together at the back of the aisle. On several occasions a group, including a very attractive girl, would pass by me to sit in the 3 or 4 seats. I’d spend the entire ride envisioning a situation where she came up to talk to me, leading to an epic conversation the likes of which I’ve ever only had in real life with a handful of people.
Conversations are rare, small talk is deafening, and so I normally just keep quiet.
My recommendation is to listen to the nineteenhundredandtwelve song before reading the story and Billie after reading it.
Hoping you’re enjoying a restful Sunday.