Alicia

welcome to my creative scrap heap.

about me: i write reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally long author's notes at the end of my stories sometimes in the main segment. i'm terrible at romance. i should stop sleeping late. i like owls. uh. i love (and mostly just can't help) including fandom references in my stories. they tend to be sherlock holmes, merlin or doctor who, cabin pressure or other things related. apparently i'm a grammar nazi (according to horizon). but look at me now. no capital letters. i'm such a rebel.


To sleep, perchance to dream - references or referential thoughts i had whilst writing

  1. Cabin Pressure - obviously. I was tempted to use a Lockheed, but they're not very common anymore. 
  2. Richard Finn - Douglas Richardson, John Finnemore - no one except me really gets this at this point. (though honestly I first saw the name Richard on the book QF32 by Richard de Crespigny, and thought of Richard Chisholm, the guy who wrote that thing in legal studies)  
  3. 8122 is me being funny - 221B backwards in numbers
  4. Originally Stephen was Steven, but because I'd only just talked about Steven Moffat a few hours ago, it seemed too soon. Not sure if that counts.
  5. "faint press of flush crimson lipstick painted on the lip of the teacup" - nod to Parade's End. I'm not sure if I'm implying that he's in a happy relationship; his wife is cheating on him or he's cheating on his wife and this is another woman (since it's flush crimson lipstick, it's normally another woman) et al. :/ 
  6. Oh, when I wrote the thunderstorm, I actually thought of Life of Pi. I know, weird. 
  7. Carl was the ATC in Cabin Pressure, not his best friend implicitly cheating with Richard's wife (not sure if that's what I'm implying either) 
  8. the Almantises from Florence - that in itself is no reference. In Cabin Pressure (Cremona), the actress lady says "the altimeters" sound like a middle class couple: 'hello, have you met The Altimeters?' and I couldn't directly take that, so it's another nod to John Finnemore. 
  9. Flaps 30, full reverse throttle - I mentioned that this is from a book about Qantas. The book is The men who killed Qantas by Matthew Benns, it's quite a good book. I need to finish it before it's due. 
  10. The smattering applause is something I tend to use a lot, and I think Cake questioned my dodgy use of it once. But I was thinking of a story I read once, called Pianos Are Made For Falling - really brilliantly written story, by fishwrites on livejournal. 


NOW THE MOST IMPORTANT - An Intertextual Reference! My first attempt at one:
- To sleep, perchance to dream. 
The title of the story. If you can tell me where it's from, bravo, you are paying attention in English.
It's from Hamlet, during the Prince's 3rd soliloquy ("To be, or not to be..."), and is part of his contemplation of suicide. This was actually the foundation of my story, and I developed the irretrievable breakdown of Richard's relationship through this idea that he's extremely depressed and willing to let go of his piloting responsibilities because of it. I know he doesn't quite reflect the same idiosyncrasies as Prince Hamlet, plotting revenge in the most procrastinative manner, but I wanted to show somehow that he's having the same complexity over decision and psychological self stasis.

Honestly, he shouldn't have even passed the Class 1 Medical Cert if he had suicidal tendencies, but hey, creative licence, and they don't check that often.

Thanks for reading, thanks for reading this. I wonder, what did you guys think about Richard and his wife's relationship? I'm really curious about what you thought I was implying. I saw several ways I could have set it, but it's all possible with so less information provided in the story. If anyone ever reads this, tell me your thoughts and ideas! :)

I can't shut up when I start typing.


____________________________________________________________________________

TO BE DELETED - SKY PILOT CREATIVE FOR ENGLISH EXTENSION I [UNFINISHED AND FOR PERSONAL REFERENCE ONLY - READ IT IF YOU WANT, BUT STEAL IT AND I WILL LITERALLY *MIMES VIGOROUS COPYRIGHT LAW SUIT*]


0651. 9th June 1969.

‘Padre, was it worth all this?’

Flight Lieutenant Jim Savoy grasped the chaplain’s hand in his, the fingers of his shivering hand pale beneath the thick viscous mud and blood of Nui Dat.

Arthur Richardson, who had yet to serve another 101 days as chaplain with 2 Squadron, had to find an answer.

***

0503. 14th June 1969.

The sound of a damp page being turned was swallowed by the pregnant atmosphere.

The night had carefully retreated until the rain could begin to see what it was hitting on the way down. It gathered in thick swirling pools in the big long trenches that were for when Charlie shot rockets in sometimes. Like last time. The distant shutter of aircraft rotors fought the incessant rain, sieving through the immense jungle around SAS Hill. A sodden encampment huddled messily in a small field, where an albicant wooden roof surrendered to the clouds above, flinching at every bullet of water that struck its heavy panels.

‘Padre, cup of coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

It was thin, but a comfort in the cold. The young soldier before him, James Dillon, had lost his beachside boyhood and seemed to have replaced it with the ill-fitting profile of an angry and grey biographer of the wrong world. Richardson smiled warmly as Dillon sat down.

‘I hope it stops raining soon, padre.’

His smile lingered as his eyes fell to stare at the ground. If only the war would stop soon, and the cold would stop its endless trek down his spine.

***

It smelt of last week’s bombings. The scratching of his pen scurried from the corners of the chapel, pouncing onto the page with feverish hunger and apathy.

Dear Mrs Savoy,

It is with real sorrow that I write this letter, for it brings you, I am afraid, very bad news about your husband Flight L. James Wayne Savoy of 2 Squadron Special Air Services, who helped his company Commodore when he was wounded to a place of safety.

I wish I could help to soften the hardness of your sorrow; there is one comfort at least in knowing that he gave his life in a sacred cause fighting for Right and Justice. It is the greatest sacrifice that a man can make, following the path of self-sacrifice and of duty which Our Lord Himself once trod; they are following in His footsteps-

It sounded pathetic. Even as Richardson considered the words he had written a dozen times already with different names and ranks, it was pathetic. The pen he held was heavy as an ancient rusted sword, a weapon of slaughter. More deadly than the flames of fear outside his wooden chapel, the pen had declared many a husband gone, a father gone…a man…

…dead.

***

Two officers were arguing as they climbed onboard a Canberra bomber, one whom Richardson recognised as Albert, an enthusiastic chorister during Sunday Mass, and the other as sturdy war horse Air Marshal Donald O’Keagan, a self-declared atheist since the Second World War. The elder man sighed, a cold kindness etched in his wrinkles as he regarded the junior officer.

‘Sir, “Let us weigh the gain and loss,”’ Albert quoted, ‘“in wagering that God is, let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose you lose nothing.”’

As the camouflaging fuselage of the low level bomber rose away, the chaplain turned away from on the scene, quoting Pascal back at the young Albert who had already gone – it was the only passage he could remember, a passage which sometimes brought him shame to remember. ‘“Both he who chooses heads and he who chooses tails are equally at fault. They are both in the wrong. True course is not to wager at all.”’

***

0630. 28th June 1969.

Dressed in typical combat uniform, seventeen men gather in the drained light of morning. They stand in a semi-circle before a hasty construct of three ammunitions crates. To this awkward structure, Padre Richardson steps forth in his air commodore rank uniform. Before every patrol, the same men gather here. He recognises the faces, remembers the names, but forgets who they are.

This is my post, he thinks before the prayers, before the blessings.

Each man had a gun, but the Padre did not.

He smiles with the sincerity of a man who remembers, and blesses with the faith of a chaplain. He finds himself humming the tune of a song on the radio last year, about a sky pilot.

“He blesses the boys as they stand in line
The smell of gun grease and the bayonets they shine
He’s there to help them all that he can
To make them feel wanted he’s a good holy man.”

In the Padre’s pocket, he can feel the familiar rustle of a newspaper article from ’32 requesting that “In no circumstances shall the ministers who hold chaplaincies don the borrowed plumes of the ‘gunmen’”.  


Two men fewer attend the prayer after that day.
The pen gnaws away at their existence until they too are


dead.

***

                “The fate of your country is in your young hands
                May God give you strength
                Do your job real well
                If it all was worth it.”

                                          – Sky Pilot by The Animals, 1968

______________________________________________________________________________________________________
SKY PILOT MARK II [SAME RULES AS ABOVE]


0651. 9th June 1969.

‘Padre, was it worth all this?’

Flight Lieutenant Jim Savoy grasped the chaplain’s hand in his, the fingers of his shivering hand pale beneath the thick viscous mud and blood of Nui Dat.

Arthur Richardson, who had yet to serve another 101 days as chaplain with 2 Squadron, had to find an answer.

***

0503. 14th June 1969.

The sound of a damp page being turned was swallowed by the pregnant atmosphere.

The night had carefully retreated until the rain could begin to see what it was hitting on the way down. It gathered in thick swirling pools in the big long trenches that were for when the VC shot rockets in sometimes. Like last time. A sodden encampment lay huddled in a small clearing nearby, where an albicant wooden roof surrendered to the clouds above, flinching at every bullet of water that struck its heavy panels. 
The distant shutter of aircraft rotors fought the incessant rain, sieving through the immense jungle around SAS Hill.

‘Padre, cup of coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

It was thin, but a comfort in the cold. The young soldier before him, James Dillon, had gathered the appearance of one who had replaced his lost beachside boyhood with the ill-fitting profile of an angry and grey biographer dropped in the wrong world. Richardson smiled warmly as Dillon sat down. He smiles with the sincerity of a man who remembers, and blesses with the faith of a chaplain.

‘I hope it stops raining soon, padre.’

Richardson’s smile lingered as his eyes fell to stare at the ground – and perhaps further down, to where soldiers graze in the fields of asphodel. If only the war would stop soon, and the cold would stop its endless trek down his spine.

This is my post, he thinks before every prayer, before every blessing. Reminding himself.

He finds himself humming the tune of a song on the radio last year, about a sky pilot in Vietnam.

“He blesses the boys as they stand in line
The smell of gun grease and the bayonets they shine
He’s there to help them all that he can
To make them feel wanted he’s a good holy man.”


***

Dear Mrs Savoy, he writes-

It is with real sorrow that I write this letter, for it brings you, I am afraid, very bad news about your husband Flight L. James Wayne Savoy of 2 Squadron Special Air Services, who helped his company Commodore when he was wounded to a place of safety.

It smelt of last week’s bombings. The scratching of his pen scurried from the corners of the chapel, pouncing onto the page with feverish hunger and apathy.

I wish I could help to soften the hardness of your sorrow; there is one comfort at least in knowing that he gave his life in a sacred cause fighting for Right and Justice. It is the greatest sacrifice that a man can make, following the path of self-sacrifice and of duty which Our Lord Himself once trod; they are following in His footsteps-

It sounded pathetic. Even as Richardson considered the words he had written a dozen times already with different names and ranks, it was pathetic.

The pen he carried was heavy as an ancient rusted sword, a weapon of slaughter. More deadly than the flames of fear outside his wooden chapel, the pen had declared many a husband gone, a father gone…a man…

…dead.

***

‘Sir, “Let us weigh the gain and loss,”’ Albert quoted, ‘“in wagering that God is, let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose you lose nothing.”’

The two officers were arguing as they climbed onboard a Canberra bomber, one whom Richardson recognised as Albert. The chaplain had known him back in the sunny suburbs as an enthusiastic chorister during Sunday Mass. The other was sturdy war horse Air Marshal Donald O’Keagan, a self-declared atheist since his stint dying every day on the frontlines in a different time. The elder man sighed, a cold kindness ticking away on the surface as he regarded the junior officer.

‘I ain’t believing in your God anymore, Albert. Get on.’

As the camouflaging fuselage of the low level bomber rose away, the chaplain turned away from the scene, quoting Pascal back at the young Albert who had already gone – it was the only passage he could remember, a passage which sometimes brought him shame to remember. ‘“Both he who chooses heads and he who chooses tails are equally at fault. They are both in the wrong. True course is not to wager at all.”’
In Nui Dat’s washed canvas of a war, it seemed He had taken the brush and drawn the inferno.  

***

“Bạn đã thấy con gái tôi?” The woman is pleading with him, tugging on his long clerical sleeves. Richardson can’t understand her words. Her words are syntax. But the terror sends her eyes frantically searching the fallen. It is to this fear with which Richardson acts.

The chaplain takes her hand, with the faint memory of a lieutenant’s icy grip in his fingertips. Richardson begins to guide this woman through the cluttered streets of Vung Tau.

***

0630. 28th June 1969.

Dressed in typical combat uniform, seventeen men gather in the drained light of morning. They stand in a semi-circle before a hasty construct of three ammunitions crates. To this awkward structure, Padre Richardson steps forth in his air commodore rank uniform. Before every patrol, the same men gather here. He recognises the faces, remembers the names, but forgets who they are.

They are murmuring together. “…During this day, please keep my body from accident, and my soul from sin. I am far from my family, surrounded by new temptations; pleaseleadandprotectme. Bless…”
Richardson pauses, his hand on the edge of the altar. ‘Bless you all, I’m sorry.’ And retreats.

Behind, he can hear murmurs of Him. “Oh God, he has abandoned us.”

God has abandoned us.

***

Three men fewer attend the prayer after that operation.

The pen aches to gnaw away at their existence until they too are

dead.

***

0000 hours.

All Richardson remembers of his last 82 days are the blinding afterglows. Mushrooms erupt from every tree as the tired men grow extra arms trying to keep themselves in one piece. God has abandoned them. His lips tighten into a smile he fears they do not see through – he fears that they believe he still secretly believes.

‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ I shall not want for truth.

One night in September, Dillon visits him with a solitary torch illuminating the shadows of his eyes. Richardson looks up from a yellowing newspaper article his father, Thomas Richardson, had stored in his mother’s velvet-lined jewellery box full of memories back home in Jamieson, Victoria. The petulant light digs deeper into the boy’s sallow profile. From outside, the muffled laughter of off-duty guards as they threw ball ring flat and hollow inside the chapel.

‘Padre, I’m tired.’

‘I am also, James.’

‘Please help me sleep.’

The chaplain smiles his usual remedy, ‘To sleep perchance to dream, my dear boy.’

***

Dear Mrs Dillon Dear Mr Lyons Dear Ms Peterson Dear Mrs Smith Dear Ms Geitz Dear Mr  Matheson Dear Mrs Watson…

No more.

Please.

God.

Jennifer, my sister,

Deliver me from evil.

A.

***

                “The fate of your country is in your young hands
                May God give you strength
                Do your job real well
                If it all was worth it.”

                                          – Sky Pilot by The Animals, 1968

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