Milky White Saigon (1/?)
anonymous
July 20 2009, 22:05:26 UTC
Anon hopes OP doesn't mind Vietnam War angst. And since Vietnam has no name, and writer anon doesn't want to mess with names, let's keep at Vietnam.
Saigon was their place to rest, to drink, to laugh, and to sleep with the cute Vietnamese girls. The American soldiers all loved the petite girls with pretty faces, soft curves, milky white thighs, and these cute high-pitched voices. While they spent their earnings on drinks, they spent their earnings on women, as young teenage virgins soon become men and the men are reminded of warmth (in contrast to the horrors of war that makes them want to die right there and then).
Alfred kept away from the women, instead keeping company with a bottle of hard liquor (he never knew what he was drinking, but it was DAMN strong), and a pack (or two, or three) of cigarettes on the small table he was occupying.
At first, the women came up to him, sat next to him daintily with their big round eyes and breasts. They would flirt for a second's worth of time, and Alfred would shoo her away to the other men in the bar (who were drinking themselves free of their depression, lost friends, and a sense of loss, never knowing when they'll be able to see their mothers again). Over time, they stopped sitting next to him, stopped paying attention to him.
And Alfred liked it that way, liked watching his boys enjoy their time (no matter how small it may be). Time moved at a slow pace for them, but to Alfred, time was too fast. Sooner or later, he'll see half (no, not even, maybe a tenth?) of them living out their last days with adorable grandchildren and a glass full of ice-cold lemonade.
He was on this fifth (sixth? fourth?) cup of liquor, feeling the burn of the liquid as it seeped down his esophagus and churn in the pit of his stomach. He gritted his teeth, passing through those initial unsettling gulps, and sighed as the alcohol numbed his senses.
He was watching the bar's show, a pale skinned Vietnamese girl was singing along to the beat of the band, tambourine shaking in her hand. It was an American song, no doubt about it, he recognized that beat anywhere, but her accented voice was off with the song, almost tricked him into thinking it was something else. The boys paid no attention, enjoying the girl's enthusiasm with the song as they watched her with wide smiles and a drink in each hand.
Alfred continued to drink, watching performance after performance, and ordering another bottle of whatever he was drinking. He had politely declined any offers by his boys to join them in their festivities.
But in truth, Alfred did feel a little lonely, a little off. He would like to indulge with the others, but he is decades upon decades of years older than all of them. He’s seen women, plenty of them of all different colors and sizes, and he’s slept with very few, as he only keeps to people of his kind (for he always felt that sleeping with women who aged faster than him was akin to pedophilia).
Alfred stopped at his newest cup of liquor (losing count long before), swirling the liquid in the cup slowly, watching the low lights of the bar glisten and glitter in his cup. He was beginning to lose rational, and knew he had to stop at some point (even though he’s love to drink and drink until he couldn’t remember anything, not even the blood that was on his hands earlier that week).
This body-count war was consuming him, his boys, and the families back home. There was no unity now as the boys die, dropping like flies, so easy to bleed and fade away in his arms. Elephant grass slicing past his cheeks and gunshots ringing like unwanted morning thunder, your only mentor being a crate of beer and a bunch of smelly boys. Walking on paths littered with bodies of innocent Viets, babies who cry in soldier’s arms as they die crying for mommy, leaving soldiers scarred for life carrying dead carcasses in their hearts. Start-shaped holes and lemon trees, drowning in feces swamps and…
“Would you like some time?” A high-pitched voice sliced through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.
Re: Milky White Saigon (1/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 02:25:03 UTC
ahah I know I know let me explain
thing is, I watched a doc Dear America (really good doc, btw) and a lot of the Vietnamese women who were filmed in this, well, the ones who greeted the soldiers and in Saigon bars, were paler (not tan at all, or not very tan, which confused me). The setting is in Saigon (the story, and the footage I'll be talking about), and there was footage of the American soldiers watching one young woman dancing and singing and she had fairer skin color. THAT'S where I'm getting the pale skin. I never said that the Vietnamese people are pale (I know they're not pale, I've seen plenty of pictures and videos). It's just in THIS particular setting, the woman are of fairer skin.
Sorry that there's confusion XD I was going to explain my sources after I finished uploading.
(the milky thing is more meant to lean towards a softer texture than color, though I should've thought it out more if something like this was to arise)
Oh gosh this is long. I was just really flustered when I read your comment XD writer!anon apologizes a billion times!
Re: Milky White Saigon (1/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 02:14:05 UTC
OP here! I really like this so far! Thank you for taking up the request. And I don't mind Vietnam War angst (It comes up often when speaking to my parents about their past and I find it very interesting).
I do have to agree with the anon above; a lot of Vietnamese people have darker skin (myself included) but there are some people that have lighter skin (like my cousin).
Other than that though, I'll be waiting for more! :)
Re: Milky White Saigon (1/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 02:29:38 UTC
(I explained it to above anon) It's just in this setting, where I've seen a doc (Dream America, really good) and there was one footage of a bar in Saigon (I just realized I should've checked the spelling. This is why I'm wary of posting, DOH) where the women who were working there had fair, paler skin.
Of course, I'm not saying all Vietnamese people are light. I've seen plenty of pictures and videos. Just considering the setting and what I've been exposed to thus far.
Milky White Saigon (2/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 03:29:31 UTC
Alfred looked up with wide-eyes, eyes too dry to cry (and if they did it could only be blood). His mouth was agape, just a tad, as he recognized the young girl standing before him.
Vietnam was standing before him, hands clasped together in front of her. She was not wearing her usual green garbs; her hair is not in its usual style. She wore a form-fitting shirt that comes up to her chin and down on her hips. They had cut off right over her soldiers revealing shapely, milky arms, dark from the sun and almost golden in his eyes. Her legs were exposed, as she wore a skirt that cut off right in the middle of her thighs.
Alfred stared and stared at those legs, because he had so expected tough calloused skin.
But no, she looked soft, reachable, and he watched the skirt glide up her thighs as she sat next to him politely, pouring liquor into his half-full cup. She looked up at him with these huge beautiful eyes; deep brown irises glittered with the neon lights in the bar. Her lips were plump with light rouge, eyelashes long and dark with mascara. Her long, long hair was free of their restraints, spilling all around them, on his hands, on her thighs, on her chest, like black cobwebs.
Alfred gulped, as he’s sure he looks like a vagabond in comparison. Vietnam, his partial enemy in this body-count war, had drawn his attention, as he felt his heart pound endlessly against his ribcage.
“So, Alfred, let’s talk.” She folded her hands neatly on her lap, looking at him with the utmost attention (and he could see…malice? Anger? Or maybe even pity).
He looked at her hands, long fingers all of them dark and scarred.
“Alfred.”
Said nation cleared his throat immediately, “I see no reason to talk to an enemy nation.” He whispered, taking his glass carefully and sipping the liquor.
Vietnam pursed her lips, hands holding each other tighter. “And I see very much a reason to talk to you.” Her eyebrows furrowed, expression deep in feeling. “You know very well that this war can not go on. Not just for the sake of my people, but also for yours.”
Alfred knew very well, having seen as much blood as she had. All of the boys were delirious with war, rushing through the pages of their lives faster than necessary. Too many of them gone with time, becoming another book among the many dead. “It’s not my decision. What about you? Why do you keep fighting?”
“Same reason why you fought so many years ago.” Vietnam replied quickly, surprising Alfred. “You wished for your freedom, and I wish for mine as well.”
Alfred stared at her from the corners of his eyes, past Texas and into her eyes. “Commies…”
“Alfred!”
“I don’t want to fight this either!” Alfred noisily dropped his cup on the table. “You know what I mean, seeing boys and girls of all ages die like cattle, it’s disgusting! Not just my people, but also yours. Just the other day one of my boys was sobbing over this dead Vietnamese baby like a fucking woman, but all I could tell him was to fucking shut that noise and get back in line. That baby was just hanging in his arms like some doll, fucking UNNATURAL.” His voice was rising, but it drowned in the sounds of cheers and music. “And this one boy kept moping about some star-shaped hole or whatever the fuck, one of your boys had fucking died from an accident, couldn’t even see if he was HUMAN to begin with,” He stopped, leaning back on his seat and released a long sigh.
Vietnam was clenching her skirt, teeth gritted to the point of possible fractures. But she held composure, knowing that backing down, no matter what, is not an option. She can’t soften, because this was war. WAR.
Milky White Saigon (3/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 03:45:14 UTC
“And then here…it’s like none of that happened at all.” Alfred pointed to the girls who were flirting with the men, some of them walking off to private rooms, some of them pouring drinks for their customers. “What are you doing here anyway?” Change the subject; he had to change it somehow. “Why are you wearing that?
“To blend in.” She shrugged almost casually. “They are my people as well. I am Vietnam. There is no such thing as North or South.” Vietnam sat straight, remaining calm in silent strength.
Alfred glared at her, a small smile on his face. “You just don’t fucking give up…do you…?”
“You must tell your boss to stop this war.”
“We are. But he keeps putting more people in and taking less people out.” Alfred had taken off his glasses momentarily and rubs his eyes. “I’m so sick of being here. Sick of elephant grass and blood and corpses…smells…I don’t understand how you can stand it.”
Vietnam then took his glasses and rubbed the lenses clean on her shirt. She put them back on his face and stared directly in his eyes. “I have to be strong. I decided to be resilient and hardheaded to everything. Even back then when you split me in two, and even back then when you first brought troops. Even now. We’re doing just like your very first leader did. We’re keeping faith, keeping strong, no MATTER what happens.”
Alfred stared through clear glass into what he, for that short moment, saw as something like himself. And whether it was the alcohol doing the work or his actual feelings, he wasn’t sure, but he reached over and pulled her roughly into his chest, his jacket swallowing her up completely. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, eyes closed shut. He breathed in pain, fatigue, blood, and rice, and overpowering them all was her will.
Commie, she was a commie, that’s been what he assumed. But he didn’t know anymore. This young girl with soft skin and a hard head. He didn’t know anymore.
Saigon was their place to rest, to drink, to laugh, and to sleep with the cute Vietnamese girls. The American soldiers all loved the petite girls with pretty faces, soft curves, milky white thighs, and these cute high-pitched voices. While they spent their earnings on drinks, they spent their earnings on women, as young teenage virgins soon become men and the men are reminded of warmth (in contrast to the horrors of war that makes them want to die right there and then).
Alfred kept away from the women, instead keeping company with a bottle of hard liquor (he never knew what he was drinking, but it was DAMN strong), and a pack (or two, or three) of cigarettes on the small table he was occupying.
At first, the women came up to him, sat next to him daintily with their big round eyes and breasts. They would flirt for a second's worth of time, and Alfred would shoo her away to the other men in the bar (who were drinking themselves free of their depression, lost friends, and a sense of loss, never knowing when they'll be able to see their mothers again). Over time, they stopped sitting next to him, stopped paying attention to him.
And Alfred liked it that way, liked watching his boys enjoy their time (no matter how small it may be). Time moved at a slow pace for them, but to Alfred, time was too fast. Sooner or later, he'll see half (no, not even, maybe a tenth?) of them living out their last days with adorable grandchildren and a glass full of ice-cold lemonade.
He was on this fifth (sixth? fourth?) cup of liquor, feeling the burn of the liquid as it seeped down his esophagus and churn in the pit of his stomach. He gritted his teeth, passing through those initial unsettling gulps, and sighed as the alcohol numbed his senses.
He was watching the bar's show, a pale skinned Vietnamese girl was singing along to the beat of the band, tambourine shaking in her hand. It was an American song, no doubt about it, he recognized that beat anywhere, but her accented voice was off with the song, almost tricked him into thinking it was something else. The boys paid no attention, enjoying the girl's enthusiasm with the song as they watched her with wide smiles and a drink in each hand.
Alfred continued to drink, watching performance after performance, and ordering another bottle of whatever he was drinking. He had politely declined any offers by his boys to join them in their festivities.
But in truth, Alfred did feel a little lonely, a little off. He would like to indulge with the others, but he is decades upon decades of years older than all of them. He’s seen women, plenty of them of all different colors and sizes, and he’s slept with very few, as he only keeps to people of his kind (for he always felt that sleeping with women who aged faster than him was akin to pedophilia).
Alfred stopped at his newest cup of liquor (losing count long before), swirling the liquid in the cup slowly, watching the low lights of the bar glisten and glitter in his cup. He was beginning to lose rational, and knew he had to stop at some point (even though he’s love to drink and drink until he couldn’t remember anything, not even the blood that was on his hands earlier that week).
This body-count war was consuming him, his boys, and the families back home. There was no unity now as the boys die, dropping like flies, so easy to bleed and fade away in his arms. Elephant grass slicing past his cheeks and gunshots ringing like unwanted morning thunder, your only mentor being a crate of beer and a bunch of smelly boys. Walking on paths littered with bodies of innocent Viets, babies who cry in soldier’s arms as they die crying for mommy, leaving soldiers scarred for life carrying dead carcasses in their hearts. Start-shaped holes and lemon trees, drowning in feces swamps and…
“Would you like some time?” A high-pitched voice sliced through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.
Reply
Still, I'll be following this.
Reply
thing is, I watched a doc Dear America (really good doc, btw) and a lot of the Vietnamese women who were filmed in this, well, the ones who greeted the soldiers and in Saigon bars, were paler (not tan at all, or not very tan, which confused me). The setting is in Saigon (the story, and the footage I'll be talking about), and there was footage of the American soldiers watching one young woman dancing and singing and she had fairer skin color. THAT'S where I'm getting the pale skin. I never said that the Vietnamese people are pale (I know they're not pale, I've seen plenty of pictures and videos). It's just in THIS particular setting, the woman are of fairer skin.
Sorry that there's confusion XD I was going to explain my sources after I finished uploading.
(the milky thing is more meant to lean towards a softer texture than color, though I should've thought it out more if something like this was to arise)
Oh gosh this is long. I was just really flustered when I read your comment XD writer!anon apologizes a billion times!
Reply
I do have to agree with the anon above; a lot of Vietnamese people have darker skin (myself included) but there are some people that have lighter skin (like my cousin).
Other than that though, I'll be waiting for more! :)
Reply
Of course, I'm not saying all Vietnamese people are light. I've seen plenty of pictures and videos. Just considering the setting and what I've been exposed to thus far.
More is coming up soon!
Reply
Reply
(btw, I meant Dear America. For some reason, I confuse the two).
Reply
Vietnam was standing before him, hands clasped together in front of her. She was not wearing her usual green garbs; her hair is not in its usual style. She wore a form-fitting shirt that comes up to her chin and down on her hips. They had cut off right over her soldiers revealing shapely, milky arms, dark from the sun and almost golden in his eyes. Her legs were exposed, as she wore a skirt that cut off right in the middle of her thighs.
Alfred stared and stared at those legs, because he had so expected tough calloused skin.
But no, she looked soft, reachable, and he watched the skirt glide up her thighs as she sat next to him politely, pouring liquor into his half-full cup. She looked up at him with these huge beautiful eyes; deep brown irises glittered with the neon lights in the bar. Her lips were plump with light rouge, eyelashes long and dark with mascara. Her long, long hair was free of their restraints, spilling all around them, on his hands, on her thighs, on her chest, like black cobwebs.
Alfred gulped, as he’s sure he looks like a vagabond in comparison. Vietnam, his partial enemy in this body-count war, had drawn his attention, as he felt his heart pound endlessly against his ribcage.
“So, Alfred, let’s talk.” She folded her hands neatly on her lap, looking at him with the utmost attention (and he could see…malice? Anger? Or maybe even pity).
He looked at her hands, long fingers all of them dark and scarred.
“Alfred.”
Said nation cleared his throat immediately, “I see no reason to talk to an enemy nation.” He whispered, taking his glass carefully and sipping the liquor.
Vietnam pursed her lips, hands holding each other tighter. “And I see very much a reason to talk to you.” Her eyebrows furrowed, expression deep in feeling. “You know very well that this war can not go on. Not just for the sake of my people, but also for yours.”
Alfred knew very well, having seen as much blood as she had. All of the boys were delirious with war, rushing through the pages of their lives faster than necessary. Too many of them gone with time, becoming another book among the many dead. “It’s not my decision. What about you? Why do you keep fighting?”
“Same reason why you fought so many years ago.” Vietnam replied quickly, surprising Alfred. “You wished for your freedom, and I wish for mine as well.”
Alfred stared at her from the corners of his eyes, past Texas and into her eyes. “Commies…”
“Alfred!”
“I don’t want to fight this either!” Alfred noisily dropped his cup on the table. “You know what I mean, seeing boys and girls of all ages die like cattle, it’s disgusting! Not just my people, but also yours. Just the other day one of my boys was sobbing over this dead Vietnamese baby like a fucking woman, but all I could tell him was to fucking shut that noise and get back in line. That baby was just hanging in his arms like some doll, fucking UNNATURAL.” His voice was rising, but it drowned in the sounds of cheers and music. “And this one boy kept moping about some star-shaped hole or whatever the fuck, one of your boys had fucking died from an accident, couldn’t even see if he was HUMAN to begin with,” He stopped, leaning back on his seat and released a long sigh.
Vietnam was clenching her skirt, teeth gritted to the point of possible fractures. But she held composure, knowing that backing down, no matter what, is not an option. She can’t soften, because this was war. WAR.
Reply
“To blend in.” She shrugged almost casually. “They are my people as well. I am Vietnam. There is no such thing as North or South.” Vietnam sat straight, remaining calm in silent strength.
Alfred glared at her, a small smile on his face. “You just don’t fucking give up…do you…?”
“You must tell your boss to stop this war.”
“We are. But he keeps putting more people in and taking less people out.” Alfred had taken off his glasses momentarily and rubs his eyes. “I’m so sick of being here. Sick of elephant grass and blood and corpses…smells…I don’t understand how you can stand it.”
Vietnam then took his glasses and rubbed the lenses clean on her shirt. She put them back on his face and stared directly in his eyes. “I have to be strong. I decided to be resilient and hardheaded to everything. Even back then when you split me in two, and even back then when you first brought troops. Even now. We’re doing just like your very first leader did. We’re keeping faith, keeping strong, no MATTER what happens.”
Alfred stared through clear glass into what he, for that short moment, saw as something like himself. And whether it was the alcohol doing the work or his actual feelings, he wasn’t sure, but he reached over and pulled her roughly into his chest, his jacket swallowing her up completely. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, eyes closed shut. He breathed in pain, fatigue, blood, and rice, and overpowering them all was her will.
Commie, she was a commie, that’s been what he assumed. But he didn’t know anymore. This young girl with soft skin and a hard head. He didn’t know anymore.
He didn’t know anymore.
Reply
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