some writing (fiction-ish)
Baking heat and short grass, a tall fence and a paddling pool surroundings of the front yard where the little white boys with golden blond hair played. Momma, in a deck chair under an umbrella, immersed herself in love chaos novels, and in the distance, the three heard the chorus marching up the hill, singing.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” they heard the choir of one hundred tenor voices produce.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang back.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” responded the men as they drew nearer, climbing the hill towards the boys behind the fence.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang again from behind the fence.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they reached the crest of the hill under baking hot sun, all laden in full army camouflage, dripping in sweat as the drill instructor pressed them on.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang as the sound of men quick-stepped past the fence. The boys never saw the men, nor did the men ever see the boys.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the tenor choir sang as they rounded a bend, disappearing into the distance.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
Momma loaded her boys into the car.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Philip, the older boy sang.
“You’ll need shorter hair than that mop you’ve got,” Momma said as she buckled him into his seat.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang.
“You too,” she said, reaching for his own harness buckles. “It’s hair cut day today.”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang in unison as the car left the driveway, turning down the hill towards the exit gates.
As the car descended the steep hill, another choir of young men, some looking no more than a decade older than the two babies in the back seat, ran up the hill, singing the song again, and the boys sang back. Their faces dripping wet as their heads bowed, clothes soaked as feet began to drag, the only remaining power they had was their singing. Despite screaming lungs, despite exhaustion and dehydration under the incredible power of the suns rays, their voices continued to reign supreme over the hill.
Momma guided the two boys into the barber shop, waving hello to the Chinese man with the scissors. The Asian men sitting in the waiting area reading newspapers all reached over to run their hands through each boys golden locks. The black floor was quickly swept white, the black Asian hair piled into the corner and the men all waved the boys to the head of the queue. First Philip, then Jason sat and had their blonde hair excavated, sent to the floor, and their heads, instead of mops, now looked like bristled brushes.
As Momma picked up Jason from the chair, the barber swept the floor again, the gold going into a different pile. As though the boys heads were this man’s own little
As Momma paid, the boys burst into song again.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
The room went quiet. The men all looked at each other, then at the boys who squirmed and began to inch their way behind their mother’s legs for protection.
Then, the first man giggled, then the second, then the whole room began laughing.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the barber.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the other men in the room.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the boys.
Momma arrived at the entry gate and showed her identification papers to the young man standing guard.
“Thank you, Miss,” he said. “You know, your boys singing is what gets us all up that hill every day. When we hear them singing, we keep going. It’s the one thing that keeps the men here sane.”
That night, Daddy came home and picked up Jason.
“Can you say Daddy?”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
“How about Momma? Can you say Momma?”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
“Can you say Jason?”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
Daddy smiled, and as Momma entered the room and kissed him, he looked up to her with serious eyes.
“For the next few days, don’t use any roads other than the main road out of camp.”
“Why not?”
“A few Saffies hung themselves off power poles today and the Singaporean Army is going to leave them up.”
“Those poor, poor boys,” Momma said, shaking her head.
The next day, Momma was under the sun umbrella, escaping to another tropical paradise between paperback. The boys sat in the little pool, only a few inches deep, filling water pistols and shooting at one another. And they heard it again, as usual.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys replied as Momma stood up.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang as Momma lifted Philip to sit on the fence.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang again as Momma carried Jason to the fence. She held he and his brother as they watched the young men climb the hill.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they got near the boys.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang back.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang, smiles growing on their exhausted drawn faces as they saw the boys for the first time.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang, waving as the men arrived.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang, waving and smiling, trying to hide their pain.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang, still waving as the men got to the corner.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they disappeared from sight and sound.
“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang again, to himself this time.
Momma lifted Jason back into the pool and he went back to filling his water pistol in readiness for his never-ending war with Philip.
“Why aren’t you singing, Philip?” Momma asked as she returned to pick him up, carrying him back to the pool.
“They’re sore, Momma,” he said.
“The men who are singing?”
“Yeah,” Philip said. “They’re sore.”
“That’s right, Philip. They’re very sore."
posted by the Emperor Fabulous at 4:42 AM
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