The Deep Shadow of the Countryside - Short story contest by Trac Diem

This is when people usually sleep best. The chill of the early morning, the lethargy of turning over and huddled under the thin blanket. The whole family probably didn't know that Moc was missing. If they had known, they would have rushed out to look for him...

In this case, people call it "sleepwalking", or it can also be "hidden ghost".

But Moc was sure she was more in the second category. When she woke up, Moc found herself lying on a green canopy of the elm tree in the field. "This is not my hammock." Moc rubbed her eyes, feeling the friction all over her body. The pungent smell of mud rose up, the sweet taste of water from the elm leaves falling. Moc ran her tongue around her lips. She was completely awake. Moc's eyes opened wide. She vaguely recognized the newly painted white grave under the ancient banyan tree whose top had been cut off by lightning last year. Moc wanted to scream but her jaw was frozen. She stumbled to the ground, thinking she wouldn't be able to drag her cramped legs all night, but strangely, Moc's feet didn't seem to touch the ground. She clearly felt the cold air coming from the grass on the dike and from the ditch.

The twilight resonated with the chirping sounds of insects and frogs in the ground... making Moc shiver even more and the road seemed to stretch out. Normally, this dike road was only a few dozen meters, past the row of elm trees was the school, past the school was Moc's small hamlet. But why was Moc now running forever and never reaching his destination? Moc was clearly "flying". Where was Moc's hamlet, why couldn't he see Moc's house? Hidden under the dark jackfruit trees, the swaying areca trees... Moc's hamlet was there. Just keep running... keep running... you'll get there. Moc urged his reason, reassured it. Trying to control his body so he wouldn't fall into the ditch.

A bird just swooped out of the bushes, a field mouse ran across, and a wild cat pounced on a gravestone. Eyes were green. Moc's nervous system seemed to have stopped working. Everything was paralyzed.

"Mom. Sister. Tun!", Moc called out to each person in a tight throat. But the response she got was even snoring breaths. How frustrating and disgusting! The anger in her heart rose and she immediately became weak from helplessness. Not a single scratch when lying in the middle of the thorny bushes. Obviously "hidden ghost". The villagers' stories echoed in her ears. Moc knew she had been taken away. And now Moc was trying to return.

The deep shadow of the countryside - Short story contest by Trac Diem - Photo 1.

ILLUSTRATION: AI

Moc strained his eyes to focus forward, ignoring all the surrounding attention. Oh, the village road intersection! Moc was so happy, his heart almost jumped out of his chest. Moc knew that he only had to run a short distance to reach the house plastered with earth of Mr. Thien, under the huge elm tree that was as big as several adult arms could hug. The place where Moc and his cow herding friends often sat to avoid the sun and nibbled on the ripe golden elm. So many childhood games had taken place there. And every time, Mr. Thien came out to watch, sometimes acting as a referee to settle the arguments and wins and losses.

"Moc... Moc... Don't run! Come here with me. Help me... don't run anymore Moc!". A soggy voice came from under the tree canopy. Was it a human or a ghost? Her mind urged her to run but her legs froze. Her soul was gone. A human figure appeared, hair disheveled, step by step approaching Moc and then dragged her into the earthen house.

The soot-covered yellow neon light flickered back and forth and then went out. The heavy rain and wind all night must have caused an electrical short circuit somewhere. Moc calmed down when he realized that the person who pulled him into the house was Ms. Hanh, Mr. Thien’s only daughter. A moment later, an oil lamp was lit, casting a clear shadow on the wall. The black shadows flew up and down and changed shape with the swaying of the curtain across where Mr. Thien lay.

- My father is probably not going to make it. I have been sitting here waiting for a long time to see if anyone passes by. But all last night it rained intermittently. The electricity was intermittent. I cannot leave my father alone in his dying moments. What if he dies alone and cold when I am not home? Moc, please stay here and help me. Please sit next to him.

- Where are you going?

- I'll run out to the field for a moment, quickly. Do you see the field banks covered with mugwort and perilla? Last time their seeds followed the drainage down to the field. Don't go anywhere. Consider it as me begging you. Look, my father's breath is fading...

Ms. Hanh lifted the curtain, the strong smell of urine came out from the layers of blankets, blocking Moc's breathing. But in front of the suffering of others, Moc did not dare to react. Moc also followed Ms. Hanh, placing his hand on the old man's chest. A bit of warmth crept through the scarf around his neck. Old man Thien seemed to be trying to open his eyes wide to see through the roof, where there were imaginary stars. His mouth gasped for air. Each breath was labored through his nostrils. The hand placed on his stomach seemed to want to reach up to reach the masks painted with the faces of the actors he played, which were being led on the roof. All the memories of his youth were there. The plays, the moonlit nights, the festival seasons in the fields, the hills...

Ms. Hanh knew for sure that her father would not survive the night, so she cherished every moment that her loved one was present on earth. Many years ago, a serious illness took her mother away from the small house, leaving her three children to raise each other alone...

The compassion of a pure and holy soul of a 13 year old girl rose up strongly, overcoming all fear. Moc agreed. In her life, she never expected that one day she would sit and watch over a dying person. A coldness surrounded her. Loneliness. Prayer.

Moc sat on a stool, occasionally she lifted the curtain, at this time Hanh was not there, but Moc's hand still courageously touched the old lady's chest and nose. Moc touched the fingers that still had a bit of warmth. Moving down to the feet, they were stiff and cold. Moc was startled. The old lady was half dead. Moc's heart felt like it was constricting, the sudden intrusion of cold air made Moc's mind dizzy. Was it almost dawn? Moc looked outside to search for Hanh's returning figure. The rain had stopped completely. But the lightning after the storm was still there. Patches of light flashed across the fields that were left with only stubble after the harvest.

Moc had never felt the night was so endless, but for Ms. Hanh, the one who feared the light of night the most. She did not want a permanent farewell to happen. In the darkness, she would nurture hope, like a seed nurturing life in the darkness of the earth.

From the kitchen, the smell of herbs wafted out, dispelling the stench of a long-sick person, and the dampness was also blown away. Ms. Hanh burned a few more soapberries. At this time, Moc's breathing was also clear. Sitting next to Moc, Ms. Hanh looked towards the row of duoi trees that stretched along both sides of the canal, about thirty meters long, and then whispered: When she was young, her father was the one who firmly kept these two rows of duoi trees, when he heard that the village would cut them down to make irrigation canals. Perhaps the young village chiefs and deputy village chiefs who were newly elected did not fully understand the soul of the land and people under these duoi trees. Looking at the worn-out trunks of duoi trees, it was enough to know how many backs and hands had leaned on them. Then looking at the canopy of the trees intertwined like a hammock, one could guess their age.

The three sisters, over 70, when they were about the same age as him, said they had seen two rows of tall duoi trees here. That was where the citizens of the frontline stopped to drink water and eat before going to the river and following that road to Truong Son to open the road, it was where many cooperative farmers sat picking peanuts, shelling corn, packing potatoes into sacks before taking them to the warehouse. It was where brick and tile workers took their lunch break, it was where cow herders brought clay to knead into all kinds of shapes, one of whom later became a famous sculptor, it was where the neighborhood's amateur art troupe often gathered to practice plays...

Just imagine, just a dike road can make the whole neighborhood bustling with the sound of drums, cymbals, trumpets, cymbals, flutes, two-stringed fiddles...

The tree under her house was the biggest, several people could not hug it, where her father often sat to paint masks for the characters, she sat next to him, observing his face, emotions flowing with each stroke. He said, if you want a play to be successful, attractive, and impressive to the audience, you must first portray the "spirit" of each character. Therefore, each mask must have exaggerated and stylized lines that express the personality of each character: good, evil, flattering, husbandly, beautiful... then each beard, eyebrow, hairstyle, costume and prop must also be exaggerated and stylized in a very distinct and clear way. Moc, look up at the roof, do you know what that is?

- The whip. My family also has one. Every time I make a mistake, it is taken down - Moc almost laughed.

Ms. Hanh also smiled but looked like she was crying, the yellow light in her eyes was flickering but could not dispel the dark circles under her eyelids.

- It is a whip but not just a whip, it is also a sword, a horse's reins... In Tuong, symbolic techniques are always used in combination with dance movements, jumping, singing, speaking, walking... in a very skillful and fluent manner... suitable for each space and time of the play.

The "snoring" and "screeching" sounds coming from the curtains, the "squeaking... squeaking... squeaking" sounds on the roof, a pair of lizards clinging to a brown wooden crate filled with shoes, hats...

Ms. Hanh took down the palm-colored manuscript of Peach Tam Xuan De Co, Trung Trac Trung Nhi, To Tham Son Ha, The Old Man Carried His Wife to See the Festival ... Tears welled up in her eyes, memories flooded back... the nights she followed her father to see the festival.

"Oh... my child... Hearing you say that makes my heart ache, looking at my child makes tears of sadness flow, in the middle of the green forest, alone... oh... alone...". Ms. Hanh felt the old man's fingers trying to hold her hand. She leaned her ear close to the old man. Her shoulders trembled. Moc didn't know if she was talking to her father or talking to herself.

"Dad, don't worry, I will teach it to the younger generation. Our village's Tuong Boi has existed for hundreds of years. It is the soul, the history, the culture of the village. We definitely won't let it disappear easily. And the row of duoi trees on the dike, tomorrow they will be heritage trees. Dad... Dad...! Don't go... Dad!".

Wood burned more soapberry and added more firewood to the stove. The pot of herbal bath water boiled. The white smoke spread out and spread out into the distance.

"Flowing down, the cold stream, to the sea

...

Flow, flow gently, through the meadows and meadows

A stream becomes a river

No matter where you walk I will be

Forever and ever

But here your elm tree will sigh

And here your elm tree will tremble

And here beside you the bees buzz

Forever and ever"...

Moc sat at the foot of the bed, she replaced Alfred Tennyson's alder and poplar with the "duoi" tree as a final consolation for the person who had almost devoted his whole life to protecting them. As evidence, the warriors of the village.

Then tomorrow, when the villagers return from far away, please sit down here and tell us.

***

"Moc, are you coming to attend? Our village's Tuong Boi has been recognized as a national intangible cultural heritage."

Moc read Hanh's message. He felt a tingling wave of happiness spread throughout his body.

Will come back! Of course! Moc was extremely emotional as he typed the last lines before ending the seventh book.

The little girl is now a writer.

The fifth Living Well Writing Contest was held to encourage people to write about noble actions that have helped individuals or communities. This year, the contest focused on praising individuals or groups that have performed acts of kindness, bringing hope to those in difficult circumstances.

The highlight is the new environmental award category, honoring works that inspire and encourage action for a green, clean living environment. Through this, the Organizing Committee hopes to raise public awareness in protecting the planet for future generations.

The contest has diverse categories and prize structure, including:

Article categories: Journalism, reportage, notes or short stories, no more than 1,600 words for articles and 2,500 words for short stories.

Articles, reports, notes:

- 1 first prize: 30,000,000 VND

- 2 second prizes: 15,000,000 VND

- 3 third prizes: 10,000,000 VND

- 5 consolation prizes: 3,000,000 VND

Short story:

- 1 first prize: 30,000,000 VND

- 1 second prize: 20,000,000 VND

- 2 third prizes: 10,000,000 VND

- 4 consolation prizes: 5,000,000 VND

Photo category: Submit a photo series of at least 5 photos related to volunteer activities or environmental protection, along with the name of the photo series and a short description.

- 1 first prize: 10,000,000 VND

- 1 second prize: 5,000,000 VND

- 1 third prize: 3,000,000 VND

- 5 consolation prizes: 2,000,000 VND

Most Popular Prize: 5,000,000 VND

Prize for Excellent Essay on Environmental Topic: 5,000,000 VND

Honored Character Award: 30,000,000 VND

The deadline for submissions is October 16, 2025. The works will be evaluated through the preliminary and final rounds with the participation of a jury of famous names. The organizing committee will announce the list of winners on the "Beautiful Life" page. See detailed rules at thanhnien.vn .

Organizing Committee of the Beautiful Living Contest

The deep shadow of the countryside - Short story contest by Trac Diem - Photo 2.