Author biography:
Fu Xiuying, female, holds a master's degree in literature. She has published several novellas and short stories in magazines such as "October", "Zhongshan", "Chinese Writers", "Youth Literature", etc. Her works have been reprinted in journals like "Short Story Selection", "Short Story Monthly", "Chinese Literary Selection", "Beijing Literature • Mid-length Novels Monthly", "Masterpiece Appreciation", "World Literature and Art", etc. Among them, the short story "Love Spreads Everywhere" was included in "2009 Annual Short Stories" (People's Literature Publishing House), "2009 China Annual Short Stories" (Lijiang Publishing House), "2009 China Novel Rankings" (Beijing University of Technology Press), etc. She received the Outstanding Work Award at the Chinese Writers Publishing Awards. The short story "Xiaomi Blooms" was included in "Wind in the Palm - A Decade of Excellent Works by Chinese Youth Writers" (Era Literature Publishing House). The short story "Empty Chamber" won the Fourth Gemstone Literature Award. There are related comments on her works scattered in journals such as "Literary Report", "Literary Criticism", "Masterpiece Appreciation", "Shan Hua", "Da Jia", etc.
Appreciation of the winning work:
"Love Spreads Everywhere"
By Fu Xiuying
Back then, we lived in the countryside. My father taught at a town school dozens of miles away from home. My mother took care of my brother and me, living at the easternmost end of the village. This village was called Fangcun. Although Fangcun wasn't large, with only about a hundred households, it had many trees—poplars, willows, toon trees, locusts. There was also a kind of tree whose name I still don't know to this day. It had thick leaves, grew extremely lush, and its trunk often hosted small insects with long antennae and thin wings that remained motionless. When you tried to quietly reach out your hand, these little creatures would suddenly spread their wings and fly away.
Every weekend, my father would come back. He rode his old bicycle, speeding down the country roads. On both sides were fields of crops, where wild grasses spread and wildflowers dotted the landscape, blooming freely. In the sunlight, the scent of plants drifted through the wind. I stood at the entrance of the village, watching my father's figure getting closer and closer, my heart filled with joy. I knew this was my mother's festival.
In Fangcun, my father was an unusual person. He was well-educated. His demeanor, expression, speech, even his smile and silence, all had something unique about them. These qualities set him apart from the men of Fangcun, giving him a special charm. I guessed that the women of Fangcun secretly liked him. Therefore, in Fangcun, my mother was someone who drew much attention. Women often came to our house for chats, either carrying their work or not. They sat in the yard, talking about various matters, laughing loudly when they didn't know what to say next. This laughter was characteristic of rural women—loud, cheerful, and slightly unrestrained. Why not? They were mature women who had experienced life and understood everything. In Fangcun, women seemed to have a certain privilege. They could tell dirty jokes, spicily enough to make the men blush. They could grab a man, strip off his clothes, and embarrass him. After enduring years of repression and restraint during their youth, now they wanted to be unrestrained. However, my father was an exception. A gentle breeze blew, a leaf fell to the ground, lightly bouncing twice but couldn't go far. My mother sat there, stitching the soles of shoes one stitch at a time. The thread was long, passing through the sole, making a rasping sound. Aunt Si sitting opposite laughed. "Clumsy wife, sewing long threads." Aunt Si was mocking my mother's clumsiness. How to say it, compared to Aunt Si, my mother was indeed a bit clumsy. Aunt Si was known in Fangcun for her cleverness, especially in needlework. Moreover, Aunt Si was good-looking. With phoenix eyes, slightly slanted, when she looked at people, her gaze was flirtatious. Especially, Aunt Si's posture was excellent. When she walked down the street, there were always men staring at her, entranced. In Fangcun, Aunt Si and my mother were best friends. She often came to our house, sitting in the yard together chatting. As they talked, their heads would crowd together, their voices lowering, lowering until they became inaudible. I squatted under the tree, fascinated by the ant colonies. These tiny creatures moved back and forth, busy and industrious. What did their world consist of? I placed a leaf in front of an ant, and they immediately lost their bearings. This small leaf must have seemed like a tall mountain to them. Then, my saliva must have seemed like a surging river to them. Watching their panic-stricken state, I giggled uncontrollably. My mother looked over curiously, "Nini, what are you doing?"
In Fangcun, no one cared more about which day of the week it was than our family. In Fangcun, people cared more about the first day of the month and the fifteenth, the twenty-four solar terms. The weekend was a distant, unfamiliar, and somewhat exotic concept. I remember clearly that each weekend, no, it should be after Wednesday, the atmosphere at home changed. What exactly changed, I couldn't quite put into words. Just like fermenting dough, it was warm, sweet, with a hint of sourness, slowly expanding, bringing an indescribable joy and a subtle unease. My mother's temper became increasingly better. She busied herself in and out of the house, having no time to attend to us. I knew that if I made some small requests at this time, my mother would likely agree. If I had committed a mistake, my mother was usually lenient at this time. At most, she would raise her hand high, then gently pat my bottom, and laugh. By Friday evening, my mother sent us to wait at the village entrance while she prepared dinner. Usually, it was handmade noodles. "Dumplings before departure, noodles upon arrival," my mother was almost obsessive about this. I forgot to mention, in the kitchen, my mother was quite skilled. She could turn simple meals into colorful dishes. Throughout her life, culinary skills were one of the few things she could boast about. Sometimes, watching my father eating my mother's food and praising it endlessly, I couldn't help but think that the canteen at his school must be terrible. Once a week, the feast, my father, like us, must have been looking forward to it for a long time. My mother sat nearby, leaning her body ready to serve my father more food. The light flowed in the room, warm and bright, the smell of fried peanuts permeated the air, rich and prosperous. Joyful, lively, yet peaceful and comfortable. Many years later, I still remember those nights, that light, the quiet mealtime at the dining table, my parents speaking sentence by sentence. Sometimes, they didn't say anything, just silent. In the yard, the wind swept through the treetops, rustling. Little bugs chirped at the base of the wall. A room full of peace. This was our family's heyday, unforgettable.
How to describe Fangcun? The folk customs here were simple. People were born, grew up, matured, aged, and then returned to the soil. Eternal joys and sorrows, faint happiness, scarce pleasures, in the span of a lifetime, were so long, yet so short. However, amidst this simplicity, there was a very open-minded attitude. I mean, the people here, though uneducated, saw through many worldly affairs. This is true. For example, life and death. In the village, if a family gained a new member or lost an elder, in the eyes of the villagers, it was like the spring and autumn of crops, sprouting and harvesting, the most ordinary thing. Often, in front of the coffin, the filial sons, wearing hemp and mourning clothes, with red and swollen eyes, accepted cigarettes thrown by others, lit them, slowly taking a puff, their faces gradually opening up. Sadness was still sad. During the crying ceremony, they screamed, recounting the virtues and difficulties of the deceased, making the onlookers sigh. Yet, in the courtyard, the band started playing, the sorrowful tune surprisingly carried a hint of joy. And at the gate, the opera stage passed by with a yodel. Talented scholars and beauties, flowers under the moonlight. Elegant robes, jade belts, dragon robes. Red water sleeves danced gracefully, creating timeless elegance. The audience cheered. Children ran around in the crowd, screaming. Women cooked, the newly built stoves still damp, steam rising, swirling, mixed with the aroma of food, creating an inexplicable sense of joy. On this land, in Fangcun, the understanding of life and death was so profound, what else could remain unresolved? Yet, strangely, in Fangcun, there was such a contradiction. Regarding matters between men and women, people seemed to place great emphasis. Their attitude was both liberal and conservative. This was indeed a perplexing matter.
On the nights my father returned, there were always eavesdroppers. Eavesdropping meant listening at the wall. Often, younger pranksters hid under the windows, waiting for the two inside to lose themselves. In Fangcun, tales heard through walls spread everywhere, becoming even more spicy and enticing after being embellished by gossips. In the village, which couple hadn't been eavesdropped on? My father, due to being away for long periods, was a focal point of attention when he returned on weekends. To prevent these pranksters, my mother racked her brains. My father, however, remained calm. Listening to my mother's nagging, he just smiled. Thinking about it now, at that time, my father was just over thirty, in the prime of a man's life. Mature, steady, composed, yet passionate and spirited. Also, my father's glasses. In that era, in Fangcun, glasses almost symbolized education and another possibility. My father's glasses were a mark, a symbol, transcending Fangcun's daily life, shining brilliantly beyond the mundane world. I imagined that many women in the village harbored peculiar fantasies about my father's glasses. Years later, my father entered old age, lying in a rattan chair, eyes half-closed, resting. Beside him, his glasses lay desolately. The sunset shone on the frames, a line of flowing light flickering incessantly. I didn't know what my father thought about at that moment. Was he reminiscing about his youthful years? Those physical pleasures, those screams, hidden in the secret corners of the body, once ignited, erupted powerfully. They existed so vividly, causing confusion and trembling. However, all had passed. A ray of sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, falling on his face. He slightly furrowed his brows, covering his face with his hand.
My mother sat in the yard, holding a sieve on her knees, bending her head with effort. It was hot, and the millet had all become infested with worms. Cicadas chirped in the trees, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, instantly creating a cacophony. My mother carefully picked the rice, not knowing what she thought about, her face turned red. She glanced inside, where my father was reading a book, his posture upright. She silently cursed, then laughed. She loved seeing my father like this. Back then, it was because of my father's education that my mother resolutely decided to marry him. Otherwise, based solely on my father's family background, how could it be possible? Calculating, my mother's family was once a famous landlord in this area. But later, they declined. Yet, the airs remained. The deep-rooted class consciousness continued until my grandmother's generation. In Fangcun, this remote small village, it seemed never influenced by the trends of the times. It was hidden in a corner of the North China Plain, isolated from the world. Truly. My mother glanced at my father again, her heart suddenly skipped a beat. She said, "It's really hot today." My father slightly raised his head, his eyes still fixed on the book, saying, "Isn't it?" My mother looked at my father, not knowing why, a thin layer of annoyance rose in her heart. She closed her mouth, focusing on picking the rice. After a while, hearing no sound, my father lifted his eyes from the book, looked at my mother's silhouette, realizing he had neglected her, and came over, bending down to talk to my mother. My mother kept her eyes lowered, focused on picking the rice. Unable to do anything, my father called me. At that time, I was catching mantises with neighbor San. Hearing my father call, I ran over. My father said, "Nini, your mother, she calls you." I was about to ask, when my mother burst out laughing, saying, "Nini, drink some water, look at all the sweat on your forehead." Then she turned around and glared at my father, grinding her teeth, "You, I'll deal with you," with great hatred. I watched all this from the edge of the water tank, my heart filled with inexplicable joy and tremors. How wonderful. My father and my mother. Many years later, until now, I always recall such afternoons. Sunshine. Mantises. Cicada songs. The wind gently brushed past, sweating profusely. All these were related to love.
During the weekends, Aunt Si rarely came to our house. Occasionally passing by the door, stopped briefly by my mother, saying a few words, and quickly leaving. It was clear that at this time, my mother hoped others would share in her happiness. My mother's face was flushed, her eyes shimmering with softness and charm. Speaking, she often suddenly lost focus. People seeing this, those of lower seniority, couldn't help but joke around. My mother softly argued, her face turning even redder. Sometimes, Aunt Si occasionally came to the house, talking with my mother in the yard. My father was inside, quietly reading a book. I noticed that at this time, he seemed particularly engrossed. Staring at the book, fixated on the page, for a long time without flipping it. I quietly approached, startling him. He said, "Nini, what are you up to!"
When did things start to change? I can't say. Anyway, later, in my memory, my mother often shed tears alone. Sometimes, returning from outside, stepping into the house, seeing my mother's tear-streaked face, my young heart was both shocked and confused. My mother, upon seeing me, hastily turned to hide her tears. Other times, she would pull me into her arms, sobbing quietly. I rested on my mother's chest, not knowing what had happened. My mother's body trembled slightly, and I could feel the intense storm within her heart, suppressed with all her might. I wanted to ask, but didn't know what to ask or how to start. In my young and simple mind, my mother was omnipotent. She was capable. In this world, nothing could defeat her. Later, I often thought that my mother at that time must have known a lot. She endured silently, hoping to win my father's heart back with her tolerance. She pretended to know nothing. Normally, she handled everything both inside and outside the home. Every weekend, she welcomed my father back as usual. To my father, she was better than before, tender, considerate, even humble, even fawning. Moreover, my mother, who was not adept at dressing up, began to groom herself. Many years later, I discovered that my mother's grooming had a reference point. Of course, you must have guessed, this reference was Aunt Si.
How to say it, in Fangcun, Aunt Si was a special character. Aunt Si's uniqueness wasn't just about her beauty. More importantly, Aunt Si had grace. This was true. Wearing everyday clothes, every gesture, every step, exuded a captivating grace. Do you believe that there are such women in the world, naturally charming? They were born for men. They were men's hell, they were men's paradise. Until later, I often thought, my father, such a scholar, sensitive, refined, sentimental, romantic, meeting someone like Aunt Si, what kind of story would be impossible? I forgot to mention, Uncle Si, Aunt Si's husband, passed away shortly after their marriage. It was said he suffered from a strange illness. Villagers said, what strange illness? An ugly wife, close land, treasures at home. This was an old saying. Others said, dying under a peach tree, being a ghost is still elegant. The listeners laughed, with deep meaning.
About my father and Aunt Si, in Fangcun, there were many versions, still circulating today. In people's eyes, this pair, one talented, one beautiful, were truly a perfect match. However—people sighed and stopped speaking. However what? People shook their heads and sighed again. I've said it, in Fangcun, regarding matters between men and women, they were always contradictory.