Tonight, brother Hưng brewed a pot of jasmine tea using an old veteran’s teapot inherited from his father. Just as the tea covered his tongue, he spat it out immediately. What he tasted was not the gentle flowery taste he expected, but the aggressive bitterness of oolong tea. Furious, he hurled the teapot with all his strength. It soared for kilometers, entered a half-built mansion, winding its way into a bricklayer’s shack, then smashed into uncle Đạt’s lunchbox, splattering its contents onto a freshly painted white wall. The teapot then flew through a window like a rogue pigeon.
Hearing the noise, uncle Hòa, the homeowner, came downstairs to investigate. He was immediately struck by the scene of the wall, now adorned with the vibrant green of stir-fried spinach, the oily brown of caramelized pork, and the ethereal white of rice. Uncle Đạt trembled with fear, apologizing profusely, but uncle Hòa, eyes glistening with tears, grasped his hand and thanked him. He declared the stain a modern masterpiece and his house a gallery.
Uncle Hòa ordered the wall left untouched and rewarded uncle Đạt with barrels of precious gasoline, even introducing him to top Vietnamese artists. Years later, Đạt’s series of derivative works, titled Pork Drips, was proudly displayed at the Venice Biennale.
The teapot flew out of the mansion window and crashed into Aunty Thanh’s vegetable stall, scattering greens everywhere. Furious, she spotted Đức and Thuận—two local gangsters—sipping tea nearby. Seeing no teapots in sight, she marched over and berated them. The pair cursed back, then rode off on their bicycles to fetch weapons for a showdown. Their commotion added to the gridlock already forming as people stopped to gawk at a mysterious light descending toward Earth. At the back of the jam was a government Camry carrying a woman handcuffed to a black briefcase. Frustrated by the delay, the woman demanded to get out and deliver the briefcase herself. The driver protested, saying that the briefcase could be stolen out in the open. Their plead was unheeded as the passenger abruptly exited the car and stepped out onto the crowded street. But the briefcase snagged on the door, leaving her struggling to move. At that moment, Đức and Thuận sped by on their bikes, crashing into the open door, severing the woman’s arm. Her upper arm, still cuffed to the briefcase, fell onto the seat as blood gushed from her stump like a fire hydrant. Shaken but resolute, the passenger urged the driver to deliver the briefcase, then deliberately waved her stump around, showering blood every which way. Onlookers, horrified by the scene, cleared the way, and the driver sped off toward the Presidential Palace, the briefcase rattling and handcuffs jangling in the backseat.
Meanwhile, the teapot soared through the air, briefly eclipsing a blue dot in the sky before crashing into a motorbike. The bike belonged to Hoàng, a freshman waiting at a gas station after a three-hour wait to refuel. The collision flipped his bike upside down, spilling all the precious gasoline—now as valuable as liquid gold. Hoàng desperately tried to right the heavy automatic bike, but with the handlebars jammed in a ditch, it was hopeless. No one dared to help him, fearing their own gas might be siphoned. Exhausted and defeated, Hoàng collapsed, tears streaming as his fuel drained away. Ignored by the crowd, who continued refueling, Hoàng’s tears soaked the ground around him. Eventually, a station attendant hauled him away and dumped him into a fenced area reserved for those who had lost their gas and their will to go on. Over a dozen others lay there already, sobbing in unison, their tears forming a small stream trickling down the street. Just outside the enclosure, a makeshift shrine had been set up with incense, fruit, and candy. Locals, convinced the crying were possessed by ancient spirits, left offerings in hopes the spirits would restore electricity and lower gas prices.
After toppling Hoàng’s bike, the teapot soared onward, briefly silhouetted against the full moon before heading toward the Presidential Palace. Inside the fortified bunker, the President and senior officials listened anxiously to a live United Nations meeting. The topic: an extraterrestrial ship steadily approaching Earth. Despite long-standing efforts to establish contact, the ship neither responded nor altered its speed, fueling fears it would pierce Earth like a skewer through fatty meat. Missile strikes by China and Russia had no effect. Humanity’s last hope, then, lay in a secret weapon that could only be activated with unanimous approval from world leaders. To activate this trump card, each leader had to press a button in their top-secret briefcase when called upon. As Vietnam’s turn approached, the officials grew frantic—their briefcase had yet to arrive. Hearts pounded like drumbeats until, at last, the driver arrived, clutching the case. The leaders opened it hurriedly, pushing aside the severed half-arm still cuffed to it. The glowing red button and its indicator light confirmed the device was functional. The room exhaled in relief. In gratitude, the President pinned a medal on the driver’s chest. The Vice President shook her hand, then high-fived the severed arm, while the Prime Minister promoted her to head of the Central Transportation Office. Amid the celebration, no one noticed a trickle of golden liquid—oolong tea—seeping from the ceiling. The teapot had flown over the palace’s airspace, triggering its air defense system. The blast sent tea spilling mid-flight, where it trickled into the bunker’s air conditioning system and onto the briefcase. Though waterproof, the device was not tea-proof. As Vietnam’s turn was called, the leaders pressed the button confidently, only for nothing to happen. The indicator light had gone out. Panic erupted as technicians rushed in, attempting repairs while the room plunged into despair. Tears soaked the conference table, with an aide resorting to using the severed hand to wipe the mess. The UN broadcast filled with mournful cries, resembling a funeral, as the world braced for its fate. Amid the chaos, a technician frantically gutted the briefcase’s wiring like a chicken, desperately trying to salvage humanity’s last chance.
After being struck by the anti-aircraft missile, the teapot rocketed upward, piercing the atmosphere, the ozone layer, and the Kármán line, before reaching the Moon, where Lady Hằng Nga and Uncle Cuội were playing Vietnamese bridge beneath the banyan tree. As Lady Hằng shuffled the cards, the teapot struck her hands, sending cards scattering like autumn leaves. Uncle Cuội, distracted by the approaching alien spaceship, laughed at what he thought was Lady Hằng’s clumsiness. Infuriated, she delivered a punch that sent him crashing into the banyan tree, shedding half its leaves. Spotting the floating teapot, Lady Hằng, annoyed, snapped her fingers to summon a mini-wormhole, instantly banishing it from existence. Meanwhile, the fallen banyan leaves drifted into space, where they clogged the exhaust pipes of a small, blue-tinted alien spacecraft hurtling toward Earth. The tough leaves jammed its engines, causing them to ignite. The ship wobbled, burst into flames, and plummeted toward Hanoi like a fiery meteor.
The alien ship crashed with a force that sent rubble and dust skyward. Shaped like a sphere, it was surrounded by a protective shield made of a glowing blue cloud , leaving its pristine white surface gleaming under the moonlight. Despite the smoke and dust, onlookers flocked to the site. While no one dared touch the ship, crowds gathered to take photos and videos. Some brought flowers or wore their best outfits, striking poses next to the spacecraft. A couple taking wedding photos nearby noticed the commotion and decided to use the alien ship as their backdrop. As the groom prepared to toss the bouquet for a picture, a hatch suddenly burst open, knocking him to the ground. From the opening emerged an alien being. Its appearance defied description, but a few features stood out: three semi-translucent layers of skin in different colors, blending at the edges to create a mesmerizing effect like a bowl of chè. Inside its body, a moving core occasionally protruded through its layers, resembling boba pearls floating in bubble tea. Seeing her groom sprawled on the ground, the bride assumed the alien was hostile. Armed with her high heels, she stormed toward it, ready for battle. But before she could strike, the alien spoke in perfect Northern Vietnamese:
“Brothers and sisters, I come in peace! Please, let me explain!”
The bride and the crowd froze, intrigued. The alien introduced herself as Quỳnh, explaining her fascination with human culture—especially Vietnamese traditions. Back on her home planet, she had a high-tech signal receiver that picked up Vietnamese TV broadcasts from light-years away. She watched so often that she learned fluent Vietnamese, perhaps even surpassing some overseas Vietnamese aunties. Her love for human culture eventually inspired her to visit Earth on a solo road trip. However, shortly after leaving her planet’s atmosphere, her transmitter malfunctioned. This, coupled with the engine malfunctions, led to her unintended crash-landing instead of the grand welcome she had imagined.
Quỳnh bowed humbly, apologizing to the bride and groom for disrupting their photos. Laughing, they handed her the bouquet. Beaming, Quỳnh thanked them repeatedly, then quipped:
“It may only be the full moon today, but it sure feels like Vietnamese Women’s Day!”
Everyone burst into laughter, and the crowd around Quỳnh grew as they began to see her as a new idol. She surprised them further by singing Trịnh Công Sơn’s classics. With her seven tongues, her one voice resonated like a choir of dozens, bringing swaths of people to tears. But music wasn’t Quỳnh’s only passion; her true love was painting. She was a devoted admirer of Nguyễn Gia Trí and spoke about his art with such depth that listeners felt like they were attending a graduate seminar in fine arts. The crowd’s admiration only deepened, and a long line formed as people queued to take photos with her. Quỳnh would often make heart gestures with her tentacles, delighting everyone with her charm. Skinny uncle Hiếu the brick seller jokingly nudged her to marry his son. Laughing, Quỳnh explained she wasn’t male or female and that the name Quỳnh was just for fun. But Hiếu waved it off, saying his son wasn’t a picky eater. In the end, Quỳnh gently declined, adding:
“You wouldn’t want that long of a wedding procession!”
The crowd burst into uncontrollable laughter. But disaster struck! Đức and Thuận, still seething from their earlier argument, arrived on their bicycles, armed with machetes, katanas and a spirit of vengeance. When they saw Quỳnh, they mistook her for auntie Thanh, thinking she had metamorphized into a monster. Rushing forward, they each hacked off a piece from her tentacle.
“Oh my god!” Quỳnh screamed in shock.
Seeing the chaos unfold, the crowd leaped into action. Đức received a brutal high heel kick to the face from the bride, knocking out four of his front teeth and sending blood streaming from his mouth. Thuận received a powerful slap from uncle Hiếu, one so strong it sent five fireflies flying from his eyes, fluttering around his head like confused stars. As the blows rained down, the crowd explained who Quỳnh really was, and with each explanation, the two men began to realize the gravity of their mistake. Overcome with remorse, they dropped to their knees, begging for forgiveness. But Quỳnh had vanished! The loss of her tentacles had caused her to completely lose control. She started rolling across the ground, tumbling with a speed that no one could match nor slow. Her movement delivered her right into the pool of tears that had spilled from the gas station parking lot.
“Oh my word!” Quỳnh shrieked in horror.
The pool of tears had dissolved her outermost layer of skin. Thankfully, her second layer remained intact. But the loss of one layer caused her body to react with a violence tenfold, transforming her aggressive rolls into frantic dashes. But her misfortunes weren’t over. The armless passenger on the government car, believing sugar would coagulate blood, was now consuming a glass of Coke at auntie Huyền’s refreshment stall. Unfortunately, the more she drank, the thinner the blood became, resulting in a river of blood flowing right beside the stall. Quỳnh, in her distress, tripped and inadvertently fell into this fresh pool of blood. Upon contact, her second layer of skin began to sizzle away.
“Oh my goodness!” Quỳnh wailed in agony.
By now, the people had found a way to calm Quỳnh. Seeing her exposed skin, bystanders mobilized straw mats to envelop her, preventing further loss of her skin. Upon feeling the cool comfort of the mat, Quỳnh clung to it like a child to its mother. She was finally calm, no longer racing about in panic.
“Thank you, everyone! I’ve lost two layers of skin and my tentacles, but as long as my core remains, I’ll heal. My core is strong, and I defy anyone to destroy it!”
Everyone applauded, and she was cared for by the people while a taxi arrived to take her to the hospital. Suddenly, a convoy of blue-plated vehicles sped towards Quỳnh. Stepping out of the lead car was the President, carrying a suitcase with a flashing red light in her left hand and a large teapot in her right. Without hesitation, the president opened the suitcase and pressed the red button. As soon as she did, surrounding high-voltage electric poles exploded like fireworks. A wormhole then appeared, from which emerged an astronaut. They were dressed in a pristine, shiny white suit, with two handles on either side of their helmet, a long, curved spout pointing towards the sky at the back, and a completely darkened visor in front. The astronaut’s suit was covered in words that looked like Vietnamese, but all the words started with the letters “v”, and only used the characters “e” and “a”, interspersed with a few t’s and r’s. The President and other high-ranking officials approached this figure, then pointed at Quỳnh, now trembling uncontrollably in the straw mat. They ordered:
“Please apprehend this subject, but keep it alive so we can study it!”
The astronaut nodded and pulled a shiny, lidless teapot from their pocket. Within it swirled a miniature cosmos of twinkling stars. But as Quỳnh trembled, shaking the straw mat off her burnt body and stumpy tentacles, the astronaut froze, their eyes widening. They stumbled back, falling heavily onto the ground. Trembling, they clambered to their feet, hastily stuffed the teapot back into their pocket, and extended their hand skyward. Suddenly, a strange weapon materialized in their grasp—a device resembling the lid of a teapot. Attaching its knob to a socket on their glove, the astronaut leveled the weapon at Quỳnh. Her trembling grew more violent as she looked around for answers, but no one could offer any. The President and the other leaders watched, their brows furrowed in confusion, until the weapon fired. A dark energy beam shot forth from the lid, like a concentrated searchlight, striking Quỳnh’s core and piercing her body clean through, leaving a hole the size of a large bowl. With a desperate reflex, Quỳnh shifted her core to the side, narrowly avoiding complete annihilation. Yet most of her core disintegrated, leaving only a small crescent fragment floating weakly within her burnt body. Quỳnh collapsed, her lifeless form hitting the ground with a dull thud. She did not cry, for she had no strength left. The groom fainted beside her, while anguished cries erupted from the crowd, harmonizing with the distant wails of those on the pile near the gas station. It was a scene as mournful as the funeral of an esteemed official. The bride, tears streaming, rushed to the President, showing them a video recorded by the crowd. In it, Quỳnh was seen singing Trịnh’s classics and delivering impassioned lectures on Trí’s paintings. Deeply moved, the President’s face twisted with remorse. She immediately ordered her secretaries to draft a self-criticism article for the Nhân Dân paper and grasped Quỳnh’s lifeless tentacle. With solemn resolve, she promised that the government would do everything in its power to help Quỳnh recover. Quỳnh did not respond. The astronaut overheard this and grew frantic, their voice rising in agitation. “Don’t believe that wretched being!” they shouted. “Hide your teas! You don’t know what you’re dealing with!” Their face burned with killing intent as they slowly approached Quỳnh, weapon still in hand. The crowd surged to protect her. Skinny uncle Hiếu the brick seller, the bride, the one-armed passenger, and countless others formed a human barricade, holding hands to block the astronaut’s path. Despite their protests, the astronaut struggled against them, shouting, “This is all a misunderstanding! I’m the good one! That monster is the one you should be afraid of!” But no one moved aside. Their unity stood firm, shielding Quỳnh from harm.
The astronaut then gave their explanation. They came from a tea-worshipping world, revering it as a holy liquid embodying the universe’s essence. Yet, their society grappled with the origin of this worship, a mystery that drove philosophers, historians, and scientists for millennia—all failing to find answers. Many believed tea was a divine gift, until archaeologists unearthed an ancient teapot inscribed with the word “Veteran” and contained fossilized oolong leaves. Advanced tea technology revealed that all inhabitants shared their DNA with these leaves. This then led to a complete realignment of their society. Religious orders of all sorts collapsed, and their writing system was then redesigned to align with the holy relic.
Tragedy struck when tea-obsessed extraterrestrials resembling Quỳnh invaded, wantonly consuming sacred tea with their strong tentacles. A great war ensued, leaving the invaders defeated, but in their retreat, they detonated nuclear weapons, evaporating all the tea in existence. As such, the tea obsession turned into generations of hatred and a mission to destroy the aliens. But despite relentless efforts, no traces of them were found in their universe. The highest council issued a bold solution: explore the multiverse to locate tea-bearing worlds, meaning potential targets for the aliens. These worlds were offered security agreements, promising defense against extraterrestrial threats. Holy astroknights would respond instantly, ready to deliver holy judgment against any and all threats, in hopes of annihilating their archenemy if found. Earth, rich in tea, was chosen as the first target, and so…
The astroknight’s lengthy explanations gave Quỳnh time to recover. Her severed tentacle, once lifeless, now twitched with life. Seeing this, the astroknight erupted in madness. Attempts to restrain them failed until the President proposed a test: if creatures like Quỳnh truly craved tea, they would instinctively drink it in their dying moments. The convoy approached auntie Huyền’s refreshment stalls and ordered four drinks—one cup of tea and three cups of Cola. If Quỳnh chose Cola, the astroknight would face imprisonment for harming the people’s idol. If she indeed chose tea, the astroknight could act as they wished.
Reluctantly, the knight agreed, envisioning glory and vengeance if Quỳnh proved to be their ancient enemy. . The cups were placed before Quỳnh’s feeble tentacle, which immediately reached for the tea cup. As it touched the rim, prayers from fourteen different religions filled the air. Her tentacle plunged into the tea, releasing milky-white blood but absorbing nothing. Relief swept over the crowd. But the astroknight, consumed by fury, pushed through and seized the tea cup. Declaring their intent to pour the tea into Quỳnh’s core to reveal the truth, they spilled it. Each drop slid off her core like raindrops on lotus leaves. Enraged, the knight grabbed the Prime Minister’s teapot and poured hot tea over her core. Still, no tea was absorbed—every drop was expelled, soaking the knight in the sacred liquid they so worship. Realizing the fundamental misunderstanding of their own world that all creatures like Quỳnh were part of the tea-crazed race, the astroknight lowered their head, hugged their helmet, and knelt down beside Đức and Thuận. Weeps began to leak out, blending with the trickling of blood and the buzzing of fireflies. The President ordered their arrest. None resisted. Sentenced to life imprisonment, the three became master tea brewers, known as the “Three Great Tea Masters.” It was said they brewed tea only for the noblest hearts, those who showed kindness even to the most despised.
After the three others were taken away, Quỳnh slowly began to regain consciousness, perhaps revived by constant splashes of tea. She flicked her tentacles and sucked up the three full glasses of cola. Afterward, she could finally speak. The first words she uttered upon waking were:
“I’m dying! That blast nearly finished me, and I don’t have long to live. But it has been my dream to experience human culture to its fullest! Please help me fulfill it!”
Hearing this, the President called the head of the Central Transportation Office and dispatched an entire motorcade to take Quỳnh to see cultural sites. Among the convoy was a doctor, who attached an IV line directly to her tentacle to keep a flow of cola running, ensuring she would live long enough to savor the journey. She was taken to countless sights: the Fine Arts Museum, the Ethnology Museum, even the Grand Theater to watch traditional chèo performances. As dawn broke, the entourage stopped to eat a meal of giblet congee to regain their energy. While everyone was slurping, Quỳnh wandered off and soon found herself lost in uncle Hòa’s unfinished mansion. Since the workers hadn’t arrived yet, the place was deserted, but uncle Đạt’s artwork still remained, now encased in a majestic golden frame. Gazing at this picture—at its ethereal, otherworldly quality—Quỳnh felt something stirring deep within her. Her core pulsed and drifted, sometimes even pushing through the charred outer layer of her skin. Her tentacles quivered, her mouth twisted into various forms, and then she began to utter sounds in her native language, their syllabary echoing like waves crashing against a lone boat adrift at sea. With each word, her core and tentacles seemed to be drawn closer to the painting, as though pulled by a magnetic force. Those who heard her voice came rushing to the mansion. By the time they arrived, the sounds had ceased, and Quỳnh was dead. She lay sprawled on the floor, her layers of skin now fully transparent, her seven song-filled tongues hung loose, and her crescent-shaped core entirely exposed, pointing its two sharp ends up toward the sky. But the sight that moved everyone the most was her tentacle, which seemed to have gently stroked the painting, leaving a milky white stain still dripping on the frame. Looking closer, the entourage noticed that she had apparently drawn something. Near the lower right edge, situated on a vast block of water spinach green, was a small sphere, next to which was a tiny figure flinging its tentacle in a swimming motion, seeming to advance—desperately—toward a massive white form looming in the distance. At that sight, misunderstandings were unthinkable. The minds of all present, and later of the world, fused into one solid entity, not unlike the milky white droplets trickling down the golden frame. And just as gravity pulled Quỳnh’s pale blood to the right corner of the painting, this collective consciousness knew exactly where it wanted to go. Its newfound directionality was driven by an invisible yet powerful force, powered by the unified movement of every single one of its atoms, all striving toward a single purpose that it naturally recognized—as if by an ancient impulse—as what ought to be done, and what was the right thing to do.
After a national day of mourning, the government launched a global effort to repair Quỳnh’s spacecraft and return her body to her home planet. The world united enthusiastically: African and North American engineers restored the engine, South American and European scientists rebuilt the electronics, and all of Asia took on the profound task of ensuring Quỳnh’s memory endured. Contributions poured in from across the globe via an open innovation system, leading to rapid progress. After decades of effort, the ship was fully restored. Its engine roared to life, its electronics were functional, and thousands of astromancers pinpointed her home planet 2,965 light-years away, using the crescent-shaped remains of her core as a guide.
Asia’s crowning achievement was designing a shrine within the spacecraft to preserve Quỳnh’s legacy. At its heart was her granite casket, supplied by skinny uncle Hiếu. It is rustic, yet adorned with thousands of intricate carvings, each crafted by artisans around the world, a symbol of humanity’s unity. It housed uncle Đạt’s original painting, a ceremonial teapot crafted by the Three Great Tea Masters, and a triptych of Quỳnh’s cherished moments. The left-hand panel was a photo of her jubilant embrace of admirers, the righthand panel: a portrait of her rapturous singing, and the centerpiece: a portrait of her holding a bouquet. In it, her three layers of skin radiated a brilliance never seen before, revealing—for the first and last time—her core changing color
However, the highlight of the memorial was an audio recording of Quỳnh’s final words, sang in every language on Earth. Decoded and translated from the mansion’s footage, they are, as follows::
“Will joy be there where I return?
Will the sky be blue where I return?
I hear a thousand drops of tears,
Flowing into a sparkling lake.”
Finally, the day came to launch the spacecraft. Using the most advanced rockets humanity could produce, the spacecraft launched into space. As it neared the Moon, Earth’s control center activated the wormhole generator. The light from the wormhole was so intense that even Lady Hằng Nga and Uncle Cuội, busy pounding rice cakes with the rabbits on the Moon, paused to look up. Then, the ship vanished.
***
During the spacecraft’s repairs, a unique device was discovered in the engine—a generator capable of producing infinite energy. Without it, the ship could not function. The device required a rare mineral not found on Earth, making replication impossible. Yet, among the billions contributing ideas for the repairs, no one suggested using the device to solve Earth’s energy crisis. The reasons for this remain speculative, but the most likely explanation is that people believed it would have been the wrong thing to do. If the thought did occur to anyone, it was fleeting, like the brief, radiant glow of the wormhole that sent the white sphere and its precious traveler home—before fading into the vast, black void of the cosmos, now pregnant with life, meaning, and possibility.
Vũ Trọng Hiếu is a writer-translator based in Hanoi, Vietnam. Initially trained as a teacher, he taught himself to write fiction in both Vietnamese and English. Hiếu’s English-language work has been featured in SUSPECT. His award-winning debut short story collection in Vietnamese, titled năm hạt vàng (trans. “the five golden seeds”), is set to be published.
