SUDDEN INTEREST IN WILLOWS...

What IS going on? I'm suddenly getting a lot of hits going directly to a story posted in November here...linked to an image of a willow tree. Is there a willow fetish sweeping the world?
To make life easier, here's the story again: complete with grammatical errors, and other glitches. This was written in about fifteen mins and is not exactly a masterpiece... it was only posted as I'd been blocked for a while and was glad to be writing.

All explanations about the flurry of interest would be received with gratitude.

There was once a husband and wife who lived on a poor farm, where the soil was thin, and where there were no hills round about to protect it from the winds that blew from the north. The farmer had over the years cut down all the trees on his land for fuel, leaving the fields bare, so that when that wind did blow from the north, it met no obstacles at all, and cut across the grass like it had knives in its teeth.

I say the farmer had cut down all the trees… but that is not quite right. He had a river running along the boundary of his farm, and on the bank this side, he had left some willow trees, believing the wood to be damp and bad for burning, and the branches too spindly to be used for anything much. Besides, the bank was treacherous. And the farmer never wanted to risk his life in the fast flowing waters of the river. So on this side, the willows stood tall. For in those days, the willow had not learned what it was to weep.

On the other side of the river, on the other bank, the trees were poplars. Standing tall and straight, their leaves shimmering in the evening light.

The farmer and his wife had many children. One after another, they had babies, because they would need help on the farm as they grew older. Of course, in those days, and in that country, the babies were taken to be baptised, taken to the river with the village priest in attendance, while they were dipped quickly in the water.

The farmer and his wife had a special net made for this purpose. They would stand with the priest on the solid ground close to the trees, and would put their latest baby in the net. Then they would wait until the priest was intoning the correct prayers, and they would stretch the net out over the field, the bank, right to the river, and they would gently lower their latest child into the flow, and name him.

But for each ceremony, the village priest required payment. He would ask for not only coins, but cloth. Not only cloth but meat. Not only meat but the finest wines that grew on the north facing slopes of the valley.

And so gradually, the farmer and his wife grew poorer and poorer. Not only did they have to pay the priest, but the farm did not repay their hard work. And one by one, not long after their baptism ceremonies – indeed, some versions of this story say because of the baptism ceremonies – the farmer’s babies died and were taken to the village church in small coffins, to be laid in the ground.

It was not long before the farmer and his wife were again expecting another baby.. And not long before they realised, after counting their money on the kitchen table one evening, that they had not enough money left to pay the priest to baptise this child when it came.

The baby was born, and it lived three days, before it too, was taken along the village street to the church to join its brothers and sisters in the earth. But the priest stood at the gate of the cemetery, and barred the way.

“Only those whose souls have names are welcome here,” he said, and he turned the couple away. And they walked home carrying their child in his wooden box. That night, they went in the darkness down to the river carrying their child and the baptism net they had used for all their other babies. And when they were watched by nothing but stars, they took the child from his box, placed him in the net, stretched out the net on its long handle through the willow branches, and down to the water.

They moved the net gently this way and that in the current, feeling the water playing with the burden. They felt the burden shifting, heavy, not heavy, until suddenly, there was no weight at all…. And the two of them turned their backs on the river, and returned home.

The wind blew from the north that night, unhindered. It blew the grass across the fields, leaving bare patches where it tore the grass up by the roots. And when it reached the river, the wind blew the trees until they were almost bent in two.

But the trees would not break. It has been the purpose of trees to guard the souls of the dead since as long as anyone can remember – and for them to break would be to relinquish their reason for being. In the very beginning, each tree was given a different soul to guard. Dark upright fir trees guarded the souls of soldiers fallen in battle. Great oak trees guarded musicians. The aspen guarded the souls of poets. And so on, until poplar trees were chosen to guard the souls of babies who lived less than a week.

The souls of the farmer’s babies played at night high among the leaves of the poplar trees by the river. They looked down at the farmer and his wife and sang, making the same sound as the wind. And when the soul of their little brother appeared on the sand by the river, they reached down their arms to lift him into their tree. But the poplar was only allowed to guard the souls of named babies, and the babies’ arms were not long enough nor were they strong enough to take their unnamed brother into the tree.

Back then the willow had not been told which souls to guard. All souls seemed to have been taken. And back then, the willow tree stood tall and erect, just like the poplar trees.

The soul of the unnamed boy stood on the sand at the foot of the willow tree, and tried to catch its branches as they swayed in the wind. He looked up into the poplar, and saw his brothers looking down at him, the space between too great. Perhaps if he could grasp a branch, he might climb up to join them? But the branches of the willow tree were too high, too erect. They thrashed in the wind out of his reach.

For months, the soul of the unnamed child stayed at the foot of the willow. And each time the north wind blew, he tried to jump and catch a branch, to climb up to join his named brothers. And for months, the heart of the willow tree filled with tears for the child.

Slowly, the warmth of those tears softened the wooden heart of the willow tree, and each time the wind blew, the branches softened, and bent, until they almost reached the ground. The soul of the unnamed child caught hold of the branches, and played … swinging higher and higher as the wind blew. He called out to his named brothers to come down! Come down! Come and play and swing!

But the named brothers high in the poplar tree could not come down. Their place was at the very top of the poplar, close to the clouds.

Soon, the branches of the willow tree were so soft, that they bent right into the river as it flowed at its foot. And the next time the soul of the unnamed child played, it swung its branches out over the river, and dipped the child into the water, then sprang back, lifting him into the air and back onto the sand of the bank.

And as it did so, the willow tree gave the soul a name.

Afterwards, and until this day, the willow tree’s branches have swept the surfaces of rivers. And they guard the souls of unnamed babies who die before they have been on the earth for a week.

And on the opposite river bank, as is often found, there may be poplar trees. And when the wind blows from the north, if you stand close by and listen, you will hear singing.

It is the souls of the named and the unnamed calling across the water to each other, asking each other to come and play.

But they do not know which names to call. For the poplar tree and its souls cannot understand the language of the willow. And the willow cannot understand the language of the poplar.

But it is only the willow whose heart has melted enough to weep for the lack.

SPARKS Reading event Brighton - Call for Submissions

SPARKS, the terrific little Brighton flash fiction event, held in a mini-theatre above a pub (Upstairs at 3 and 10) is back, and calling for subs.

The next one will be 21st April.

Email your flashes - no theme, under 1000 wds - to editor/compere Jo Mortimer at sparksbrighton@hotmail.co.uk

FACEBOOK PROPOSED TERMS: WRITERS/PHOTOGRAPHERS BEWARE!!!

One of facebook's proposed terms:

2.3 For content that is covered by intellectual property rights (like photos and videos), you specifically give us the following permission, subject to your privacy and application settings: you grant us a non-exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, worldwide license to use, copy, publicly perform or display, distribute, modify, translate, and create derivative works of (“use”) any content you post on or in connection with Facebook. This license ends when you delete your content or your account.

I guess this can be interpreted as follows: if you use the note facility to upload images such as phiotos, images of paintings, collages, sculpture etc...and written work such as poems, stories, chapters of novels, non fic works, entire novels, and any other content covered by intellectual property rights, we have the right to use those in whatever way we like, with no payment to you, without crediting you with having created them - until you delete the account?

I wonder how many writers are aware of this one? The note facility, as it can be set to only allow certain contacts to see the works, has been a useful way of sharing work for feedback.

I have just deleted my account. Or rather 'deactivated' it. I notice you cant delete your account. So - does this mean everything I've put on there is now theirs to do with as they wish? I hope not!

Oh well. I guess anyone who really wants to keep in touch can find a way to do so.

HARPER'S WRITING COMPETITION DETAILS...

FROM THE WEBSITE:

Are you the most exciting new female voice in fiction - but, as yet, unpublished? At Harper's Bazaar, we love discovering great new writing, and are thrilled to be teaming up with Orange to invite you to write an original short story for our annual competition.

WEBSITE HERE

The winner will collect her award in the presence of the literary world's top editors, publishers and agents, at the Orange Prize for Fiction award ceremony in June. Previous successes include Clare Allan in 2002, who went on to write the acclaimed Poppy Shakespeare. Last year's winner, Sukhraj Randhawa, was taken on by literary agent Zoë Waldie (Rogers, Coleridge & White) on the strength of her entry, and is currently working on a novel.

This year, the judging panel will be chaired by Susan Sandon (managing director of Cornerstone, a division of Random House), with judges Kate Mosse (co-founder and honorary director of the Orange Prize for Fiction), Marina Lewycka (novelist and previous nominee for the Orange Prize), Lauren Laverne (presenter of BBC Two's The Culture Show), Peter Straus (managing director of literary agency Rogers, Coleridge & White) and senior editors from Harper's Bazaar.



WHAT WE ARE LOOKING FOR

Imaginative and stylish writing.


YOUR ENTRY MUST INCLUDE:

1 An original 2,000-word story on the subject of ‘Mother'.

2 A 200-word autobiography.

3 A passport photograph of yourself, attached to a sheet of A4 bearing your full name, address, telephone number (mobile number where possible), occupation and date of birth.


WHAT YOU'LL WIN

Three finalists will be selected by the judges to attend a writers' masterclass and lunch at the offices of Random House in London. The first prize is a cheque for £1,000, and the publication of your story in Harper's Bazaar. The two runners-up will receive £500 each. All three winners will also receive copies of all the shortlisted books for this year's Orange Prize for Fiction.



Rules and Regulations

1. All entries should be submitted no later than Tuesday 14 April to: Naomi West, Commissioning Editor, Harper's Bazaar, National Magazine House, 72 Broadwick Street, London W1F 9EP.

2. Entrants must be unpublished female writers aged 18 or over (in this instance please take "unpublished" to mean that entrants do not have an existing or previous contract with a publishing house.)

3. Harper's Bazaar holds the first publication rights, with exclusivity for a period of 56 days following publication.

4. Entrants must produce all writing themselves, without any assistance, and the completed piece must be the result of their own labours. Entrants warrant to the National Magazine Company that nothing within the piece is libellous, obscene, or in any way infringes the copyright or rights of third parties.

5. Entry to the competition and acceptance of any prize constitutes permission to use the names of the winner and runners-up for promotional purposes, without consultation.

6. The competition is not open to employees of the National Magazine Company or Orange PCS. The judging panel's decision is final, and no correspondence will be entered into.

7. The winners agree to take part in publicity as a result of the competition.

Promoter is Orange Personal Communications Services, 33 Wigmore Street, London W1U 7QX.

Nice things...

First of all this is an adelie penguin introducing me to her chick. 'Look,' she's saying.' Isn't he just gorgeous?'

And the other nice thing is that I spent ages on the phone this morning to Clare Wigfall, who is generously nattering to me for a chapter in the forthcoming craft book.

STORY COMP - PAY TO ENTER - NO PRIZE?

A warning... a short story competition seems to be running, asking for your hard-earned cash as an entry fee. And the grand prize is... nothing.

HERE

Makes you wonder what is going on. I have emailed the administrators, to find out if they have omitted to mention the prize on the website. I will keep you posted.

Of course, if it is there, and I have missed it, please do let me know!
---------------------

Updated, Tuesday 24th feb

No response to my email: BUT This has now appeared on the website:


The short story competition ....will be judged by the renowned local author Greg Mosse. There will be prizes for three winners in the adult category and a book token prize for the two best under -16 entries. These will be presented at a high profile prize-giving at a literary event during the festival. The competition is open to ages 12 and above and the theme is open.

Deadline is fast approaching though – 31st March – and information on how to apply and the competition rules can be found here or by sending a SAE to: The Short Story Competition Secretary, 67, King's Stone Ave , Steyning, BN44 3FJ .

There will be prizes... but WHAT!!! I'm afraid that isnt good enough... until they specify what you can win for your outlay of £4.00 for one, and £10.00 for three entries... I'd advise entering your work elsewhere.


...edit, March.

Right, they have finally stated the prizes. One weekend for writers, at a fixed date, in West Sussex. (what if you aren't free?) and two small cash prizes.

Gentoo penguins ...

Following on from Balancing on the Edge of the World - I did my own visit to the very edges of the world in January on my visit to Antarctica. Time to share a few penguins...

These are gentoo penguins, who build nests of small stones. This was taken right by the Chilean base Gonzales Videla, in Paradise Bay on the Antarctic mainland. HERE.
The base is a protected site, as is everything within thousands of miles. Penguins nest right up to the walls of the canteen.