PlumeNotes - There's a Crazy Bitch in the Attic

WARNING: Spoiler Alerts. But, if you haven’t read Jane Eyre by now – seriously, who are you kidding? You never will, and now you don’t have to. You’re welcome – but I would hesitate to use this version if taking an exam.

Jane Eyre begins her life by having her parents die; so already, we’re pretty sure things aren’t going to be copacetic for her. She’s sent to Gateshead, her aunt’s estate, to be cared for. In those days “cared for” meant something different; so when I say “cared for”, I mean Aunty hates Jane openly and denies her any contact with her cousins—except for the malevolent John, who enjoys beating Jane with whatever’s in his hand. One day, Jane has enough of John and punches him out. Aunty gets angry and has Jane locked in the same room where Aunty’s husband died.

Already we’re off to a swinging good time.

PlumeNotes - What a Good Egg, Ol' Chap

Hey there folks! I’ve got a humdinger of a story for you. It’s a tale about a swell named Gatsby, as told by a gent named Nick Carraway.

We’ll get to all the skeletons rattling around in Gatsby’s closet, right after we examine the closets themselves, which are awesome. I do feel I should point out, however: Robert Redford is nowhere in this book, which I found rather disappointing; but pish-posh, onward! Let’s start with breakfast and for breakfast I like eggs; two of them, one on the East and one on the West. The East one should be hard-boiled and tidy; the West one is soft-boiled with a little fancy watercress garnish…

I duped you, folks, I’m not talking about breakfast but, of course, about two sides of the fabulously wealthy. That egg thing is called a metaphor and you should get used to them, because you’ll be drowning in a metaphorical ocean by the time we’re done. Swim, reader, swim!

PlumeNotes - Gone with the Bourbon

Margaret Mitchell, who toiled under the impression that the South had actually won the Civil War until she was 18, decided to write a story about a fiery belle named Scarlett who has to come of age despite herself. She named this story Gone With the Wind, and let me tell you, there isn’t anything like a bloody, drawn out war between brothers to dampen a girl’s good time.

Even though she could have any man in the Charleston-Savannah-Atlanta metro area, Scarlett sets her sights on her nearest neighbor Ashley Wilkes*, and decides the barbecue at his Twelve Oaks plantation is the place to tell him so. The barbecue turns out to be filled with surprises; Ashley’s engagement to his milquetoast cousin, Melanie Hamilton, is announced (the Wilkes’ always marry their cousins…::cough::), all three of Scarlett’s future husbands are present and she doesn’t get her way.

Oh, and that silly ol’ War Between the States was declared. Fiddle-dee-dee!

PlumeNotes - As the Wedding Dress Rots

Oh, hello. You must be the reader. You’ve come all this way just to read this page. Please sit down. No, not there; a reader never sits there. I have a tale to tell you that will explain so much… or nothing at all. You will soon come to realize I don’t care.

Let me introduce you to Pip. Yes, that’s right, Pip. Oh, certainly, it’s a darling nickname for the young man we find on the moors, but alas, nicknames can become a bit of an albatross when one least expects it. Pip’s family is dead, poor boy; all except his intolerably cruel sister, Mrs. Joe. A ridiculous name? Oh, just wait. Mrs. Joe is married to a blacksmith (that would be Joe), a truly lovely man.

Fair warning: lovely people are rare in this area.

Wash Me Deadly

Even with my eyes open, I couldn’t testify in court that I was actually awake.

Whatever bonding agent sleep used to seal them closed was getting harder to break. The fog that had settled in my mind took its time clearing out. I felt movement behind me. Turning, I saw his sleeping form buried under the blankets. I reached my hand out to touch his exposed shoulder – he snorted and rolled away.

No Sunrise Surprise for me today.

Out of bed like a fumbled football, I ransacked my bureau, grabbing what I hoped would amount to enough clothing to allow me on the street. Shoes in hand, I wandered into the bathroom to change. Nothing I wore matched, but who would care at this hour? The shoes were a problem though. I had grabbed one running shoe and one leopard print heel. I considered hacking the stiletto off before I remembered my old man had cut my shoe budget. Well, that settled that. I snuck back into the darkened room and dug around for the second sneaker and got out before my old man knew I’d been there. I smiled at my stealth; that was, until I ran into the door. I swore I heard a muffled chuckle coming from the bed.

Prisoner

Jayne’s eyes fluttered, adjusting to the light as thin beams of sun sliced up the grey hue of the room. She pulled her blanket tighter and looked around without moving her head. She knew every facet of the room’s interior; she’d been here long enough.

Taking deep breaths, Jayne lifted herself to a sitting position. Her body ached; she rubbed her limbs to release the tension they held. A small knot formed in her stomach as she contemplated her first step.

“Stay strong, Jayne. You will get out of this.” The words were a mantra now. She said them again and again, just as if she believed them.

She stood up, giving herself a moment for the dizziness to subside. She was so carefully tread the same path she took every morning. Jayne stood in front of the door and willed it to open; telling herself that she could, in fact, will it open. She reached out to take hold of the handle, but froze when she heard footsteps.