Heathers Ghost Story

Heidi wondered if the shocked expression the woman wore was her natural look or truly surprise.  She had, after all, knocked on Heidi’s door with intent for Heidi to open it, hadn’t she? 

“Hello.”  Heidi said waving the hand that wasn’t holding the paintbrush.

“Hello.”  The lady responded hesitantly.

“The paint fumes must be ghastly, I’m so sorry.  I have been breathing them so long, I can’t even smell them anymore.”  Heidi offered.

“So you’ve… “ the lady said haltingly.

“Its appalling, isn’t it?”  Heidi said looking at the paintbrush in her right hand.  “I must have been possessed to buy it.  It looks like Barbie held her prom in there.”

The lady gave a weak smile.

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.