Everyone knows I’m up and down Klonnie trash. No shame. In your face. “How you like me now?” Klonnie trash.
But it really have come to my attention, that more than anything, I’m Bonnie Bennett trash.
She is so fun to write. Like, I seriously be sliding her in any and every tv universe lol. Pairing her up with people I never thought could meet, but what if they could? I talking about friendships, enemies, even lovers. Bonnie and Lestat? Huh?? Where did that come from? Bonnie and the Beacon Hills Gang 😁 Bonnie interacting with the Grimm characters (mostly Rosalee because I adore her). Bonnie Bennett and Abbie Mills (Babbie I shall call it) have to be my ultimate favorite to write. Two bad ass black women being gorgeous, strong, and kicking ass? WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT? Bonnie👏And👏Shades👏???!!! As a demon as well??? You know…sometimes I wonder what be going through my head when I write these drabbles lol. I just came home from work and immediately went on here and save all these gifs for future Klonnie and co. drabbles…save me from myself.
THAT, and more than klonnie happiness, I’m ALL for Bonnie Bennett happiness. I love her character. I love writing, exploring, expanding her character and love when other amazing authors do it as well. I haven’t read any new fan fics lately, but I always bookmarked them to read later. There are SO many and I can’t wait to have a moment to sit down and read them. Whatever and whenever Bonnie Bennett is on my tumblr (whether it’s fan fics, fan art, gifs, playlist, etc), I always reblog.
I love Bon Bon and she seriously deserve better than what her character is given. Fudge these little breadcrumbs of HAPPINESS they give and steal away from her and the fandom. BAITING bamon fans. Julie Plague DESTROYING Bonkai. No touchy touchy with any of the Originals. Klonnie and Kennett would’ve been gold, but no. Not able to have real connections with other characters (Matt, Tyler, Stefan, just name a few) and not having a LIFE outside of the supernatural mess. What happened to College? What was her major? What kind of career does she wants? What’s her hobbies? Girl could probably knit her some bomb ass hats and scarfs but we don’t know. TVD don’t tell us nothing.
And yes, I’m glad Bonnie found love in Enzo and Enzo love her just as much. I don’t watch TVD but I see the gifs and videos on tumblr 👌👌 She could be with anyone or even find her independence and get the flip out of Mystic Falls, as long as she’s happy, that’s awesome…but how long is that going to last? If I know this crappy show, Julie and Co. is going to find some way to rip her happiness away from her. Especially if Elena coming back. Man, please 👋 If it doesn’t turn out that way, I’d be truly surprised…truly.
This post/rant went longer than it supposed to, but you guys get my point, right?
‘You are what you eat’ is what they say and Bonnie has been eating her little snake friends for over a century. She’s not as scary as she looks, though. Actually, she’s pretty harmless (if you’re not a snake, that is).
So I have been thinking a lot about Jane Austen and the Brontës, who are of particular interest to me—Charlotte Brontë is my favorite, but as a collective they are really fascinating, and while I don’t exactly love Wuthering Heights (though maybe I would upon rereading), it’s an incredible novel. I’m currently reading Mansfield Park, which is kind of fascinatingly weird—I’m only halfway through that at the moment, but so far there are so many parallels and similarities between it and Charlotte and Anne Brontë’s work (Emily, of course, is singular). It features a young, less-privileged woman in a (somewhat) great house, competing with a charming, more privileged lady for a man’s affection, and also a sanctimonious rector cousin as a love interest, and young women who are kind of vain and not morally admirable. Jane Eyre has, obviously, many of these things, too, except that instead of being a wallflower (as the heroine in Mansfield Park is, at least so far), Jane is aggressively singular and self-possessed, and sheisn’t pining after her sanctimonious cousin; she gets away from him.
Villette, meanwhile, has a lot of this stuff, too, along with a sanctimonious authority figure who is the object of devotion, and a long bit with a play—as does Mansfield Park. And Agnes Grey, by Anne Brontë, is basically Mansfield Park-lite, and I do not mean that as a compliment to either novel. (Oh, Anne.)
So I got out my huge Brontë biography (The Brontës, by Juliet Barker, which is The Book), which I someday will actually read (it’s around 1000 pages long) and looked this up, and was totally shocked and fascinated to discover that Charlotte Brontë had read no Jane Austen at all before writing Jane Eyre. Amazingly, George Henry Lewes (!) suggested she read Pride and Prejudice after she wrote to him in response to his review of Jane Eyre, about which she wrote (p. 646 of that book):
“An accurate daguerrotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden with neat borders and delicate flowers – but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy – no open country – no fresh air – no blue hill – no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen in their elegant but confined houses.”
She read Emma in 1850 (and had Sense and Sensibility at that time as well):
“…she ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him by nothing profound: the Passions are perfectly unknown to her … Her business is not half os much with the human heart as with the human eyes, mouth, hands and feet; what sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study, but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of Life and the sentient target of Death – this Miss Austen ignores …” (p. 749)
So, first of all, that is a deeply hilarious passage (”what throbs fast and full,” indeed), but broadly speaking, this is really interesting to me for a few reasons. It is NOT surprising that she did not like Austen; they’re totally different writers and their approaches to class are very, very different – although I should point out that Jane Eyre also “marries up.” But they are also handling a lot of similar issues, simply, I think, due to being female writers within a relatively short time period. If Charlotte Brontë never read Mansfield Park, it’s kind of incredible to think that multiple (genius) women came up with books that have so much in common, even if the moral points they’re making are ultimately quite different – it reflects a lot, I think, about what was going on in the culture at the time. (Mansfield Park even has references and trips to the West Indies, which obviously is key to Jane Eyre!)
But the most fascinating thing about this is actually the meme that I have seen going around tumblr time and time again about the genesis of Jane Eyre – that is, that Charlotte Brontë read Emma, was inspired by the character therein named Jane Fairfax, and then set out to write Jane Eyre. So, you know, (these posts argue), DON’T LET ANYONE TELL U FANFIC ISN’T LEGIT!!! Setting aside the fact that that is a gross misapplication of the word fanfiction, this is totally inaccurate. I always kind of just bought this story (despite finding the tone of those posts incredibly irritating) because I never thought about it for more than five seconds or fact-checked (stupidly, because it’s not difficult to do), and if you read Emma it’s not implausible! The woman in question is disadvantaged and almost has to become a governess, and has a sort of Jane Eyre-esque inner strength. But she has nothing to do with Jane Eyre.
This is a point of particular note because the Brontës have, for whatever reason, been mythologized in various ways almost since their first publications, really beginning with Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography of Charlotte. There’s a really good book on this called The Brontë Myth by Lucasta Miller that I recommend if you are interested in this subject, which isn’t too long, but is a great read. She essentially argues (very persuasively) that the Brontës have been taken up and reshaped by every generation that has come after them, in some cases with wildly different results, in order to suit that generation’s needs. Obviously, this happens to all writers to some extent, and probably to Shakespeare more than anybody, because we know so little about him. But with the Brontës it is really pretty egregious. And this is just another example of that! Wouldn’t it be nice to imagine Charlotte Brontë doing just what we do? Wouldn’t it be nice to imagine her being just like us? (To me, actually, no, but that’s neither here nor there.) I would actually be fascinated to know where this story came from—it seems like something that could have its roots in the nineteenth century, but it also could easily just have been someone who made something up and put it on tumblr. Either way, it’s no wonder it appeals to us now. But it’s a falsification.
Anyway, I wanted to put that up here, because a) I WANTED TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT, and b) I think it is genuinely really interesting. Further thoughts to come on Mansfield Park once I’ve finished it. Sorry to Anne Brontë but you really were the worst.
So, I reached a big follower milestone today and I honestly can’t believe that many people follow my blog. I never thought to have five, let alone this many, but this is so amazing. I do feel bad as I haven’t been as active because this semester is killing me, BUT I do have a little gift :)
This was the anon prompt that I got (and I hope they don’t mind I took a few creative liberties with it)! I love your stories! Can you please write one where J and C go camping? Celebrating an anniversary where J writes C a poem. We all know he has such a way with words.
Once more, THANK YOU ALL, for being so wonderful and telling me that you like my stories and blog. It really does make me smile!
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the clock on the wall seemed to be vibrating through me as I sat in the kitchen, straining to see in the dim lighting. The only other sound was of the crickets in the night and the tapping of the leaking faucet in the kitchen. The small living room of our modest house was void of sound or life. Only a small night light kept me out of the complete darkness as I sat on the sofa and a speckle of stars.
A medical textbook was in front of me – I didn’t know which one as my eyes refused to focus on the ink. A warm cup of ginger tea to my right, the heat radiating to my hand as I tried to sip the spicy drink slowly to settle my stomach.
The clock had read 11:45 p.m. when I had left the bedroom where Frank had been sleeping, oblivious as I left the room. I hadn’t looked at the time since I had crept into Bree’s room to check on her sleeping form and then tip toe downstairs to try and busy my mind.
There was only so much one could do in the suburbs in the late hours of the night to try and distract a mind. But try I did because to let the emotions hovering on the edge of the surface of my mind meant succumbing to the void that was inches away from me, its darkness beckoning me with licks of pain and the sting of tears.
It had been easier to avoid in the four years since Bree had been born. The utter emptiness that losing my other half caused was filled by the daughter he left behind. There were days though that the siren calls of falling apart were more appealing.
The thought of letting all of the built-up pain, sorrow and anger of the years out in one sweep. Letting myself wallow in the loss. Letting myself curl up and cry out.
It was the fear of never coming out of the darkness that kept me in the light.
Tomorrow was Bree’s first day of nursery school. And it was also the anniversary of my marriage to James Fraser.
The day in itself seemed more of a dream-like memory, the edges faded with time and whiskey. I only had vague memories of the ceremony that would change my life forever and mark my body with blood as well as my soul. My hand automatically went to the place where my blood was mingled with his on that day, brushing the invisible mark as if I could touch the past.
Jamie and I had never been one for celebration as our lives then didn’t really allow it. The only peace we had ever had was at Lallybroch, our only real home together. It had been one day in the fall after the traumatic months of Paris that we ever celebrated the occasion.
It had been a quiet day, the fields were glowing yellow from the sunshine and the flowers in the meadow were dancing together in the breeze as our feet crunched over leaves.
“Here Sassenach. It’s a bonny place.”
I smiled a little at his tone, one of boyish excitement trying to be suppressed with his now adult musings.
He was right though; it was a bonny place. From the hill, you could see almost all of the estate as the sun started to set. The pink-orange sun making all the clouds look like candy and the sky a vibrant red while the land sparked with the dying of the light.
Jamie set down the basket he had brought and held out his hands for me to join him under the leaves and branches of the large tree.
Shyly, he handed me a small package, a thick piece of paper wrapped into a small ball with a thick black string holding it together.
I glanced up at him, smiling, seeing his ears turn pink in delight as he watched my face as I began to untie the small bow.
The paper came undone and I was greeted with a small polished rock, the piece of amber he had shown me after he had come home from traveling around the estate. Along with the honey balls he had saved for me.
It was shining now though, and the sunlight bounced off of it, creating reflections of light onto me and Jamie. I rolled it in my palm, feeling the warmth and solidness of it. An echo of the man in front of me.
“I thought to have it made into a necklace or ring, but I thought that ye might just like a little stone to travel with ye instead. To keep in your box.”
He gently reached out and pinched the rock between his thumb and pointer finger, squinting as he observed it. He smiled ruefully at me and placed it back in my open palm.
“It can give ye strength when ye are about treating aliments and such. Perhaps a wee piece of me to keep close when I’m no there. To keep ye safe.”
Tears prickled in my eyes as I looked at his earnest face, soft with care and alight with tenderness.
“Oh, Jamie,” I whispered as I closed my hand around the precious gem. The pulsing in it echoing the pulse of Jamie’s hand tight in mine. “I love it. Thank you.”
I moved over into his waiting arms and he wrapped me against his back as my feet stretched out alongside his as we gazed out into the fields of our legacy. It was a moment that I knew I could reach back on as it was happening. A moment of such utter peace, even in the times of struggle ahead, I would be able to conjure the warmth of his arms and the feel of the sun setting against my skin.
There was a slight stab of pain at the thought of a curly haired toddler running around, chasing butterflies as Jamie and I watched on with pride, but I pushed that thought aside and focused on the feel of his heartbeat against my back and his warm breath in my own curls as his nose buried in my hair.
It was ending of summer and the beginning of fall and the threat of the chilly air swirled around us as the sun started to disappear.
“Has the sun died too?” Jamie asked as he laid his head on my shoulder.
“What?” I laughed, trying to look back and see his expression.
He turned to look at me as his eyebrows knit together as he thought. “Ye told me that the stars have died, but we still see the light from them.” He gestured at the sun. “It is a star, no?”
I hummed against him as I remember when I told him that. Right after I had chosen him at the fairy hill and chosen the life that we were now living.
“It is,” I admitted, “But the sun is still alive. It’s only the stars very far away that have died.”
He huffed against me. “And the sun is not far away?”
I laughed at his tone. Jamie was one of the smartest men of his time, able to converse and persuade anyone, but he had no real notion of the celestial objects outside of what his Catholic upbringing and Parisan education had taught him, which wasn’t much.
I wedged my arse into a better position and he readjusted his grip accordingly.
“It is far away, thousands of miles away. But there are some stars as old as the universe, which are gone from us now. They were only there in the beginning of time. So, when you look at the stars, you are looking back into time.”
He mumbled something under his breath and I knew that conversation was over.
We sat there, under the large tree with the cool breeze falling around us and caressing our skin, watching the sun disappear until it was twilight.
“I’m sorry we didna get a chance celebrate our anniversary,” Jamie murmured in my ear, his whisper making me break out into goose bumps.
I smiled to myself at his concern, such a sweet man. Many men back in my time didn’t even remember an anniversary or birthday. And if they did, it was usually only marked by a peck on the cheek and a dozen roses. Frank had done so religiously for the few anniversaries we spent together.
“It’s alright, Jamie. We aren’t really one for celebration.”
He brushed a few stray curls away from my bodice and back to my shoulder.
“Aye, that’s true enough. Seems something always gets in the way.”
Hm, that was certainly true enough. Our anniversary was certainly not able to be celebrated while I was in the arms of the king and while Jamie was in the Bastille. I shook my head slightly to shake off the ache of that time. An ache I knew would never fade. My birthday last year was celebrated as I clung to Jamie for dear life after he had saved me from the witch trial. Another point in my life I wanted to forget. Christmas was marred by Wentworth.
“But,” Jamie said and paused for a moment before turning me to face him. His usually bronze face was ivory in the cast of the moonlight. His eyes shown like glistening sapphires as he looked at me, rubbing his hands on my hips.
“If there was ever a holiday we should celebrate, it would be my birthday.”
I leaned forward and brushed my nose to his, nuzzling close as the air grew colder. “Oh? Are you growing a little more selfish in your old age?”
I felt his lips stretch in a smile against my forehead where they rested. “Weel, no. But I wilna say that I didn’t enjoy the favors you paid me that day, Sassenach.”
I slapped his hand with no sting. I remembered that well as I was sore between the legs for days after.
“No, the reason is that May 1 of last year is when I got the best gift god or anyone could have given me.”
My eyebrows came together in confusion as I glanced up at him. His finger gently traced a trail from my ear to the bottom of my jaw. “You see, Claire. That was the day I was given you.”
The truth of the worlds stopped me as his eyes looked at me, as tender as the night sky. I had indeed come through on Beltane, which also happened to be the day of Jamie’s birthday. Maybe we were fated. Perhaps there was some sort of order to the universe.
“I suppose the stars were aligned for us,” I whispered into the softness of his shirt.
He chuckled and I felt the rumblings under my cheek. And in that moment, I had never wanted to freeze time so badly. To confine this moment forever to memory.
“Aye, mo nighean donn, they were indeed.”
I desperately tried to press my knuckles as hard as I could into my eyes, so that my vision was distorted by blurs and spots of color. Anything to stop the tears. Over the last four years, I had shed enough tears to fill an ocean. Bree didn’t need a mother who she constantly remembered as sad.
I had long since told myself that the past was the past and Jamie would have been upset with me not keeping my promise to forget and let go.
“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” he would whisper to me as he kissed the tears away. Making the pain disappear with the softness of his lips. “Dinna weep.”
But grief was love’s unwillingness to let go. If I kept my hands busy enough, it could detract my mind from memory of sunlight reflecting off red curls and rough hands that smoothed up and down my body.
But for the heart. And the soul. It was simply not the case. Jamie was ingrained into my blood. His flesh had cut through mine and marked my being as forever his. From that first touch, that first kiss, the first time I held him inside me. It was the risk of loving and I had been prepared to make that risk for him.
To risk my heart and soul because there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to keep him. To love him.
But now, staring at the unseeing words of the page before me and brushing the faded J scar of my hand, the pain was all I had left to remember him with. The only memory besides the child he had given me that our love was real.
A stray tear ran down my face as the clock struck midnight, paused for a brief moment and moved on to the next second of time. And that’s the hell of it, there was never enough time.
My eyes snapped to the shadowed doorway where Bree stood in her pink sleep suit, gripping her favorite, ratty blanket. She sleepily rubbed at her eyes, blinking as she walked a few steps into the light of the nightlight near me.
“What’s wrong, love? Did you have a bad dream?”
She jumped onto my lap and I smoothed down her hair as she snuggled close like she did as an infant. Her little form was still heated from her sleep.
She nodded against my chest as I felt her relax into my hands. I kissed the crown of her head and held her close to me, rocking her gently as I did when I nursed her when she was first born.
It was only a few moments later that I heard her breathing grow deep and I knew she was asleep again. I gently pinched a lock of her red hair between my fingers, feeling the smooth strands and watching the dim light reflect all the colors in it.
I clutched it tight in my palm as my- our daughter slept and glanced at the clock again.
“Happy anniversary,” I whispered as I gazed out to the blinking stars of the past.
than all the sea,
dragging huge chains across the bottom,
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks and hills of bonnie Doon,
How can you chaunt
With me so weary… full o care?
To bear love’s missal through to-day,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and love me still, but know not why,
And yet, I’ll love her till I die.
Feeling like that.
Of some guy with 15 different guitars in his shack
with lots of tape delays and loops, a good buy!
But could youth last and love me still, but know not why!
I give you an onion.
As if I had a system
I shuffle among the trees,
The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,
When the field-mice
Are abroad, he cannot sleep.
Who are seized with tears.