'Mum's Rules' by Val Harris

I’ve got a hunch mum might be having one of those breakdown things. 

When we arrived home from school yesterday, like, she gave us both a certificate. 

For being so great, right? I was wrong.

It was a set of Rules.

What?

Rule One: if you wish to continue living in this house you will obey the following rules, or you will move to the tent I have put up, in the garden

Rule Two: do not roll your eyes, say ‘whatever’ or ‘like’. 
—What is her problem? This is SO uncool. Like, Rules? 

Rule Three: the toothpaste must be squeezed from the bottom. If not, no toothpaste will be available!

Rule Four: all crockery, and other detritus to be removed daily from rooms.

Rule Five: Any deviation will result in Rule One above.

Rule Six: please use more than a grunt or a single word to respond to a question i.e ‘How was school today?’ ‘It was good, thanks mum.’ NOT ‘err’ or ‘good’
—Doesn’t she know how tired we are?

Rule Seven: refer to Rule Five above.

Rule Eight: do not feed peas to the dog. It makes it smell! 
—She means they make him fart!  Don’t feed us peas!

Rule Nine: you will eat everything I make for you and put on your plate, or Rule One will apply.

Rule Ten: do not kick dirty washing under the bed to fester for days on end! 
—I thought that was her job! I mean, she’s my mother!

Rule Eleven: Rule Ten is not my job! 

Rule Twelve: Now re-read all rules with special attention to Rules One and Five.

Love Mum xx

I’m beginning to think I might break all the rules and go and live in the tent, or is that what…

'How To Go Crazy' by Julia Ruth Smith

It started the day I put sweet raspberry jam on cheese biscuits, a smile on a crooked face and my friend said gently, ‘Oh Judy, that’s not how it’s done.’ 

On account of her special age and a husband riding away with a saloon girl he’ll regret, I lent her my ear.

‘Cats - lots of them. One blind if possible. A short expensive cut from Alfredo’s that will look great for a week but will make people wonder. Run as fast and as far as you can especially on hot days. Especially at midday. Tell everyone that you absolutely love spending holiday days on your own –less washing-up, more Netflix. Repeat singularly unimportant details about family, friends, neighbours at intimate gatherings until people sidle away and get their coats. Post a blurry photo of said evening with the words, ‘What a blast!’ and a delighted-looking reindeer.

Never admit you’re just lonely.’

'A List of Things Not to Do if You Want to Be a Good Daughter' by Adele Evershed

Don't believe you can dress like Kim Kardashian and not be thought a slut, even if you still go to church on a Sunday.

Don't fill up an empty soda bottle with a livid mixture of spirits to share with David deep in Clover Woods so you feel like you are drowning in a sea of perfume when he robs you of your virginity.

Don't ditch school each Wednesday afternoon to listen to songs from The Tortured Poets Department in the park so you fail algebra and have to do summer school.

Don't get in the bruise-colored Jeep Ollie has borrowed from his brother to take you to Pink Lake, even if his eyes remind you of a spaniel puppy and you only said yes because you met him at summer school and it’s driving your Mom nuts.

Don't cry when he tells you that the condom broke and he only asked you out because he'd heard you were easy.

Don't believe the old wife's tale that drinking a bottle of gin and a scalding bath will solve your problem.

Don't continue life as usual, going to cheerleading practice and studying for your quiz on Macbeth and don’t snap, “I’m getting too fat,” at your Mom when she tells you to eat breakfast and then leave the house on that morning without saying goodbye.

Don't stand still as Drew from your Biology class takes aim at you with his father’s rifle.

'In Her Delirium, Our Mother Speaks While We Hover Nearby' by Patricia Bender

First she tells how best to sort a 50-pound bag of potatoes. They no longer grade the potatoes, she says, so you need to sort them by size and even age sometimes or you’ll lose half of them. And then what’s the point of trying to save by buying the big bag? She describes her sorting ritual and tells where the boxes she sorts the potatoes into are in the cellar. Use the small potatoes first. Make salad or scallop them. If the potatoes are not too dirty you can cut up the bag and recycle the paper. If it’s too dirty just bury the paper in the compost but take all the webbing out first either way. Otherwise, why bother? Then our mother tells us how best to hang the wash if the ringer on the machine isn’t working properly. Aunt Julia, long dead, enters the conversation with our mother. It’s clear that Julia’s reputation has neither improved nor been forgiven even after all this time, and our mother’s voice shifts into a register she rarely uses. We straighten up and listen more carefully. Julia, our mother says, needs to step back and quickly. After a pause, our mother begins talking in the tone she always called her voice of reason. She waves her hand at the place Julia seems to be and says softly, I’ll be telling you what the ground rules are from now on, sure I will.

Grounding by Luanne Castle

 You are grounded if you don’t stay in bed after your 7:30PM bedtime.

You are grounded if you get up before 6:00AM, especially on Christmas morning.

You are grounded if you don’t eat all your breakfast cereal and sausage.

You are grounded if you are late for the school bus.

You are grounded if you left your pajamas on the floor.

You are grounded if you miss the school bus at 3:00PM.

You are grounded if you say shut up or talk back to your mother.

You are grounded if you aren’t home in time for supper.

You are grounded if you don’t finish your lima beans and liver.

You are grounded if you didn’t bring home homework.

You are grounded if you don’t finish your homework before 7:15PM so you have time to brush your teeth and wash your face.

You are grounded when you slide into bed at 7:32PM.

'In The Heat Of Punjab' by Abida Akram

She licked the marshmallow soft skin on the inside of her elbow up to her left palm.
Long continuous strokes. Her tongue golden. Loud sucking noises as she cleaned
each finger and thumb. Her nose filled with the perfume of this delicious nectar. Her
chin, cheeks, mouth stained and sticky with yellow juice, the fine hairs there
clumping into tiny sweet spikes. They could keep their large oranges and the heavy
watermelons on the farm. This was her favourite. It was the season and now there
was a glut and the ritual began.

Please follow my instructions to get the best from this ritual. There is a magical hour
when you should start, which is the cooling evening before sundown. If you start in
the heat of the afternoon, you will soon be covered by flies feasting on you.

So, first massage it, roll it between the two palms, even press it with your thumbs,
then when squidgy, nip a tiny hole at the top in the skin with your front teeth. Proceed
to slurp up the pulp and juice through the hole. Bliss.

Then comes the messy part. Tear the hole bigger, turn the skin inside out, put the big
flattish slippery stone to one side, suck the nectar left on the inside skin. Then suck
the pulp off the fibrous stone until there is nothing left but the pale white cover on the
stone. Throw the crumpled soft skin onto one pile and the stone onto another.

Now sticky and golden, juice running down your arms you can either clean yourself
up or simply reach into the basket for the next ripe mango.

'Rule Follower' by JP Richards

"What’s the most important rule for using A.I.?" My Computer Science professor shouted,

his face aflame with rage. His laptop lay open before him on his ancient desk.

“Don’t use it to write my doctoral thesis?” I proffered weakly, my heart slamming my

ribs.

“That’s the first rule. You need a refresher, because I’m failing you.” He whipped his

laptop around to face me.

Not original work. A.I-generated content: 98.9%, its screen boldly declared. He

lurched over his desk, hands reaching over the laptop screen. His grey hair tickled my face

as he typed upside-down, furious keystrokes. His breath smelt of onions.

The screen now read, Guidance for use of A.I. at Bangor University:

Rule 1. A.I. shall not be used for any written submission.

Rule 2. See Rule 1.

Rule 3. See Rule 1.

Rule 4. See Rule 1.

“I know the rules, Professor,” I muttered, backing away.

He flopped back into his chair, breathless, staring at me with contempt. His face

contorted into a livid question mark. “In five whole years, have you learnt anything?”

Grabbing a pen, he tortured a post-It note. He threw the whole pad at me.

It said: Rule 5: Don’t get caught.

*End*

'He Needed to Tell Us' by Abha Iyengar

Rules are straight. Rules are clear. Rules can be followed. Rules can be broken.
My family had a problem. There were no ground rules. And since there were none, we could
be hauled up for anything. We did not know when we did right, we did not know when we
did wrong. It all depended on our father’s mood that day, that hour, that moment.
Everyday, I wished he would tell us. The rules we could be bound to, and this way set us free.

'Diamond Despot' by Scott MacLeod

You did not get to where Jimmy was by saying yes. Rules was rules.

Jimmy ran a tight ship at the stadium. He was a wiry 75, tanned to the color of a leather handbag by the Florida sun. He was patrolling the quarter-full park moving patrons who sat in seats not assigned to them.

A light rain had settled over the baseball field. As the downpour increased, one fan opened a discreet travel umbrella in Section 5.

“We got a Code U,” Jimmy shouted into the walkie-talkie to his beleaguered #2, Marge. She sheepishly upbraided the offender who pointed out fruitlessly he was in the last row and blocking no one.

Before Jimmy could relax, he noticed from the corner of his eye, a regular patron reaching into her fanny pack to withdraw a small ziploc bag. Outside food? From home? What was it, Cheezits? Flo knew better than that, thought Jimmy, pouncing into action.

“We got a snacker,” he roared at Marge through the handheld. She huffed her way down to Flo and with an apology requested she cease and desist her crunching.

Jimmy continued barking into the walkie as the weather worsened.

“Who is he talking to now?” Flo asked Marge.

“He’s on with God,” quipped a wag from across the aisle. “He’s complaining that the weather is against regulations.”

As if on cue a blinding flash married a deafening boom and Jimmy was gone.

All that was left was a worn pair of white leather Reeboks. On top of them was perched a singed silver toupee smoking slightly.

“Did you ever see anything like it?” asked Flo, shell shocked.

Marge had been trained well by the master. Before answering, she thumbed through her Game Day rule book. “I don’t see anything that prohibits it.”

NFFD 2024 Prompt #12: Ground Rules

 

 

 

 

Prompt #12: Ground Rules
EARTH prompt C

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 16 June 2024....

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Write a flash which involves a set of rules.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 12: Ground Rules.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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