Fruits of Insanity

Fight Club

The first rule is: don’t talk. Not to your husband, not to your brother, not to your father. They won’t understand. In the beginning, Sara Jean Ferguson hinted at it to her cousin, and word got about, and that Thursday afternoon the roof was full of men just happening to take a stroll. Now Betty Ann King keeps the key to the roof on a string around her neck—she being the only one among us without male encumbrance.

The password changes from week to week. I think Mary El uses the first word off little Nemo’s spelling list. Knock six times in the necessary pattern (no, I’m not going to write it out—this paper might fall into the wrong hands—but think lullaby) and when they call out, try not to giggle too hard or Betty Ann may just roll her eyes and forget to let you up.

We all bring what we can, food wise. After all, it wouldn’t be a Society without Mildred Wetting’s lighter than air biscuits, as she will tell you herself at no provocation whatsoever. There’s nothing wrong with sharing recipes between bouts, that’s for certain.

Leave the children at home. If there’s any issue there, there is a rotation for babysitting among the grandmothers—they love the babies almost as much as they love donning gloves and jabbing each other in the face.

We all take turns and winners fight winners and losers fight losers until everyone’s had a chance. No leaving visible bruises, no scratching, biting, or hair pulling—the gloves hinder that, of course, but after the Essie incident, we had to spell it out. No screaming. The last thing we need is some man breaking down the door . . .

As this is your first week, you won’t need to take your turn at lookout—we want to see what you can do. Let me lace you in.

And now, go for it. It’s not me in front of you, blocking your fists. It’s those idiot friends of Jack’s—the ones that lure him down to the pub on payday so that he comes home with the rent on his breath. It’s your mama, telling you why you shouldn’t have married him in the first place. It’s Jack.

Ah, there you are. Good girl. Now, harder. Faster. Let it all out. Don’t apologize, fight.

I promise you’ll feel better for it.

Prompt 15
the week of November 8

** Image ID #2064694 Unavailable **