Stacy Short

I can’t believe it. No farting until Easter. My mum’s a monster. 

It’s not that I especially love farting as an experience; it’s just fun to gross people out. But I do especially love beans, and eggs, and onions, and even cabbage, believe it or not. Kids aren’t meant to like cabbage, but my dad makes a mean slaw. My name’s Fatima, but my brother reckons it should be Fartima. I reckon his should be Moron.

So anyway, mum thinks I’m disgusting and she’s making me give up farting for Lent. We’re not even Catholic; this has to count as cruel and unusual punishment. 

I’m three hours into my farting ban, and my stomach is already starting to hurt. I think I’m going to have to pull a left cheek sneak. Mum’s got her headphones on, she’ll never know. 

Uh-oh, it’s an SBD (that’s silent but deadly, if you don’t know; it means it’s a stinker). She’s frowning at me. You know, the mum-frown. It’s also silent but deadly. This stinks in more ways than one. 

Dad’s made his slaw to serve with dinner. And mum’s done chops. I’m sure I read somewhere that meat makes you fart too. What are they trying to do to me? I’m going to die. I’m starving, I have to eat some of this, at least. One lamb chop. And one scoop of slaw. 

My stomach’s making funny noises. Even Moron is looking at me weirdly. This time I manage to make it a burp, not a fart. But there are still some pretty disturbing gurgles happening down there. 

This is no good. I can’t do it. I can’t hold it in. 

It’s a loud one. It’s a long one. It’s a stinky one. It feels so good. I don’t even care that I’m grounded now, as long as I can fart again. 

I do love farting as an experience.