the Fart

          Linda farted in her blue graduation gown and pulled at her panties to let the putrid gas escape.
          Smells like fuckin' potato chips! She thought.
          And the high school principal, grinning broadly, introduced Valerie Grumwald,  the valedictorian
          of the graduating class. She was a tall, coin-eyed blond with a pout budding on her lips.
          In tight skirts, which she loved to wear, her snug behind jiggled as she walked.
          Now a long gown covered her body, but not her slender toes which were squeezed into prim white
          pumps. She came to the microphone, her steps licking between the walls of the auditorium and the
          principal stepped back.
          Look at that bitch! Linda thought as the gas seeped through her collar.
          Grumwald cleared her throat.
          She talked about life and about challenge and the rewards surely to come to those who worked
          hard. The bright future waited. You had just to be brave and walk up to it.
          She blended in morals,  patriotism, the comforting arm of the law.
          Life was good with the right rules.
          As she talked, her wide green eyes positively shined.
          A smile, pure and fresh as a spider's silken thread, wafted her words over the audience of parents,
          aunts and uncles, friends, and ushers.
          Occasionally the baby of someone who could not afford a sitter wailed, then ended in a choking fit
          which sounded like laughter.

           Linda was irritated by Valerie's voice.
           The things she said made no real sense. They were just in books, in newspapers that made money
           from murder, in magazines with pictures of vast vaginas.
           So she had a brilliant idea.
           She had never never done it before, but now she tried.
           She tensed , her eyes narrowed into barbed slits.
           She pushed down -
           rippling her stomach, forcing to get all the gas in her to release in one fantastic ball of fart.
          That would expose the principal, the parents, everyone, even Valery Grumwald herself, to what
           was really falling out of that virgin-brained mouth.
           "He, yuh in pain or sumthin'? Wat yuh makin dem fazes fo?" Linda's best girlfriend, Womba, asked.
           Womba had a headache.
           She had been out the night in the rain in a white Jaguar convertible her boyfriend, B.B., had stolen.
           They drank.
           Finally, with dawn, they left the Jaguar in a ditch. The convertible was filled with water, like a bathtub
           on wheels. It was even white.
          They laughed and laughed, staggering away.
           One Trojan prophylactic floated in it like a sickly worm.
            Her mother had not even missed her. She didn't know anything.
            Dripping, Womba got home at 7 am.
            Her mother was sprawled on the couch in front of the TV set. She woke up as Womba passed.
            "YUuh bin takin dem erly monin shawers 'gin? Yuh gonna git newmonia, girl. Yuh crazy!
             And yuh smell! Watsa matter?"

            "I'm trying to fart!" Linda grunted.
            "I'm trying to . . . "
            The explosion rocked her.
            She smiled within a dizzyingly foul expanding atmosphere.
            "Ah, shit, man! Not rite nex to ME!" choked Womba.
            Grumwald attained an exciting point in her speech.
            Her mouth was opened, eagerly wide, when the thunderous pud erupted. But she went on, undaunted.
            The fumes reached her in the middle of another sentence.
            A smile struggled vainly on her lips; she pushed on, beginning to gag.
            Then her lips twitched wildly like a twanged rubber band.
            Behind her the graduates were choking.
            Womba dropped out of sight, fanning herself.
            "Ahm gonna git yuh fo dis!" she gasped.
            But Linda was proud of herself. It had whizzed out beautifully.
            She succeeded!
            She held her breath until colored lights popped behind her eyes.
            She looked angelic.
            The graduates fanned so furiously to blow the fumes away that it floated out the audience.
            In the fifth row her father beaded his red suspicious eyes at her. Her mother blushed at the odor.
            "Look at our Linda," she said, through pressed lips, "She is the only little lady on the stage.
             How disciplined she is!"
            The principal , seeking control in the form of a grim smile, walked quickly off the stage.
             He kicked the curtains.
            Then, damning faith, he turned on an old up-right fan. It swept the stage. The graduation gowns
            flew up.
            The odor dissipated. He turned it off. Smiling brightly, he reemerged and told a joke.
            Few laughed.
            The baby started to cry. And Valery Grumwald managed to finish her valedictory.
            Linda no longer cared.
            Her attention drifted to a boy three rows in front of her.
            Womba followed her gaze over the slope of square caps to his twisted, chalky ears.
            They stuck out like an albino elephant's.
            "He gonna fuck yuh wit a suppository! Dats all he got," she whispered to Linda, the giggling,
             spit threads vibrating in her open mouth.
             Linda calmly gazed at her friend's two rotten front teeth, then raised a middle finger to her face.

            "You see what you're goodie daughter's doing on the stage!" Linda's father elbowed his wife,
              but she saw nothing.

             Womba's teeth snapped forward to bite something no longer there.
             "Sssssshush! I'm listening . . "
             The principal extended his entire left arm to present
             "the recipient of the chemistry scholarship to the University of Michigan, Fred Johnson!"
             Everybody applauded.
             Womba's drowsy, bloodshot eyes rushed to the lanky, strong-jawed boy crossing the stage,
             his bouyant hair serene like a cloud on his head.
             He picked the diploma out of the principal's hand, and strode back to his place with the easy
            arrogance of the athlete he was.
             Womba followed him as he dissolved piece by piece behind the sharp edges of the mortar boards.
             When he was finally chewed out of sight, her eyes remained glued to the spot where the last piece
             of him had vanished. She moaned over the sea of caps and tassels.

             "He's too beautiful for you, dreamer!" Linda teased.
             Womba started. Her eyes blinked awake at Linda who repeated what she had said.
             Womba looked away. She knew it was true. He was too beautiful. And she was helpless.
             The soft balls of her eyes glistened. What could she do? It made her tearfully mad.
            She wished Linda had testicles so she could kick them.
            That, maybe, would show her pain. Blood-red stars would blind her. That would show her.
            "Ahm gonna be beautiful! Ah am," Womba asserted, hissing.
             "Oh, how you gonna do that?" Linda made her face ugly, cross-eyed.
             "Yuh'll see . . .," she muttered, "Ahm gonna grow up yet. . Yuh'll see . ."
             Then their row began to move, and Womba was glad it would soon be over.
             Before Linda knew it the principal's capped teeth were in front of her squeaking out
             and she had the diploma in one hand and her spit-smeared palm was wetting on his.
             She had graduated.

            In the auditorium lobby Linda's mother embraced her.
             "Oh, Baby, uuhhh!"
             Annoyed, Linda twisted away, but then grabbed her, pushing a kiss hard against her lips.
             That should stop the damn sweet talk she knew was bubbling up.
             "Oh," her mother gasped, smiled cloyingly, thinking the glutinous kiss had been a burst of affection.
             Linda, now holding her at arm's-length, grinned sardonically.
             "My baby. . .!" Her mother began, soaring, cheeks tightening with sweet , expanding bubbles.
             Linda expertly noticed it and ran off to meet Womba.
             "Hey, where you going." Her father shouted. "That daughter yours is a slut!"
             "Oh, Tom you don't understand. You don't know what this night means to a sensitive girl
              like our Linda. This . . . Is the last night of her girlhood, and she's sharing it with her
              school friends - for the last time," she gazed up at him with dreamy, fluttering eyes.
             He just huffed and took her arm toward the parking lot.

                   BB and the Malibu Chevelle

             Womba was at the bus stop.
             "How you get away from your parents so fast?" Linda asked.
             "Dey aint here, man," Womba spit gum out and threw in a fresh, perfumed ball.
             She chomped, jaws sliding side to side.
             "Don't they know it's your graduation night, Womba?" Linda frowned, splitting a pimple on her
             Juice trickled out.
             "Shit no! Ah didnt tel 'em! Dey tink ah flunked ma xams ah ahm gradjatin nex yer. Man, dey dont
              know nuthin. Ah dat wey ar remain'ng Ss-mart!" She laughed, vibrating in her tight dress like a
             mass of jello.
             She gagged on the bubble gum.
             "Aaauuhh, aaauggghhhh!"
             So Linda elbowed her in the ribs, and a pink gob flipped from her mouth.
             "Ahm gonna barf!" She clutched her throat, stooping over the curve.
             A sleek thread of saliva unraveled down into the gutter.
             "Where's B.B.? You aint gonna barf. Where's B.B.? C'mon."
             "He gon to git his car. He'll pik us up here. Yug got da rubbers?"
             "Yeah,I got them," Linda grinned.
             "Hey, whars yur boyfriend, Preparation H?" Womba said, suspiciously. "YUh aint gonna fuck B.B.,
               yuh know. Heh is mine!"
             "What!" Linda slapped Womba's high, pudgy buttocks, "what are you talkin', I'm gonna bust your
               hemorrhoids you don't stop that shit!"
             And she chased Womba around the bus stop. Suddenly, she stopped, panting, and began to laugh.
             But Womba watched her, ready for another attack.
             The full moon hung behind her like a bright, orange pie.
             "Womba, you are right . . . I don't want . . .," she panted, "to see him tonight. This . . tonight got to be
               different. Man, this is it!" She wanted her to understand, ". . Anyway, he's a fart."
             "Right!" cried Womba, jumping up to wave at the car just turning the corner.
             "You understand, Womba?"
             "B.B. ! B.B. ! B.B. !" Womba screeched, and the dilapidated, powder-blue Malibu Chevelle pressed
             to the curve.

             Red paint splotched the dented hood. The side chrome was ripped and twisted.
             The rear window was a jagged wound of splintered glass. Womba grabbed the loose, rattling door
             handle, threw the door open, scraping the sidewalk, and bounced inside.
             Linda followed, dropping backwards on the seat, shooting up clouds of dust.
             She jerked the door shut, stuck her legs out the window. She screamed in exuberance
             "WaaaaaaooowwwwwH" and turned around, "Howdy, B.B. !"
             His tongue slurped out from between Womba's , and he grinned.



                                                         next page

                                                            literature directory

                                                      hotpiehot's next dream

     © hotpiehot@hotmail.com