Farts - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Every winter it's a battle to keep my dad away from the brussel sprouts. He loves them. But every time he eats them, without fail, he fumigates the house with his sulphurous flatulence. He's worse than the dog. At least with him you get a small 'pftt' of warning. Dad's are silent and deadly. He always denies them too, tries to blame it on someone else. But we know his special aroma. We also know he enjoys laying them too, he think's it's funny to stink up the house. Mom's stopped buying them but now he comes home with a bag from the green grocers, grinning like a school boy.
Ernie said he actually enjoyed his own 'brews'. He would let rip in class and sit there with a smug expression sniffing the air as if it were the delicate bouquet of an expensive wine. Then he would go on to describe his farts and their delicate hues of whatever he had ingested the day before.
I tried not to piss off my cell mate. If I did he would eat nothing but cabbage for dinner and perfume the air of our cell with his own personal fragrance. It would be enough to wake the dead. It was torture.
The putrid smell of unpassed faeces permeates the air of the car. It's raining and blowing a gale outside so we are trapped in it's brain-numbing disgustingness. My Mom snickers and says, " just a bottom-burp", as if using baby language makes it any more tolerable. Now I sit in the full knowledge that the air passing up my nostrils has come from my mother's anus. I gag. I'm trapped in the vile aroma of sewage. Her sewage. My eyes begin to water and I try to hold my breath, but that only leads to me having to take deeper breaths after. I can't take it anymore, I open the window and let the rain in. Mom howls at me and I stare back defiantly. If I have to suffer so does she. I'd rather take the cold and the wet than that horrendous stench.