Facefarting Stories Novels & Stories

this people really do have a death wish I started laughing so hard and that halted them in their conversation. “Alright, I can see that none of you are willing to talk, so we shall begin” I got from the chair and walked to my carbonate of terror and yes the name is written boldly in front, anyways, I opened and I smiled, oh how much I love this part. I took out a little knife and I’m sure you are wondering what I will be using it for. I walked over to the guy in the middle. “this is your last chance to speak for forever hold your peace” I said, but still nothing “ alright then, you asked for it” I said and then I started peeling off his face and I can hear is the sweet melody of his screams

I shook my head and went to sit across Audrey. She was laughing at the quotes on the wall. “These are hilarious,” she said, reading one aloud: ‘I don’t need you to brag about me, I just don’t want you to deny me in front of people. – FART!’ Her laughter burst out, filling the café. I just stared, completely captivated. Every laugh, every sparkle in her eyes, it was contagious. “Here’s another one!” she giggled. ‘What a life! Eggs every single day… eggs, eggs, eggs… Do you know who said that?’ Her eyes gleamed mischievously.

They listened to every word he said, hanging on to his every joke and funny anecdote. As the laughter died down, Vince decided to share one of his infamous blind date experiences. With a dramatic shake of his head, he began, “Trust me, after that date, I swore I'd never go on one again. It was like a scene out of a disaster movie. Picture this: awkward silences, spilled drinks, and me realizing halfway through the night that we had absolutely nothing in common. Never again, I swear!” The girls laughed even harder, picturing the cringeworthy scenario in their minds. Vince was a natural storyteller, and his self-deprecating humor made him all the more likable.

Zaria I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt as Jasper tells me about the time he almost embarrassed himself out of existence in college. “I swear to you,” he says between his own laughter, “I was two seconds away from sacrificing my dignity on those stairs. Diarrhea is not a joke.” I clutch the railing as we climb the stairs, still laughing, my eyes watering. “Please, stop. I can’t breathe,” I tell him, wiping my eyes. “Why would you even tell me that?”

My stomach twisted in knots. I reached for my phone, dread pooling in my chest. When I unlocked it, my heart sank. The group chat, infamous for sharing camp gossip, was blowing up with notifications. Videos had been posted, and my stomach dropped as I clicked on one. The image that filled my screen was a grotesque caricature of my face, distorted and shaped like a rabbit. My voice rang through the video on repeat, mocking me with the words, "Feed me rabbit blood." The laughter from the back of the classroom grew louder, and I felt my face flush with humiliation.

How do you make someone feel safe when their whole world has been built on lies and danger? "I don't know how to..." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. "I'm not good at this. Comforting people." "Tell me something funny," she whispers. "Please. I just need to think about something else." So I tell her about the time Isabella tried to bleach her hair and ended up looking like a radioactive pineapple. Then about when she got her head stuck in the handrail when we were eight and the fire department had to come free her. Ridiculous story after ridiculous story until Rae actually snorts with laughter.

Even if we did stay and I let her make up some fake embarrassing stories, I don't want her 60 year old mind to go overboard and make me really embarrassed. If she's going to say an embarrassing story, I'll deal with the 'Peed in the bed' story, or a 'Calling my teacher Mama' story. One of my real embarrassing stories would be when my real grandma Dila Day, caught me masturbating in my room when I was sixteen and let me tell you, dinner that night was really awkward. We had to hold hands to pray for our food and guess who's hand I was holding?...Grandma Dila. Ever since that day, grandma Dila made sure to never sit by me at the dinner table ever again.

It came out short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh a man gives when someone’s insulted his intelligence instead of amused him. “That’s good.” He shook his head, still laughing under his breath. “That’s genuinely good. Did my grandmother’s people teach you that one, or did you come up with it yourself?” “I’m not lying to you.” “Of course you’re not.” He leaned back, arms crossed, something cold settling behind his eyes now that the laugh had faded. “You’re the third woman this year to try that particular story on me. One of them even had a name badge to match, if you can believe that. Very convincing prop.”

That’s just how we are. The laughter dies down gradually, and the table falls into an easy rhythm, voices overlapping as the guys trade more stories, some just ridiculous enough to be true. Rich launches into another one, probably exaggerated, but it’s hard to tell with him. He gestures wildly, sending his fork clattering onto his plate, and the way he tells it is funny enough that even Dante, who usually has a razor-sharp comeback, ends up laughing too hard to speak.

The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on her face, making her even more ethereal. We ate slowly, savoring each bite, but it was the conversation that truly fed us. We talked about everything. She shared stories of her childhood, moments of mischievous rebellion and quiet dreams. I found myself laughing, a genuine, unrestrained sound that felt foreign and wonderful. I confessed embarrassing anecdotes from my own youth, tales of clumsy attempts at impressing girls and adventures with my brothers.