A Weekend in Pompeii

By Jolan Gero, TIWP Student

(This story is based on a game of “Word Collage,” in which students must integrate a series of random words into a single cohesive story.)

Bang! The screen of the kitchen door hit hard against the frame. I hurried out into the yard. I saw it in front of me. The trampoline was the way to my fame! I saw this Youtube video on my fuzzballs account and I needed to try it.

“Honey, what are you doing out there? Is it one of those Youtube videos again?” my mom hollered from the kitchen.

“No, it’s um… a science experiment!” I yelled back. I plunged onto the trampoline and started bouncing up and down.

1..2..3.., I counted. I yelled three and jumped up into the air trying to propel myself into the air with my fart. I know its weird but I saw it on Youtube and I had to break the record. That’s why I ate a extra large bean burrito before my jump. Supposedly beans make you really gaseous and I needed all the gas in the world, to break the record.

I tried harder and harder but I could not make it above a certain point. I was just about to give up when a garden gnome appeared and said, “You need to use the momentum from your fart to get higher. You see, to propel yourself you need to fart and jump at the exact same time.”

I just stared. Was this a dream? Was the gnome really telling me how to jump higher by farting? Was the gnome TALKING to me?

“What?” the gnome said again, “Never seen a talking gnome before? Now, if you want to learn how to get the best jump you need to pay a little visit to where the sport of farting began.”

“Where is that exactly,” I question him.

“The great city of Pompeii,” he answered.

“You mean Pompeii, Italy. How could such sport begin in such an ancient city?” I asked.

“Don’t worry,” the gnome gave me a root-beer float kind of smile, “When we get there you will see what I mean.”

“When we get there? How do you think we are going to get there? Unless you own a private jet, we are pretty much goners,” I said.

“Hop on, I have a different way! We are going to Italy,” the gnome said putting a heavy accent on the T to sound like a real Italian. I was just standing there considering my options:  go back inside and never talk about this again, treat it like it was a weird dream, or go with the talking gnome to Pompeii to learn a sport that’s based on farting.

“For crying out loud! How long does it take you to make up your mind,” the gnome cried out.

As I held onto the gnome I thought to myself, What’s the absolute worst the could happen? I mean I’m just talking to a gnome and, well, this has been the most peculiar thing that ever happened to me. But before I could have second thoughts, the gnome crossed it’s legs, snapped its porcelain fingers and we were gone.

Well, I thought to myself, I’ve never been to Italy. It could be like a nice vacation.

I gave the gnome a worried smile. He had achieved something that no one else has. Trust. Without the trust from him in me I would have never trusted anyone ever. He taught me you could trust anyone, even a gnome.


I smelled pasta in the air. I knew we had arrived in Pompeii.


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