Prompt: A sneeze. (from “642 Things to Write About“, by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto)

I am afraid to sneeze even though holding it in is making my eyes water, causing my nose to itch – like I’ve inhaled underwater and now the burning, choking sensation threatens to suffocate me. I can feel each and every individual hair in my nose. All of them crying, chanting, screaming in agony, “Please let it out!”

I can’t though because we have been informed that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES are we to make a sound.

I can feel the sneeze building again, begging for the sweet release and tiny orgasm that accompanies such a bodily act. I blink my eyes quickly, hoping to squeeze it back, my face contorting in an uncomfortable grimace. I bury my head in the sleeve of my green, cotton sweatshirt. Maybe I can sneeze gently into my arm, muffling the noise, and no one will hear. I glance towards the front of the room and am met with a cold, black stare behind ornate, jeweled glasses.

Now I’m convinced that by holding this sneeze in, by following the rules to a “T”, that I’m beginning to cause irreparable harm to my insides, some sort of physical malady is taking root in my chest- an irreversible condition caused by holding sneezes in.

No longer able to concentrate on the task at hand, I fantasize about sneezing.  The moment of split-second euphoria that follows a nasal ejaculation. The calm my eyes, nose, throat, chest, and lungs feel upon successfully eliminating the foreign object from inside my nasal cavity.

But time is running out and the room feels hotter, stuffier, than it did a few moments ago. My eyes tear up again and I stifle another pulmonary convulsion while peeking back at the curious grey stare behind ornate, jeweled glasses.

I inhale air deeply into my lungs, hoping to keep the sneeze inside. I hold my breath to a count of ten. I gently pinch the bridge of my nose for several seconds – all to no avail. The sneeze is coming, I can feel it. Unable to re-route the signal to my brain, my throat begins to contract uncomfortably. My face contorts again and I can feel the power of the sneeze building in my chest.

Suddenly it’s out, “achoo!” I reflexively jerk my hand towards my mouth in an effort to contain whatever irritant might attempt to shoot itself across the room. My hand feels wet and sticky and I pull it away from my mouth to see a watery glob of mucous covering my palm.

I covertly wipe my hand on my sleeve, hoping my desk partner doesn’t notice that I’ve just smeared a huge booger on myself. I look towards the sympathetic blue stare behind ornate, jeweled glasses, “Gesundheit,” the lips underneath speak silently.

Time is running out and if this section isn’t completed within the allotted time frame, my score will suffer and I’ll never get into Harvard. Or Yale. Or Stanford.

All because of a stupid sneeze and some imagined fear of the cold black stare from behind ornate, jeweled glasses.