Josh McHugh

Outburst

My fiction-writing workshop classroom is set up in a circle, about 30 of those chairs with the little wing-desk attached.
We'd just finished the discussion of my story, "Stone," and had moved on to the next person's effort. I'd been munching on peanuts, perhaps to ameliorate my anxiety at having my story critiqued (it went pretty well, considering), and I'd gotten a chunk stuck between that nasty #19 and the neighboring molar. While old #19 was in its dissipated state, I had developed an internal suction-powered irrigation technique that was effective and fairly subtle, except for the squeaking, squilching or quacking noises that sometimes resulted, much to Margaret's chagrin.
So, in the attempt to dislodge the stubborn peanut particle, I automatically applied the tried and true method. This time, perhaps due to the presence of a spanking new crown, the noise emitted was of the "quack" variety, and a good octave lower than normal. What's more, in cranking my jaw over to the side to increase the effectiveness of the irrigation, the right corner of my mouth was open, projecting the startling noise through the classroom.
The discussion paused, briefly, then I saw two of my fellow-students, a man and a woman on the opposite side of the circle, look at each other with their eyebrows raised, then try to stifle their laughter.
I wanted to stand up and declare "It wasn't a fart!" but that was pretty out of the question. Everyone else sort of wrote it off, it seemed, but those two across the way kept cracking up. I would have too. It felt very grade-school. My face got red, further implicating me in the nonexistent flatulation. Miserable. What the hell do you do in that situation? Eventually, I reminded myself that an imaginary fart once removed is nothing to be ashamed of, and thus I got over it.

Storyback

Got the short story back from the instructor. Some good, some bad. Structural stuff. Also, it's written from the perspective of a seventh-grade girl, and I used what I estimated to be the voice of a seventh-grade girl. But I'm not sure that went over too well.
I'm shocked shocked that the instructor didn't hand it back and say that she was quitting writing because my stuff intimidated her so.