Stomach Cramps Quotes

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can't scare him--he has known a fear beyond every other.

I get sentimental over the music of the ’90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I’m concerned the ’90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps.

You’re right. In a world where doctors can cure cancer and do heart transplants, there isn’t a single pill to treat menstrual cramps.’ Her sister pointed at her own stomach. ‘The world wants our uterus to be drug-free. Like sacred grounds in a virgin forest.

for things like migraine, high or low blood pressure, stomach cramps. I don’t remember exactly, but Bach was the one prescribed most often, especially certain fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier. Wait, I’ll be back in a minute.

Missing you already,’ Otto said as Shelby hurried after Laura. ‘Or it might just be stomach cramps, it’s hard to tell, to be honest.

Seth swallowed and all sorts of cramps ran through his stomach. He’d call them ‘butterflies’, but with Dom they were moths at best. Just as lively, but uncomfortable in daylight, creatures of the night, like Seth’s lust for Dom.

Sam. Don’t make me kill you on a full stomach. I might get a cramp.

In the age of Facebook and Instagram you can observe this myth-making process more clearly than ever before, because some of it has been outsourced from the mind to the computer. It is fascinating and terrifying to behold people who spend countless hours constructing and embellishing a perfect self online, becoming attached to their own creation, and mistaking it for the truth about themselves.20 That’s how a family holiday fraught with traffic jams, petty squabbles and tense silences becomes a collection of beautiful panoramas, perfect dinners and smiling faces; 99 per cent of what we experience never becomes part of the story of the self. It is particularly noteworthy that our fantasy self tends to be very visual, whereas our actual experiences are corporeal. In the fantasy, you observe a scene in your mind’s eye or on the computer screen. You see yourself standing on a tropical beach, the blue sea behind you, a big smile on your face, one hand holding a cocktail, the other arm around your lover’s waist. Paradise. What the picture does not show is the annoying fly that bites your leg, the cramped feeling in your stomach from eating that rotten fish soup, the tension in your jaw as you fake a big smile, and the ugly fight the happy couple had five minutes ago. If we could only feel what the people in the photos felt while taking them! Hence if you really want to understand yourself, you should not identify with your Facebook account or with the inner story of the self. Instead, you should observe the actual flow of body and mind. You will see thoughts, emotions and desires appear and disappear without much reason and without any command from you, just as different winds blow from this or that direction and mess up your hair. And just as you are not the winds, so also you are not the jumble of thoughts, emotions and desires you experience, and you are certainly not the sanitised story you tell about them with hindsight. You experience all of them, but you don’t control them, you don’t own them, and you are not them. People ask ‘Who am I?’ and expect to be told a story. The first thing you need to know about yourself, is that you are not a story.

The horrors of this decision are well known,” Kelley wrote, “and it is appalling to realize that an entire war was precipitated because of the severe hysterical stomach cramps and obsessive-compulsive fears of a psychoneurotic who happened to be in a position of command.

Alkaline water tastes dreadful and was the scourge of covered wagon parties crossing Wyoming for neither men nor beasts could drink it for fear of blistering their tonsils and suffering agonizing stomach cramps.

His lips spread in a manic grin, and he filled his helmet with so much laughter that his stomach cramped. He moved his limbs one by one to test them. He’d broken his left wrist for sure, maybe a few ribs as well, but despite that, the smile never left his face. Pain could be treated and bones healed, but all the medicine in the galaxy couldn’t fix dead. And he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t wait to tell the crew. “I’m okay,” he reported. “A little banged up, but nothing major. Kane, when this is over, I’m going to have your baby!

I get sentimental over the music of the '90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I'm concerned, the '90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps. Every note from those years is charged with life for me now. For instance, I hated Pearl Jam at the time. I thought they were pompous blowhards. Now, whenever a Pearl Jam song comes on the car radio, I find myself pounding my fist on the dashboard, screaming "Pearl JAM! Pearl JAM! Now this is rock and roll!

After setting up the solar panels today, I went for a little walk. I never left sight of the rover; the last thing I want to do is get lost on foot. But I couldn’t stomach crawling back into that cramped, smelly rat’s nest. Not right away. It’s a strange feeling. Everywhere I go, I’m the first. Step outside the rover? First guy ever to be there! Climb a hill? First guy to climb that hill! Kick a rock? That rock hadn’t moved in a million years!

I was work. Work was me. The thought of abandoning it for even a minute made my stomach cramp.

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can’t scare him—he has known a fear beyond every other.

Tick's strategy for dealing with lying adults is to say nothing and watch thee lies swell and constrict in their throats. when this happens, the lie takes on a physical life of its own and must be either expelled or swallowed. Most adults prefer to expel untruths with little burplike coughs behind their hands, while others chuckle or snort or make barking sounds. When Mr. Meyer's Adam's apple bobs once, Tick sees that he's a swallower, and that this particular lie has gone south down his esophagus and into his stomach. According to her father, the man suffers from bleeding ulcers. Tick can see why. She imagines all the lies a man in his position would have to tell, how they must just churn away down there in his intestines like chunks of indigestible food awaiting elimination. By the Tick suspects, lies seek open air. they don't like being confined in dark, cramped places.

Atlas grips the edge of the door as he gets in and Kenzo’s eyes zero in on the red smear, making my stomach cramp. This cannot be happening. “You got a little something on your hand, boss,” he remarks. “Hmm…I know. It was dessert.” “Was it good?” Oh my god. Stop talking. Please stop talking. “Oh yeah but then I always did have a thing for cherries.

My period continued, an inevitable cycle, yet every month I was somehow surprised by the violent pain. It was as if I refused to believe my body, something I’d trusted for years, would repeatedly betray me. My stomach ate itself from the inside, a revelry I had been dragged to, a feast I was forced to join though I was not hungry. The meal lasted four to six days, gorging on cramps, the spilled crumbs falling out of me stained with raspberry jam. My stomach was never a clean eater, gnawing on my uterus and fallopian tubes, leaving bite marks. I counted each rotation of the sun with heightening anxiety until it passed and I reset the clock. The knife carved my insides into pot roasts; the fork jabbed my sides into holey cheese. I could distinguish each fork prong—the pain was profound. My guts twisted around the spoon like spaghetti, tangled noodles slathered in scarlet marinara. Menstruation was more smashed acidic tomatoes than sweet fruit compote. I wiped my fingers on white jeans made of napkins and left streaks dried to rust. The stains came out with bleach and detergent. I died and regenerated every month. How else could I define the experience? The reasonable explanation was death. I decided when my body was wheeled into the morgue, the coroner would declare I died of being a woman. Which was far better than dying of being a man.

Your friend is insecure, so he can’t go out. Think about it the other way around. He doesn’t want to go out, so he’s creating a state of anxiety. He is not pretending to be sick. The anxiety and fear your friend is feeling are real. On occasion, he might also suffer from migraines and violent stomach cramps. However, these too are symptoms that he has created in order to achieve the goal of not going out.

I tried to ignore the cramps in my stomach, but they were terrible after a full day of work without food. I wished I had time to eat supper before the party, but Bailey told us we needed a bath more than food.

A few weeks later, watching pelicans float and feed in the sea, her boat riding up and down waves, Kya’s stomach suddenly cramped up. She’d never been seasick, and this felt different from any pain she’d ever had.

Barrett said that when we’re dehydrated, we don’t necessarily feel thirsty—we feel exhausted. When we have something odd happening in our stomach, our body doesn’t quite know if we have a menstrual cramp or a stomachache or if we need to poop. We might not even be aware for a long period of time that our stomach hurts. And this isn’t unique to people with PTSD. It’s normal, everyday bodily dissociation that we all suffer from. If we find ourselves in a shitty mood, we might not necessarily be mad about a certain trigger. We could just be running at a metabolic deficit. Our body might be screaming “I NEED FUNYUNS” while we project our hangriness onto, say, this poor sweaty schmuck who’s breathing too loud in the elevator. But Barrett said that PTSD does make these inclinations worse. It affects a variety of systems in the body, throwing them all out of whack. Our hearts might beat faster. Our lungs might pump harder. Our body budget can get tipped off-balance more easily. And when it does, our reactions to these deficits can feel outsized. “Make sure that you get enough sleep, make sure you exercise, make sure that you eat in a healthful way,” she told me when I asked her what I could do to be a better person. When I countered that that didn’t seem like enough, she kindly offered, “You know, all you can do is take as much responsibility as you can. And sometimes it’s the attempt that matters, you know, more than the success.” Then she chuckled at herself. “That’s a very Jewish mother response!” So, first step of hacking my brain: sustaining it with enough oxygen and nutrients

Babies need to sleep in total quiet … Wrong! Rice cereal boosts an infant’s sleep … Wrong! All infants sleep longer after three months of age … Wrong! Stomach gas and cramps cause babies to be wakeful and fussy … Wrong! Crying it out is the best way to sleep train a child … Wrong!

He had panicked. Tessier cursed his own stupidity. He should have remained in the column where he would have been protected. Instead, he saw an enemy coming for him like a revenant rising from a dark tomb, and had run first instead of thinking. Except this was no longer a French stronghold. The forts had all been captured and surrendered and the glorious revolutionary soldiers had been defeated. If the supply ships had made it through the blockade, Vaubois might still have been able to defend the city, but with no food, limited ammunition and disease rampant, defeat was inevitable. Tessier remembered the gut-wrenching escape from Fort Dominance where villagers spat at him and threw rocks. One man had brought out a pistol and the ball had slapped the air as it passed his face. Another man had chased him with an ancient boar spear and Tessier, exhausted from the fight, had jumped into the water. He had nearly drowned in that cold grey sea, only just managing to cling to a rock whilst the enemy searched the shoreline. The British warship was anchored outside the village, and although Tessier could see men on-board, no one had spotted him. Hours passed by. Then, when he considered it was clear, he swam ashore to hide in the malodorous marshland outside Mġarr. His body shivered violently and his skin was blue and wrinkled like withered fruit, but in the night-dark light he lived. He had crept to a fishing boat, donned a salt-stained boat cloak and rowed out to Malta's monochrome coastline. He had somehow managed to escape capture by abandoning the boat to swim into the harbour. From there it had been easy to climb the city walls and to safety. He had written his account of the marines ambush, the fort’s surrender and his opinion of Chasse, to Vaubois. Tessier wanted Gamble cashiered and Vaubois promised to take his complaint to the senior British officer when he was in a position to. Weeks went past. Months. A burning hunger for revenge changed to a desire for provisions. And until today, Tessier reflected that he would never see Gamble again. Sunlight twinkled on the water, dazzling like a million diamonds scattered across its surface. Tessier loaded his pistol in the shadows where the air was still and cool. He had two of them, a knife and a sword, and, although starving and crippled with stomach cramps, he would fight as he had always done so: with everything he had.

Where, she wondered, is Elizabeth? Where in the tightness of the skin over her arms and legs, in the narrow bones of her back and the planned structure of her ribs, in the tiny toes and fingers and the vital plan for her neck and head . . . where, in all this, was there room for anyone else? Could Lizzie be seen moving furtively behind the clarity of the eyes, edging in caution to peer out at herself; was she gone far within, waiting behind the heart or the throat, to seize with both hands and take control with a murderous attack? Was she under the hair, had she found refuge in a knee? Where was Lizzie? For a moment, staring, Betsy wanted frantically to rip herself apart, and give half to Lizzie and never be troubled again, saying take this, and take this and take this, and you can have this, and now get out of my sight, get away from my body, get away and leave me alone. Lizzie could have the useless parts, the breasts and the thighs and the parts she took such pleasure in letting give her pain; Lizzie could have the back so she would always have a backache, and the stomach so she would always be able to have cramps; give Elizabeth all the country of the inside, and let her go away, and leave Betsy in possession of her own.

By the time you regain consciousness, the thawing process has already run most of its course. The flashes and images become brighter and more perceptible. You have a sort of falling sensation, during which you become aware of your body. Painfully aware. When you open your eyes, you’ve got a splitting headache and a nauseous stomach. Every time you move, another muscle cramps up on you. If you aren’t careful, you empty your bowels right there in the chamber. The glass hisses open, the chamber tilts up to a forty five degree angle, and your limp body slides down the cold metal back until you find yourself sitting on your ankles. Your breath feels like fire in your lungs, and even though steam envelopes your body from all sides, you feel deathly cold. Too weak to stand up, you fall forward onto your hands and knees instead.

A few hours later, the five-year-old girl who'd presented with diarrhea, weight loss, and terrible stomach cramping was throwing up a foot-long worm into a bucket and looking very pleased with herself. She spoke not a word of English but kept pointing to herself then the worm then herself and grinning. Her mother, who also spoke not a word of English, was doing the same, gesticulating wildly back and forth between daughter and worm, but her face wore the opposite expression. She was not screaming in a language Rosie knew, but she understood clear as lagoons anyway the mother's horror of his worm that had lately come out of her little girl. If they'd spoken the same language, Rosie would have laid her hand on the woman's shoulder to commiserate: Oh the things that hide secretly in our children, lying in wait, doing untold damage, yearning to be free. Alarming us beyond all measure.

Antanas eased up on the accelerator and pulled the truck onto the shoulder. The sound of the soldiers' footsteps crunching in the snow made Maria sit up straight. The truck had driven about thirty metres past the patrol, but none of the soldiers had fired upon them. Antanas hoped fervently that the transport documents that Peter had furnished him would pass inspection. Maria reached down and touched a metal pipe concealed beneath her seat. She was prepared to use it. Jadwyga continued to pray quietly. "Mother Mary, spare me, Maria, and the other women from rape, and Antanas from death." As a sergeant approached the truck, Jadwyga's stomach cramped, sweat broke out on her forehead, and her arms began to shake. Then she fainted. Maria propped Jadwyga up to make it look as though she was sleeping, and then smiled at the sergeant who was rapping on the glass. Antanas rolled down his window.

Next, I called neuroscientist and psychologist Lisa Feldman Barrett, author of How Emotions Are Made. She told me that our bodies have a limited number of metabolic resources. We need a certain amount of sleep and water and nourishment in order to think, to learn new things, to produce the correct hormones. If we don’t get all of those things, our bodies are “running at a deficit.” But we don’t often understand what deficits we’re running at. We are not like The Sims, where we can see our hunger and rest and boredom levels represented as little progress bars at the bottom of the screenBarrett said that when we’re dehydrated, we don’t feel thirsty—we feel exhausted. When we have something odd happening in our stomach, our body doesn’t quite know if we have a menstrual cramp or a stomachache or if we need to poop. We might not even be aware for a long period of time that our stomach hurts. And this isn’t unique to people with PTSD. It’s normal, everyday bodily dissociation that we all suffer from. If we find ourselves in a shitty mood, we might not necessarily be mad about a certain trigger. We could just be running at a metabolic deficit. Our body might be screaming “I NEED FUNYUNS,” while we project our hangriness on, say, this poor sweaty schmuck who’s breathing too loud in the elevator.

You're hot." 'You're pretty hot too" His eyebrows did that question mark thing again. "What?" My stomach started to cramp because sometimes your body is slightly ahead of your brain. My stomach knew that something had gone terribly, mortifyingly wrong. My brain, on the other hand, plowed ahead on the path of self-destruction and took my mouth with it. "You said I'm hot. I said you're hot, too" His eyes grew wide and a little blush of color came to his cheeks. "No, I asked if you were hot because it's June and you're wearing a sweater." Please, God, make the death by duck shit quick, or fuck it, make it slow and agonising, but let's get it started.

Cap’n don’t like us tellin’ tales,” another man added. “That’s just ‘round his girl, is all,” the storyteller replied. Camille ceased breathing and widened her eyes. They were right about her father banning such rubbish aboard his ships, but she’d never known she was the reason for it. Why did he feel the need to protect her from them? The few parts of stories she had managed to overhear were entertaining but obvious malarkey to scare young sailors ut of their wits. “If he thinks she’s too fine for them, he shouldn’t bring her along,” Lucius said, his sneer reaching through to his tone of voice. “This is her last time, ain’t it?” another sailor asked. Her stomach cramped at the unwelcome reminder. “If it is, I wager it’ll be Kildare’s, too. He won’t stick ‘round no more,” another chuckled. Camille’s ears perked at Oscar’s name, then reddened at the sailor’s implication that Oscar was there only for her. It was absurd. “Good,” Lucius replied. “Who will be our new first mate?” What were they going on about? Oscar was a perfect first mate. Her father had groomed him for it. Oscar couldn’t just…leave. “Well, it won’t be you, Drake. You can’t even make a shroud knot!” The sailors in the fo’c’sle burst out in laughter. Grabbing her chance to leave, Camille took off down the corridor until their laughter faded with the sighs of the ship.

It is particularly noteworthy that our fantasy self tends to be very visual, whereas our actual experiences are corporeal. In the fantasy, you observe a scene in your mind's eye or on the computer screen. You see yourself standing on a tropical beach, the blue sea behind you, a big smile on your face, one hand holding a cocktail, the other arm around your lover's waist. Paradise. What the picture does not show is the annoying fly that bites your leg, the cramped feeling in your stomach from eating that rotten fish soup, the tension in your jaw as you fake a big smile, and the ugly fight the happy couple had five minutes ago. If we could only feel what the people in the photos felt while taking them!

Plant foods have several advantages, including easy digestibility and bioavailability (the rate at which the food is absorbed by the body and exerts an effect). Fatigue, bloating, cramping, and an upset stomach can often be attributed to poor digestion. Many whole plant foods have enzymes that facilitate quick and efficient digestion. The quicker nutrients are extracted from the food, the sooner the food can be eliminated—a key factor in optimal health. As well, insoluble fibrous plant matter (discussed in Chapter 5) speeds waste through our system, reducing the risk of toxins settling in the colon and then spreading throughout the body. Enzyme-rich foods help ensure the body makes use of the nutrients in the food.

Gary Hallet is getting leg cramps sitting in the Honda, but he’s not going anywhere yet. His grandfather used to tell him that most folks had it all wrong: The truth of the matter was, you could lead a horse to water, and if the water was cool enough, if it was truly clear and sweet, you wouldn’t have to force him to drink. Tonight Gary feels a whole lot more like the horse than the rider. He has stumbled into love, and now he’s stuck there. He’s fairly used to not getting what he wants, and he’s dealt with it, yet he can’t help but wonder if that’s only because he didn’t want anything too badly. Well, he does now. He looks out at the parking lot. By afternoon he’ll be back where he belongs; his dogs will go crazy when they see him, his mail will be waiting outside his front door, the milk in his refrigerator will still be fresh enough to use in his coffee. The hitch is, he doesn’t want to go. He’d rather be here, crammed into this tiny Honda, his stomach growling with hunger, his desire so bad he doesn’t know if he could stand up straight. His eyes are burning hot, and he knows he can never stop himself when he’s going to cry. He’d better not even try. “Oh, don’t,” Sally says. She moves closer to him, pulled by gravity, pulled by forces she couldn’t begin to control. “I just do this,” Gary says in that sad, deep voice. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself. This time he’d prefer to do almost anything but cry. “Pay no attention.” But she does. She can’t help herself. She shifts toward him, meaning to wipe at his tears, but instead she loops her arms around his neck, and once she does that, he holds her closer. “Sally,” he says. It’s music, it’s a sound that is absurdly beautiful in his mouth, but she won’t pay attention. She knows from the time she spent on the back stairs of the aunts’ house that most things men say are lies. Don’t listen, she tells herself. None of it’s true and none of it matters, because he’s whispering that he’s been looking for her forever. She’s halfway onto his lap, facing him, and when he touches her, his hands are so hot on her skin she can’t believe it. She can’t listen to anything he tells her and she certainly can’t think, because if she did she might just think she’d better stop.

It was a sad fact that the commonest complaint in the outpatient department was “Rasehn . . . libehn . . . hodehn,” literally, “My head . . . my heart . . . and my stomach,” with the patient’s hand touching each part as she pronounced the words. Ghosh called it the RLH syndrome. The RLH sufferers were often young women or the elderly. If pressed to be more specific, the patients might offer that their heads were spinning (rasehn yazoregnal) or burning (yakatelegnal ), or their hearts were tired (lib dekam), or they had abdominal discomfort or cramps (hod kurteth), but these symptoms were reported as an aside and grudgingly, because rasehn-libehn-hodehn should have been enough for any doctor worth his salt. It had taken Matron her first year in Addis to understand that this was how stress, anxiety, marital strife, and depression were expressed in Ethiopia—somatization was what Ghosh said the experts called this phenomenon. Psychic distress was projected onto a body part, because culturally it was the way to express that kind of suffering. Patients might see no connection between the abusive husband, or meddlesome mother-in-law, or the recent death of their infant, and their dizziness or palpitations. And they all knew just the cure for what ailed them: an injection. They might settle for mistura carminativa or else a magnesium trisilicate and belladonna mixture, or some other mixture that came to the doctor’s mind, but nothing cured like the marfey—the needle. Ghosh was dead against injections of vitamin B for the RLH syndrome, but Matron had convinced him it was better for Missing to do it than have the dissatisfied patient get an unsterilized hypodermic from a quack in the Merkato. The orange B-complex injection was cheap, and its effect was instantaneous, with patients grinning and skipping down the hill. T

No—uh—no, I’m good.” I hold up a sleeve of crackers. “You were right, Paige isn’t feeling well. I thought I’d get her something to eat.” Lame lame lame lame. She’s going to see right through this whole cracker ploy for what it is. Attempts to settle her pregnant daughter’s stomach. Mrs. Nichols lets out an audible sigh as her brow puckers in sympathy. “Poor thing. Those cramps have always been such a nightmare. For that reason alone, I wish she’d remained on the Pill.” For the second time in as many days, everything stops. My breathing. My heart. And I’m pretty sure the couple seconds it takes for her words to register and their meaning to sink in, time grinds to a halt too. Paige’s mother chokes back a laugh as she takes in my expression. “Oh dear, weren’t you supposed to know that I knew my daughter was on the Pill? Or is it me talking about a woman’s cycle that embarrassed you?” she asks, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I

How could I sacrifice her for the sake of Charlotte? I was getting tired of Charlotte, with her intact virtue and her tidy ways. Wearing her was like wearing a hair shirt, she made me itchy, I wanted her to fall into a mud puddle, have menstrual cramps, sweat, burp, fart. Even her terrors were too pure, her faceless murderers, her corridors, her mazes and forbidden doors. Perhaps in the new life, I thought, the life to come, I would be less impressed with capes and more with holes in stockings, hangnails, body odors and stomach problems. Maybe I should try to write a real novel, about someone who worked in an office and had tawdry, unsatisfying affairs. But that was impossible, it was against my nature. I longed for happy endings, I needed the feeling of release when everything turned out right and I could scatter joy like rice all over my characters and dismiss them into bliss. Redmond would kiss Charlotte so that her eyeballs rolled right back into her head, and then they could both vanish. When would they be joyful enough, when would my life be my own?

We all changed into our pajamas, and Taylor and Anika presented me with a wedding gift--a lacy white babydoll nightie with matching panties. “For the wedding night,” Taylor said meaningfully. “Uh, yeah, I got that,” I said, holding up the underwear. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too red. “Thanks, guys.” “Do you have any questions for us?” Taylor asked, perching on my bed. “Taylor! I, like, live in the world. I’m not an idiot.” “I’m just saying…” She paused. “You probably won’t like it that much the first couple of times. I mean, I’m super tiny, which means I’m really little down there, so it hurt a lot. It might not hurt as bad for you. Tell her, Anika.” Anika rolled her eyes. “It didn’t hurt me at all, Iz.” “Well, you probably have a large vagina,” Taylor said. Anika thumped Taylor on the head with a pillow, and we all started giggling and couldn’t stop. Then I said, “Wait, exactly how bad did it hurt, Tay? Did it hurt the way a punch in the stomach hurts?” “Who’s ever punched you in the stomach?” Anika asked me. “I have an older brother,” I reminded her. “It’s a different kind of pain,” Taylor said. “Did it hurt worse than period cramps?” “Yes. But I would say it’s more comparable to getting a shot of Novocain in your gums.” “Great, now she’s comparing losing your virginity to getting a cavity filled,” Anika said, getting up. “Iz, quit listening to her. I promise you it’s more fun than going to the dentist. It would be one thing if you were both virgins, but Jeremiah knows what’s up. He’ll take care of you.” Taylor collapsed into another fit of giggles. “He’ll take care of her!

It’s okay if you can’t. No worries. Just an idea,” I say quickly, looking away so she won’t see how disappointed I am. “No—I mean, I want to, but—” Hana sucks in a breath. I hate this, hate how awkward we both are. “I kind of have this party”—she corrects herself quickly— “this thing I’m supposed to go to with Angelica Marston.” My stomach gets that hollowed-out feeling. It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. [...] A rush of hatred overwhelms me. Hatred for my life, for its narrowness and cramped spaces; hatred for Angelica Marston, with her secretive smile and rich parents; hatred for Hana, for being so stupid and careless and stubborn, first and foremost, and for leaving me behind before I was ready to be left; and underneath all those layers something else, too, some white-hot blade of unhappiness flashing in the very deepest part of me. I can’t name it, or even focus on it clearly, but somehow I understand that this—this other thing—makes me the angriest of all. [...] Despite everything, this gives me pause. In the days after the party at Roaring Brook Farms, snatches of music seemed to follow me everywhere: I heard it winging in and out of the wind, I heard it singing off the ocean and moaning through the walls of the house. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, with the notes sounding in my ears. But every time I was awake and trying to remember the melodies consciously, hum a few notes or recall any of the chords, I couldn’t. Hana’s staring at me hopefully, waiting for my response. For a second I actually feel bad for her. I want to make her happy, like I always did, want to see her give a whoop and put her fist in the air and flash me one of her famous smiles. But then I remember she has Angelica Marston now, and something hardens in my throat, and knowing that I’m going to disappoint her gives me a kind of dull satisfaction.

SUPPLEMENT DAILY DOSAGE Vitamin A 10,000 IU or 6 mg beta-carotene (choose mixed carotenes if available)     B-complex vitamins B1, B2, B3, B5: 50 mg B6: 50 mg, or 100 mg if nauseated (can be higher: if necessary up to 250 mg to prevent nausea) B12: 400 mcg Choline, Inositol, PABA: 25 mg Biotin: 200 mcg Folic acid: 500 mcg (increase this to 1000 mcg if you have suffered a previous miscarriage, if there is a history of neural tube defects in your family, or if you are over 40 years of age)     Vitamin C 1–2 g (take the higher dose if you are exposed to toxicity or in contact with, or suffering from, infection)     Bioflavonoids 500–1000 mg (helpful for preventing miscarriage and breakthrough bleeding)     Vitamin D 200 IU     Vitamin E 500 IU (increasing to 800 IU during last trimester)     Calcium 800 mg (increasing to 1200 mg during middle trimester when your baby’s bones are forming, or if symptoms such as leg cramps indicate an increased need)     Magnesium 400 mg (half the dose of calcium)     Potassium 15 mg or as cell salt (potassium chloride, 3 tablets)     Iron Supplement only if need is proven; dosage depends on serum ferritin levels (stored iron) If levels < 30 mcg per litre, take 30 mg If levels < 45 mcg per litre, take 20 mg If levels < 60 mcg per litre, take 10 mg This test for ferritin levels should be repeated at the end of each trimester, and we give further details in Chapter 11.     Manganese 10 mg     Zinc 20–60 mg, taken last thing at night on an empty stomach (dose level to depend on results of zinc taste test, which ideally should be performed at two monthly intervals during your pregnancy; see page 172–174 for details)     Chromium 100–200 mcg (upper limit applies to those with sugar cravings or with proven need)     Selenium 100–200 mcg (upper limit for those exposed to high levels of heavy metal or chemical pollution). Selenium is best taken away from vitamin C, but can be taken with zinc.     Iodine 75 mcg (or take 150 mg of kelp instead)     Acidophilus/Bifidus Half to one teaspoonful, one to three times daily (upper limits for those who suffer from thrush)     Evening primrose oil 500–1000 mg two to three times daily     MaxEPA (or deep sea fish oils) 500–1000 mg two to three times daily     Garlic 2000–5000 mg (higher levels for those exposed to toxins)     Silica 20 mg     Copper 1–2 mg (but only if zinc levels are adequate)     Hydrochloric acid and digestive enzymes For those with digestive problems. There are numerous proprietary preparations which contain an appropriate combination of active ingredients. Ask your health practitioner, pharmacist or health food shop for guidance, and take as directed on the label.     Co-enzyme Q10 10 mg daily

But she no longer felt sadness about it, the pressure of sorrow that had overtaken her at the table, the longing for all the Burgess kids, and the sense of the irreplaceable familiarity of her old life-that had passed the way the cramping of a stomach muscle passes, and the absence of its pain was glorious.

I smell meat and onions, garlic and greens. The delicious smell has my stomach clenching so hard that it feels like I have cramps. I pray that it is not Raffe I’m smelling.

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can’t scare him—he has known a fear beyond every other.

It was 60, 70 kilometers to go, and I took a peach,” LeMond says. “About 10 km later, I went to a teammate, ‘Pass me your hat.’ He was like, ‘What?’ I said, ‘Pass me your hat, please.’ ‘What do you want my hat for?’ ‘Pass me the goddamn hat!’ “I shoved it down my shorts; it didn’t feel like it was going to be diarrhea, but oh, my God, it was so severe. I just felt the shorts go woooooop! And it fills my shorts, then slowly dribbles down my legs into my shoes. I mean literally, it was dripping into my wheels, it was flying off the spokes. And then everyone separated off from me. We were single file, we were going hard, and I was cramping, my stomach.

the sun shined on the early morning dew, Anna touched her stomach and leaned against the doorway to her parents’ house. She felt an uncomfortable cramping pain that was all too common for Anna, only it wasn’t the kind of pain she wanted to be having. It felt strange wishing for pain, but according to Anna’s mental and internal clock,

For example, basil is great for curing stomach cramps, and sage is good for anxiety or depression.

Stomach cramps, the frequent urge to urinate, constipation and even Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) are all signs.

I don’t see Kal anywhere, and the idea that I’ve actually been abandoned resurfaces, making my stomach cramp. Confusion solidifies in my psyche, rejection weaseling in and making me feel like an idiot. Just because he gives you his credit card and a couple of orgasms, doesn’t mean he’s interested in more.

What are you?” I asked. “The hunger that cramps your stomach. The decay that shrivels your crops.” He dragged his fingers along the wall. It blistered and rotted beneath his touch. “The shadows that carve into your cheeks.” He folded his elegant, slender hands at his waist. His golden- brown eyes were soft and warm and terrifying. “I have been known as Famine. But call me Irra.

Jen woke late on Sunday morning, feeling as though she had been run over by a train. Every limb ached, but none of them as badly as her head. Her throat and eyelids felt as though someone had used a cheese grater on them, her stomach was painfully cramped and queasy and her mouth tasted of unprocessed sewage.

At the coal-face the men had returned to work. They often cut their break-time short like this, so as not to get cold; but their meal, devoured with mute voracity far from the sunlight, sat like lead on their stomachs. Stretched out on their sides, they were now tapping away harder than ever in their single-minded determination to fill a decent number of tubs. They became oblivious to all else as they gave themselves up to this furious pursuit of a reward so dearly won. They ceased to notice the water streaming down and causing their limbs to swell, or the cramps brought on by being stuck in awkward positions, or the suffocating darkness that was making them go pale like vegetables in a cellar. As the day wore on, the atmosphere became even more poisonous and the air grew hotter and hotter with the fumes from their lamps, and the foulness of their breath, and the asphyxiating firedamp, which clung to their eyes like cobwebs and which would clear only when the mine was ventilated during the night. But despite it all, buried like moles beneath the crushing weight of the earth, and without a breath of fresh air in their burning lungs, they simply went on tapping.

A diet high in micronutrients decreases food cravings and overeating behaviors. Sensations I call toxic hunger—such as fatigue, weakness, mental fog, loss of attentiveness, stomach cramps, fluttering, tremors, irritability, and mild headaches—are commonly interpreted as hunger. These sensations resolve gradually for the majority of people who adopt an NDPR diet. A new, nondistressing sensation, which I have labeled “true” or “throat” hunger, replaces these toxic hunger symptoms.

I couldn’t believe I was staring at the Blood King’s head. A slow smile spread across my face. I laughed—deep and hard. Gods, Poppy was…damn, she was vicious in the most magnificent way, and I could not wait to show her just how much I approved of it. “That’s…gods, that’s my Queen.” Surprise widened the golden Rev’s eyes, but I laughed until my empty stomach cramped. Until tears stung my eyes.

You are eight years old. It is Sunday evening. You have been granted an extra hour before bed. The family is playing Monopoly. You have been told that you are big enough to join them. You lose. You are losing continuously. Your stomach cramps with fear. Nearly all your possessions are gone. The money pile in front of you is almost gone. Your brothers are snatching all the houses from your streets. The last street is being sold. You have to give in. You have lost. And suddenly you know it is only a game. You jump up with joy and you knock the big lamp over. It falls on the floor and drags the teapot with it. The others are angry with you, but you laugh when you go upstairs. You know you are nothing and know you have nothing. And you know that not-to-be and not-to-have give an immeasurable freedom. —Janwillem van de Wetering

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can’t scare him—he has known a fear beyond every other.

Just leave. Take an opening and find freedom,” she whispered tersely, her stomach cramping. “Forget about me.” “Not a chance.” His gaze ran over her face like a physical touch … “Get ready, darlin’. We’re about to escape this place.

When you are stressed, you may have symptoms that indicate something is not right, although it is often not clear where they are coming from. Stress can cause symptoms such as: • Racing heart • Muscle twitches • Headaches • Fatigue • Stomach pain or cramping • Erratic bowel movements • Sweating • Muscle pain or tension • Dizziness

I still don't know to this day how she managed to climb the 94 stairs; she was dying from an overdose. The gate at the bottom of the stairwell did not make a sound when she entered the building, being so ill and alone. It was odd. Where could she have been? Almost as if she had been dropped off at my doorstep like a package silently by a (Polish) giant. She was pale and could barely open the door with her keys. When she entered, she fell into my arms; she was drunk and high, her legs buckling so that she couldn't stand. I tried to figure out what she had taken and what she had drunk, but she could barely talk; her eyes were rolling back in her skull. She was crying with her head in the toilet bowl, unable to stop the cramps running through her insides and her entire body shaking. - What did you drink? - Two … beers. - I am not your father. What did you take? Where have you been? - Beers and tequila - she mumbled, saliva drooling out of her mouth and her head hanging down like she was dead already. Then I asked her what else she had taken. She still wouldn't answer, so I repeated. - Answer me Martina, who gave it to you?! - I shouted. - Where have you been?! But she didn't answer, and her condition was critical, so I had to rush her to the hospital in my arms as she was about to lose consciousness. I had to grab her and take her to the closest hospital across Parallel, two blocks away. This was the first time I had taken her to the hospital since she'd split her chin by falling off my bicycle allegedly before, although it wasn't the last. Interestingly, whenever she got involved with a new group of criminals, she wound up in the hospital both times, and both times I took her there. She had no energy to lift her head out of the toilet bowl. As soon as I entered the hospital with her, the staff and I had to put her in a wheelchair. They took her inside and 20 minutes later when I was sitting by her bed, she already felt better with an IV dripping slowly into her vein, but she was unable to move; she was lying in her hospital bed, barely able to open her eyes to look at me. She was between life and death, or between real life and just a dream. I remembered less than a year earlier she was so full of life and happy and healthy when I put her up on that set of chairs that night when we took off the 'for sale' sign. The doctors told me after she fell asleep that they wanted to rinse her stomach, but she didn't authorize that. I was not fully aware that she was on drugs time to time or all the time and with what kind of people she was associated with. She almost only showed up at home in September 2014 when she overdosed. I was in love and worried for her so much, so I filled out the forms while they treated her in the hospital. I prayed to God to save her, asking for Him to show her the Truth. All I had was a prayer—50/50 if it worked. And I remembered that two years before, I had prayed for the life of our kitten Sabrina was playing with, making friends. This time, however, I had to rush to the hospital, not the vet, with my 20-year-old girlfriend who would soon be 21 in October 2014. And I felt like Sabrina, trying to make friends again but by the wrong people was the reason why I, an atheist, was praying for a puppy or a kitten or a bunny's life this time again. I didn't know that lies and secrets were eating away at her from deep inside once in a while as well, it wasn't just the drugs that were killing her insides like cancer. Just like her brother's intestines silently began to consume him and her, unbeknownst to them, but I could almost sense it like a dog if I could not see it, smell it inside them like X-ray. They were unaware of what my eyes had seen, as I watched their vibrations and faces silently change.

want to laugh until my stomach hurts and my face muscles cramp up. That’s friendship, and that’s love.

Every time I’m reading her manuscript, my stomach cramps from all the time I spend clenching it. I skimmed several more chapters beyond chapter five, but none were as horrifying as the chapter that detailed how she tried to choke her infant daughter.

He fell asleep while I was in the bathroom, attempting to abort his daughters with a wire hanger. I tried for half an hour, until my stomach started to cramp and blood was running down my leg. I was certain more would follow.

He fell asleep while I was in the bathroom, attempting to abort his daughters with a wire hanger. I tried for half an hour, until my stomach started to cramp and blood was running down my leg. I was certain more would follow. I climbed into bed, waiting for the miscarriage. My arms were shaking. My legs were numb from the squatting. My stomach hurt and I wanted to puke, but I didn’t move because I wanted to be in the bed with him when it happened. I wanted to wake him up, frantic, and show him the blood. I wanted him to panic, to worry, to feel bad for me, to cry for me.

If I disappear for more than five minutes, come looking for me.” The words are quiet as they tumble out of my mouth. Only Jeremy could have heard them, the rest of the guys in here are laughing and screwing around. His finger hooks around mine and my eyes close at the contact, my breathing hitching in my chest as my stomach cramps painfully. There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat. Is he going to make me sit next to him or just in his line of sight so I can’t escape him?

Either he’s trying not to smile, or he’s having painful stomach cramps. It’s hard to tell. The man has a face like a brick wall.

My cramps surged and I clutched my stomach with a grimace. I was in the throes of another epic period. This, coupled with hunger, the events from earlier, and the 3:00 a.m. police drama at my house that I wasn’t telling Sloan about, had me in a fine mood. I was so tired I’d just tried to plug my charger into my coffee cup instead of my phone.

In a world where doctors can cure cancer and do heart transplants, there isn’t a single pill to treat menstrual cramps.” Her sister pointed at her own stomach. “The world wants our uterus to be drug-free. Like sacred grounds in a virgin forest.

Symptoms of Systemic Inflammation Symptoms are far ranging, including everything from general fatigue to weight gain.44 Even if you are less concerned about overall health and more worried about your banged-up knees and elbows, pay close attention to this. Studies show low-grade systemic inflammation makes you more susceptible to tendinopathy and joint pain.45 While most people have one or two of these symptoms, you should seek medical guidance if several of these describe you: Weight gain (especially around the midsection) Fatigue, brain fog, general lethargy, insomnia Joint and muscle pain, spasms, muscle cramps Depressed mood and anxiety Digestive discomfort (gas, diarrhea, constipation, stomach cramps and pains) Skin disorders, including easily irritated skin, persistent redness or puffiness, eczema, and psoriasis Frequent infections, colds, and illnesses Frequent allergic reactions and allergy symptoms Symptoms of local chronic inflammation (in a specific region of the body) are more specific: Pain, swelling, irritation, or redness lasting longer than six weeks Progressive muscle weakness Progressive reductions in range of motion Causes and Risk Factors for Chronic Inflammation While some of these are out of your control—like genetics and age—you can influence most of these risk factors:

My stomach ate itself from the inside, a revelry I had been dragged to, a feast I was forced to join though I was not hungry. The meal lasted four to six days, gorging on cramps, the spilled crumbs falling out of me stained with raspberry jam. My stomach was never a clean eater, gnawing on my uterus and fallopian tubes, leaving bite marks.

Jiyoung lay on her stomach on the floor to do homework, she clutched her cramping lower abdomen and repeated to herself, “I don’t understand. Half the population in the world goes through this every month. If a pharmaceutical company were to develop an effective pill specifically for menstrual cramps, not the ‘pain medication’ that makes you sick, they would make a fortune.” Her sister filled a plastic bottle with hot water, wrapped it in a towel and passed it to her. “You’re right. In a world where doctors can cure cancer and do heart transplants, there isn’t a single pill to treat menstrual cramps.” Her sister pointed at her own stomach. “The world wants our uterus to be drug-free. Like sacred grounds in a virgin forest.” Jiyoung hugged the bottle to her stomach and cackled despite the pain.

Path of Torment: Hunger One thing I’ve noticed about clients who have weight problems is that their addiction to overeating is mental, not physical. It’s fueled by high anxiety, which is caused by attachment to mental stories. If you run into occasional life circumstances where you don’t get a chance to eat until you’re very hungry, don’t tell yourself it shouldn’t be happening: surrender to what you’re feeling. Study your own low energy, your stomach cramps, your fantasies of pancakes as if you’re an observer from Mars. You’ll find that you become less frantic to get food and less compulsive about eating it.

A month went by and everyone still alive feared desperately for his or her life. Digestive matters became tremendously important. Everyone knew that the sickness began with a small stomach cramp and ended in a box made of floating wood under a mound of earth after some Latin from the Padre.

my stomach cramping

I get sentimental over the music of the ’90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I’m concerned, the ’90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps. Every note from those years is charged with life for me now. For instance, I hated Pearl Jam at the time. I thought they were pompous blowhards. Now, whenever a Pearl Jam song comes on the car radio, I find myself pounding my fist on the dashboard, screaming, “Pearl JAM! Pearl JAM! Now this is rock and roll! Jeremy’s SPO-ken! But he’s still al-LIIIIIIVE!” I don’t recall making the decision to love Pearl Jam. Hating them was a lot more fun.

Judge drove down I75, careful not to keep glancing over at his passenger, who he was seeing in a whole new light. This sexy motherfucker is gay. According to that email he’d rudely snagged and read Michaels must be the fuck of the millennium, the way that spineless man was begging for his dick. Was he a fuck buddy gone bad or a one-night stand? Didn’t sound like it. The guy said, “They’d had a good thing once.” Maybe he was an ex. Why do I care? Judge was driving himself crazy with the useless questions. That was not what he did. He got ass when he felt like it, then he moved on. But since he’d found out Michaels’ orientation for sure, he wanted to fuck the cocky sonofabitch next to him so bad that his stomach cramped. How had Judge found himself in this situation? If he could reverse time, he’d go back and tell God “hell no” to this partnership. When he’d finished getting dressed at the hotel, he’d heard the commotion downstairs with the hooker. But Judge didn’t draw attention to himself. He moved through life with a purpose, and anything that wasn’t directly related to that purpose, didn’t receive his time or energy. Imagine his surprise when Michaels appeared out of nowhere and started kicking ass like it was a hobby. All Judge could think about was reprimanding Michaels for being such a bad boy. Judge groaned, trying not to squirm in his seat at the thought of holding the feisty man down and fucking the fight right out of him. Shit. “You

Isha was familiar with the bleeding gums, the inflamed limbs, the cramped pain of drinking, the torture when the empty stomach eats itself. When the mind achieves a lucidity departed from the body, perhaps closer to God, and the world acquires a glassy sheen. Isha knew the lethargy like an old friend; when the brain shuts down and desire sleeps and the love between a man and a woman goes. Maybe the man says ‘they are your children’ and leaves, but a woman cannot abandon her children. The people of Rebay looked at the sky and worried. They looked at each other and they had nothing to say. Before, when someone told a story, they stood. But a hungry man will just sit and cry. Hunger keeps you awake. You cannot sleep. It was said that the mind of a hungry person goes gradually mad.

Brand: Empirical Labs Betaine HCL (See the HCL warning under Improving Your Stomach Acid in chapter three.) 1-5 per meal (In the middle of the meal.) Beet Flow 2-3 per meal Digesti-zyme 1-2 per meal Improving Imbalances Through Supplementation

Confidence spark You may not always be able to remove yourself from the situation when you hear bad news. To deal with a disappointment on the spot, take a quick inventory of how you are feeling. Say your boss nixed your proposal without any explanation, and you know it’s a winner. He also indicated that he didn’t want to talk about it further. Ask yourself: What am I feeling? Anger. Fear. Where am I feeling tension in my body? My jaw is clenched. I have stomach cramps. What action can I take that is in my best interest? Do nothing right now.

You’re right. In a world where doctors can cure cancer and do heart transplants, there isn’t a single pill to treat menstrual cramps.” Her sister pointed at her own stomach. “The world wants our uterus to be drug-free. Like sacred grounds in a virgin forest.

And the solid thwack of leather and wood colliding in perfect disharmony. The first made his dick hard, the second melted his heart, and the third brought a smile to his face. Todd rounded first base, his lips curving upward as the baseball soared into the centerfield stands. He stepped on second base, vaguely aware of fans scrambling to see who would come up with the homerun ball. Rounding third, his smile faded, even though the entire Mustangs team waited just beyond home plate to celebrate his ninth inning, game-winning homer. High-fiving his teammates, he accepted their jubilant accolades, removed his batting helmet, and waved to the crowd before ducking his six-foot-two frame into the dugout that had been his home for his entire Major League career. Thinking about the yet-to-be-determined dugout he would call home next season made his stomach cramp. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he told the Mustangs team

At what point in her life had she decided she didn’t deserve better than this? It was a startling discovery. The blinders had come off. Why was she putting up with this? She was prepared to end the entire thing when she looked up and saw Jarrod walk to the table. He leaned over and kissed his mom then held up a hand in greeting to the others before turning his gaze on her and Ryan. She broke into a cold sweat. Ryan stiffened beside her and the others fell silent. It was as if everyone in the room waited for the inevitable fireworks. Her head pounded viciously. Her stomach cramped and she wanted to die from the humiliation. More than that, she was so furious she couldn’t see straight. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said. “I got caught in traffic.” As he took the empty chair beside his mother, bile rose in Kelly’s throat. Her heart was shredded. She was bleeding on the inside, so hurt, so devastated she wanted to die. She refused to look at Ryan. How could he have done it? She didn’t believe for a moment that Ryan had actually invited his brother…had he? But why hadn’t he made it clear that he wasn’t welcome? Everyone stared at her. They likely thought she deserved whatever humiliation was heaped upon her tonight. But she refused to look back at them. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her so shattered. Instead her gaze locked onto Jarrod Beardsley and his mother. How they must hate her. The coldness in Ramona Beardsley’s eyes reached out to Kelly. They said, You’ll never win. I’ll never let you. What had she ever done besides love Ryan? Enough was enough. Kelly deserved better. She was through paying penance. She was done with being looked down on, condemned and forgiven. Forcing a smile in Ryan’s direction, she pushed back her chair and slowly rose as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She stared across the table at Jarrod and his mother and let the full force of her hatred shine. She didn’t care if they ever accepted her. She didn’t accept them. They could both go to hell. She’d buy them a first-class ticket. Then she turned to face the entire table. “I’m done here. You’ve all sat and stared your disapproval. You’ve sent pitying glances Ryan’s way. You’ve judged me and found me not good enough. To hell with all of you.” Then she turned back to Jarrod, her voice coming out in a low hiss. “You son of a bitch. You stay away from me and my child. I’ll see you in hell before I ever let you near me again.” Ryan started to rise, but she shoved him back into his seat. “By all means, you stay. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your family and friends.” Before he could react, she stalked away.

I felt as if I had a secret stomach that could never be filled, always cramping for hunger, even when my regular stomach was about to explode. What am I hungry for?

The human buried within the wolf’s skin exerted every ounce of control he had and forced his wolf to move back, lest he frighten his best friend. Zev raised himself off Jonah on shaky legs and backed away into the corner. He rolled himself into a ball and whimpered quietly. He hurt. Every nerve ending in his body wanted to touch Jonah. He needed to claim his mate, but he couldn’t because Jonah was male and human. Zev had never known pain as intense as that which coursed through him as a result of the denied need to be with his mate, to tie together and join with him in all ways possible. “What’s wrong, Pup?” Jonah approached Zev with his hand out, palm up. He squatted down by the huge wolf and looked at him with concern. “Are you sick?” Jonah’s position brought his crotch dangerously close to Zev’s face. The young man’s enticing scent was strongest in that part of his body, and Zev couldn’t stop himself from raising his head and resting it in Jonah’s lap, sniffing at him and burrowing as close as he could through the protective barrier of his mate’s pajama pants. He rolled onto his stomach, hiding an arousal that he knew would frighten and repulse the human, but kept his head in place on Jonah’s thigh with his nose close to Jonah’s sex. With his mate near, he could feel Jonah’s heat, smell Jonah’s scent. They were together. It was enough. It had to be enough. For now. The last thought—an internal promise from Zev’s human to his wolf that the separation from Jonah’s body was only temporary—was what Zev’s body needed to soothe out the cramping that had taken over his intestines.

Cell Salts are very important for the human body as they provide the basic nutrition to the body at the cellular level. They combine with other vital components and helps maintain the millions of cell which form the body. When there is an imbalance of these important salts at the cellular level and imbalance is created. This loss of balance gives rise to several types of diseases. These diseases can be cured by restoring the lost balance of the cell salts in the body. There are 12 cell salts in homeopathy which are derived from human tissue. These salts are Calc Fluor, Cal Phos, Calc Sulph, FerrumPhos, Kail Mur, Kali Phos, Kali Sulph, Mag Phos, Nat Mur, Nat Phos, Nat Sulph and Silicea. Each and every cell salt has an important impact on human body and help cure a range of diseases. In homeopathy it is believed that their impact is also dependent on the nature of the person. Calc Fluor is helpful in maintaining health of bones, teeth, tissues and joints. Flexible and healthy tissues can be maintained with the health of this tissue salt. It is usually applied on the loose teeth,cracks on the skin, and administered in the cases wherever there is loss of energy due to poor blood circulation. CalcPhos is extremely helpful aiding good health in malnourished children, strengthens muscles, and helps in the development of strong bones and cures rickets. Calc Sulph is great for maintaining healthy skin. It helps eliminate impurities in the blood and cures acne, common cold and sore throat. FerrumPhos is the iron of homeopathy. This tissue salt is administered to the patients who suffer from weakness due to lack of hemoglobin, inflammation of joints, fast pulse, congestion and fever. This salt helps maintain nerves, blood, hair, muscles in good condition. Kali Mur can cure conditions related to blood, salaiva and muscles. It is given to patients suffering from indigeston, cough and cold, sore throat and helps purify blood. Kali Phos gives nourishment to nerves, eases breathing, sharpens brain. It helps remedy headaches, skin ailments, bad temper, timidity and insomnia. Kali Salph can take care of the problems related to inflammation of joints, stomach catarrh, shifting pains, skin eruptions, etc. It helps in carrying oxygen, perspiration, respiration and improves health of skin and hair. Mag Phos helps make strong bones, nerves and muscles. It eliminates menstrual pains, stomach cramps, sciatica, neuralgia, headaches, and flatulence. Nat Mur helps in the distribution of water which helps in the distribution of water which is the basis of glandular activity, growth of cells, nutrition and promotes digestion. Nat Phos neutralizes acid and helps in the digestion of nutrients and fats. It is prescribed in the cases of rheumatism, swellings of joints, flatulence and lumbago. Nat Sulph is a promoter of digestive system and strong liver. This tissue salt removes excess water from body and helps cure rheumatic ailments. Influenza, malaria, humid asthma, liver can be treated with this salt. Silicea is capable of promoting healthy connective tissues and problem-free skin. It can treat conditions like pus formation, tonsillitis, boils, brittle nails, smelly armpits and feet and stomach pains are conditions in which Silicea is prescribed.

They were land-hungry, ill-armed hordes too, and the legions could not stop them. Slaughter and terror did not stop them. How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched belles of his children? You can't scare him--he has known a fear beyond every other.

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children?

Josh’s cute, huh?” “If I didn’t have a boyfriend, I’d get under him.” She gasped and looked over at me, wide-eyed. Sloan was a lot more sexually conservative than I was. Shocking her was one of my favorite hobbies. I never missed an opportunity. I shrugged. “What? I haven’t gotten laid since last year. And this shirt smells incredible.” I dipped my nose back inside the neckline. “Like testosterone and cedar. And did you see him washing those dishes? He looked like Mr. February in a sexy firemen calendar. Guys like that are the exact reason why my grandmother always told me to wear clean underwear in case you get into a car accident.” She shook her head. “I swear to God you’re a man.” “I wish I were a man. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this faulty plumbing.” I cramped again and winced, rubbing a hand on my stomach.

Not one thing on the planet operates as I would have it, and only here can I plot my counterattacks. Problem one: The fevers my year-old son gets every few weeks can spike to 105°, which means waking the husband, a frantic trip to Children’s Hospital, a sleepless night in the waiting room. No reason for this, nothing wrong with his immune system or growth. They’ll give him the cherry-flavored goop that makes him shit his brains out, and the cough will ease, but his stomach will cramp, and on the nights he ingests that medicine, he’ll draw his stumpy legs to his chest in agony and ball up tight, then arch his back and scream, and though no one suggests this is my fault, my inability to stop it is my chief failure in the world. Problem two: If he’s sick, I’ll have to cancel classes so maybe the real professors who just hired me on a friend’s recommendation—despite my being too muttonheaded to sport a very relevant diploma—will fail to renew me next semester. I’ve published one slim volume of verse and some essays, but so has every other semiliterate writer in Cambridge.

The jetter space craft that catapulted me from my life, hurtling us thousands of space miles in less than a day, rumbles to a gasping stop in the middle of a barren landscape. All of us Humans seated on this bucket of government issued bolts and alloys let out a collective sigh. A disembodied wasp-like voice drones, “Welcome, new residents of the Complex. Please depart the vessel. Welcome, new residents of the Complex. Please depart the vessel.” As I step out of the jetter onto the parched landscape of Lorn, clutching my possessions in a worn satchel, my stomach cramps like a twice-starved six-ton Draco serpent

What remains to us here, behind the Yser, is not much more than a strip of land almost impossible to defend; a few rain-soaked trenches around razed villages; roads blown to smithereens, unusable by any vehicle; a creaky old horse cart we haul around ourselves, loaded with crates of damp ammunition that are constantly on the verge of sliding into a canal, forcing us to slog like madmen for every ten yards of progress as we stifle our warning cries; the snarling officers in the larger dug-outs, walled off with boards, where the privates have to bail water every day and brush the perpetual muck off their superiors’ boots; the endless crouching as we walk the trenches, grimy and smelly; our louse-ridden uniforms; our arseholes burning with irritation because we have no clean water for washing them after our regular attacks of diarrhoea; our stomach cramps as we crawl over heavy clods of earth like trolls in some gruesome fairy tale; the evening sun slanting down over the barren expanse; infected fingers torn by barbed wire; the startling memory of another, improbable life, when a thrush bursts into song in a mulberry bush or a spring breeze carries the smell of grassy fields from far behind the front line, and we throw ourselves flat on our bellies again as howitzers open fire out of nowhere, the crusts of bread in our hands falling into the sludge at the boot-mashed bottom of the stinking trench.

I’m her mother, not her guard dog. My work is to see that she is adequately prepared for whatever she wants to do in life—that she can feed herself, patch a tear in her clothes, find the right leaf for stomach cramps. And teach her that no matter what happens I will always love her. ‘Go out for adventure, come home for love.’ That’s what I say.