Greetings everyone and welcome to another installment of the WE ARE INFINITE stories and giveaway! I'm so grateful to be able to do this and to share stories that remind us all of connection and our intrinsic worth.
Now, before we dive into today's tale, let's have a quick refresher on what's happenin' 'round here:
1. Contest is simple: you send me (firstname.lastname@example.org) your INFINITE STORIES and I post 'em. I also promote them, so if you want to include a link to a novel you wrote, an etsy shop, or other such awesomeness, then by all means, include that in your entry! I want to share the love!
2. INFINITE STORIES are tales that remind us of connection: ghost stories, past lives, prophetic dreams, a moment that changed your life, how you found faith, how you found love, how you recovered from heartache, a friend who saved your life, a dog that meant the world, a cat that knew too much, a feeling that spared you or a loved one from pain, a feeling that hooked up a pair of friends for marriage, kids, and life. Anything and everything goes!
All the details about what I'm looking for and how to play are found HERE.
3. Each story enters you for the grand prize. What is it, you ask? Well it's Amazon cash, artwork, and a book!
4. Don't have a story you want to share? No problem! Sharing information about the contest also constitutes an entry for the grand prize! More details about that are right HERE.
5. More questions? Check out the FAQ or email me at email@example.com
And last but not least, don't forget to check out the always-accumulating-ever-impressive-oh-so-powerful WE ARE INFINITE STORIES INDEX, where all the contest entries will be linked for you to peruse anytime you need a reminder that you are never, ever alone!
Today's entry is one of mine. I love the chance to be publicly grateful for all the incredible ways the people in my life and the Universe at large has helped me out over the years. I love bragging on other people. It's a thing.
I'll be posting my entries mixed in with others as the contest rolls on.
Deadline for all entries is FEBRUARY 8, 2015!
Much love, many thanks, and light and love to you and yours.
Proof of God
Anyone who meets and spends much time with me will quickly learn several things:
1. The greatest thing about me is that you'll never wonder what I'm feeling or thinking.
2. The worst thing about me is that you'll never wonder what I'm feeling or thinking.
3. If I have cold toes and you have warm anything, we are gonna get closer than you'll be comfortable with in a hurry.
4. I am the Queen of Intestinal Distress.
The first two should be fairly obvious by the end of this post, the third is saved for special, one-on-one occasions, and the fourth? Well.
The fourth thing led me straight to my own personal, absolute, one-hundred-percent-positive proof that God/Goddess/Everall exists.
And s/he's a very creative problem solver.
Who totally built the body to enjoy sex. So Dear Conservatives Everywhere... get over it.
I'm skipping ahead of myself. As I was saying...
My intestinal issues range from anything and everything under the sun and, thankfully, stop short of anything surgical. My diet is tricky. I'm a terrible food date. I do cook, though, and do it well, and I love problem-solving in the kitchen. I've had to learn to love it; self-preservation is the mother of all baking invention. I can't eat gluten, but I need biscuits and honey, yo, and the biscuits must have a very specific gooey factor.
It's the little things in life.
Anyway, suffice to say, if the intestinal issues fall short of ulcerative colitis or Crohn's disease, I've been there and done that. I can tell you the chemical formulas for every anti-acid on the market. I know home remedies, mountain remedies, magic formulas, and a host of superstitions to settle upset tummies. I – intimately – know every bathroom in this town. And the surrounding towns to boot. I'm a bloody ninja when it comes to disappearing from a date's side to expel gas. Doctors who are interested love that I've never had any problems delivering on a stool sample, and I can tell you the exact foods that have high acidic content in alphabetical order.
I like to think it's the Universe's little way of reminding me, at any given moment, precisely how full of shit I really am.
Yes, the Universe is keeping me humble, one desperate search for a bathroom at a time.
I've had these issues all my life. Literally since I was two weeks old and in the hospital trying not to die, as, well... my intestines were overtaxed, poor things, and they were ready to say screw this noise, we're taking our proteins and going home!
So you see, I've had dozens upon dozens of moments of sheer, unadulterated desperation while in planes, trains, and automobiles.
One such moment happened several years ago when I was still working in an office. Well, a public office that frowned upon me showing up in fuzzy pants slurping my gluten-free cereal, anyway.
I often got taxed with running errands, as I was the newest hire in that particular office, and I didn't mind most of the time. It meant a break in the monotony that involved me, my car, music, and the outdoors. Despite all my belly drama, I love long drives, so when my coworker said she needed me to drive way, WAY across town to deliver some files in person, I was happy to agree.
Files in hand, I be-bopped out of the parking lot and began making my way to the very exact opposite of town. All told, without traffic, it was about a 35 minute drive from Point A to Point B, and at about the 15 minute mark, my stomach gave a lurch, a twist, and a rumble that meant one thing and one thing only:
We. Are. Displeased.
I ignored it. I breathed. I sang along to the radio. About five minutes later, I was given my second warning.
We are going to make your life a messy, foul hell if you don't pay attention and heed our call.
At that point, I started to take the matter seriously, but unfortunately, I was on the middle of an interstate with miles to go until the next exit. There were no woods. This particular stretch of road was mostly bridges with exceptionally narrow shoulders and death-defying drops on the far side of the metal railings.
Did I mention I don't dig heights? Might be a good moment to point that out.
I started to sweat and I started to talk to my intestines. I petted them. "Shh, shh, there there... we're gonna make it. It's going to be okay."
If you've never had to have these conversations with your intestines and colon, bully for you. For those millions of people out there who have, you totally feel my pain. Those of us who are inflicted with chronic intestinal distress understand that there is no freakin' waiting period when the tummy rumbles. That's the equivalent of football's two minute warning, except unlike in a real game, you don't have the ten minutes or so it takes to have two minutes of game time. You have maybe half that.
There's a woman in town whose issues are so severe and persistent, she bought one of those tall vans and installed a port-a-toilet in the back of it. Every time I see her van, I sympathize and even have a pang of wistful longing.
Sure, meds help and there's all kinds of management things one does to control the symptoms, but there are some days and some times when all that matters exactly jack-all. I've been very, very lucky in that I've never had to apply the garden hose to myself and my car post one of these times.
But that particular day on that particular stretch of road, I believe I came as close as I ever wanted to get. By the time I saw the exit off the highway, I was a breath away from pulling over, doing what I needed to do, and explaining to the nice officers who found and cited me for public indecency that I was simply performing an artistic ode to the poo-flinging Rhesus monkey. It wasn't MY fault that the Mercedes honked at me and I took offense, Officer. I considered it a blessing of good timing for my art's sake.
In the distance to my left I saw my haven: a Wendy's. And directly in front of me I saw my nemesis: The Longest Traffic Light in Town. I pulled to a stop between two other lanes of traffic and began my wait.
Now, though I've been afflicted with these issues all my life, I rarely bother The Man or Woman Upstairs with them. I figure there're wars, plagues, famine, and a host of hatred going on; the Universe doesn't really need me tugging at its skirts asking it to deal with my stomach ailment.
On that day, though, I was desperate enough to consider any and all options available to me. While searching my car for plastic bags and Kleenex as the minutes ticked by and my, ah, needs became more dire, I offered up a little prayer:
"Dear God," I said, out loud while banging my forehead on my steering wheel to distract myself, "please, somehow, just help me get to that freakin' Wendy's, and I'll take it from there."
The answer... was swift, sudden...
And rather, ah, surprising.
The instant I finished my prayer with my customary whispered, "Amen," I went from sick-dying-dear-God-help-this-is-going-to-get-ugly-and-the-sweat-stains-already-are to...
To one of the most mind-boggling intense orgasms of my life.
I can only imagine what this must have looked like to the other drivers to my left and right, if they were paying any attention at all. I mean, there they were, yes? Feeling sorry for the poor creature in the Honda who looked like death warmed over. They might have even been chanting with me for the light to change so I'd stop beating myself up with the steering wheel and flailing around the car. The poor girl; she's so upset. She's having such a terrible day. I feel better about mine just watching her, bless her heart.
And then, suddenly, I've got my head thrown back, my teeth clenched, my toes curled, and my fist accidentally slamming into the steering wheel and the horn. I'm definitely praying, now. There's so many slurred "Jesus'" going on you'd think I was a recent convert in church on baptism day.
The other drivers were then thinking, in my version of the story, anyway: "Aaaand I think I'll have what she's having."
I've no explanation for what happened. I get that there are all kinds of orgasms, and I've certainly heard of women who could get off while doing something as mundane as taking a piss, but I am not one of those women. Don't get me wrong; I'm all for some good anal play, but let's just say "play" was the furthest thing from my mind in that moment.
I dealt with aftershocks and caught a look of myself in the rearview mirror and discovered I was bright pink and red, no longer pallid and pale, and I managed to blink blearily at the green light and get it together enough to apply high heel to gas pedal before the line of traffic behind me got irate.
Any thought of bathroom needs had completely evaporated. I was still thoroughly grateful for the Wendy's proximity and facilities, and, thankfully, the post-orgasmic urge to cackle insanely didn't hit me until I was back in the car, hair straightened, armpits dabbed, and body spray reapplied.
Not to mention intestine gods soothed.
I said a small, giggly, and perhaps confused, "Thank you" to anybody listening and carried on with my day without incident.
Years later my mother, who worked in a church at the time, told me that a member was putting together a testimony book.
"Whazzat?" I asked, generally ignorant of such things.
"It's a collection of stories about people and how they found God."
I remembered my incident on the highway at that traffic light and burst into laughter.
"What's so funny?" my mother asked.
"Oh nothing," I said, wiping away tears. "Just the Lord working in orgasmically mysterious ways."
Love, light, and humor,
Kelly Wyre enjoys reading and writing all manner of fiction, ranging from horror to romance. She used to work in advertising but is now happily chained to her writing desk and laptop. She believes she's here to tell stories and to connect people with them. She's written several novels, novellas, and short stories and has no plans on stopping anytime soon.
Kelly relishes the soft and cuddly and the sharp and bloody with equal amounts of enthusiasm. She's a coffee addict, an avid movie lover, a chronic night owl, and she loves a good thunderstorm. Currently Kelly resides in the southeastern United States.
Available January 13, 2015
Meet Me at the Gates by Kelly Wyre
Outer Banks bookstore owner Hyacinth Silver Fox has a secret millennia in the making: her soul was magically entwined with another, and at night she dreams of every lifetime they've ever spent together. The rules of their magic are simple: Hydee always knows her lover, but he, or she, doesn't remember her. It's up to Hydee to find and make her soulmate see they are destined for each other, and this lifetime is no different, but there's one problem: her soulmate is Theo Monk, heartthrob actor and Hollywood's sometime-infamous badboy. Hydee's hope of reuniting is wearing thin, but she has no idea how dire the situation really is.
Because meanwhile in California, Theo Monk is losing his mind. Anxiety and paranoia rule his life, along with his on-again-off-again girlfriend and her entourage. When fear and frustration push him to an edge, Theo cuts and runs as far from his problems as he can without knowing Fate's giving him one last shot to unite with the only person who can help him. Hydee and Theo must save one another before hope runs out and Hydee's despair and Theo's fear keep them apart forever.
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