Title: Poison
Author: Neal
Starkman
Publisher: The
Zharmae Publishing Press
Genre: Literary Fic
Release Date: Nov 7th
2013
Book Blurb
From the
outside, letter carrier Cleve's life looks to be that of an ordinary guy,
living an ordinary life, in the ordinary small midwestern town of Eaton. But
looks can be deceiving...
After tragic events plague Papua New Guinea, Cleve begins to suspect connections
between the poisoning of 50,000 South Pacific islanders and his small town. In
an effort to appease his growing curiosity, Cleve begins to investigate on his
own and finds himself
facing an obstinate midget mayor, a sniper attack, and a
love triangle with constant complications.
With his life turning into shambles, Cleve finds himself wondering what happened to his once ordinary, peaceful existence.
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Excerpt
Tingles. The Woman was near. Cleve had just
picked up a cellophaned package of orange cholesterol and thought, now they’re
even calling cheddar cheese American cheese, when the tingles electrified his
body like a trillion ants with tiny whiskbrooms. He stood rigid, the grocery
fading around him: She must be very near.
He’d
seen The Woman only three times, the first time two months ago, early April,
his hormones yawning and stretching after a somnolent winter. He was driving by
the Texaco on a collection run and spotted Her filling the tires of a
late-model tricycle, very chic for Eaton. He drove by so quickly that at first
all he could elicit from the dim recesses of his memory was an image of blazing
eroticism.
It was
Her potential that had impressed him—an unlit candle, an unkindled log, an
untorched song. Later, he found he could conjure up that image at will, and
even alter it to include himself.
The next time he ran into Her was at the Hops
Hop, and the time after that was at the drive-in window of the Farquhar-Eaton
Sav-Mor Bank. He was again in the mail truck, and She was in the car just ahead
of him, a convertible with the top halfway up. She wore a poly-colored muumuu,
slit at the sides, with black pearls hanging tastefully in strands from Her
neck. Cleve watched Her like a diamond cutter, wishing he’d cleaned his
windshield. He wondered if, like most people in Eaton, She’d be excited by a ride
in a mail truck. The idea of flouting federal regulations sent him into a
delirium, and he forgot to endorse his paycheck, bringing a wince to the new
Farquhar teller’s face as her smile-stitches dug into her gums.
Now,
amid the cheeses and the Light of Liberty bolognas and the Freedom bacon, as he
gripped the 0.88 pound of cheddar-American, the music started, the stars came
out, the odor of large, furry animals in heat entered his nostrils, and those
peculiar sex-frenzy tingles made their wild dances over his body. He fought off
numbness and turned to his right. Not ten feet away, The Woman bent over the
yogurt.
Cleve’s eyes watered as he struggled to
maintain control over his favorite vital organs. She was a goddess, an epiphany
of form and beauty, everything that was desirable—virgin, wench, mother,
friend, spiritual advisor, accountant. He ingested Her with his eyes. She could
havebeen a statue, or an artist’s conception of a statue before he ever takes
hand to chisel. Paroxysms of libido swept over Cleve, and he realized he’d been
squeezing the cheese into a new and rather unappealing shape. It now resembled
a piece from a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
About the Author
Neal Starkman has
been a writer all his life, developing works for a wide range of audiences. He
has written on subjects ranging from a study of why people don’t complain
to innovative health education. He is dedicated to making complex issues clear
and attempting to improve the human condition.
Neal resides in Seattle, Washington with his wife and son. He enjoys driving his Prius and occasionally going off his low-carb diet.
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