. . . And The Horse You Rode In On

Paperback: 86
Published: 2015

Price: $15.95

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Ever get so lonely that you dial your own phone number and leave yourself messages on your answering machine?

Have you and your buddy ever dressed as Gandhi and Buddha, respectively, for Halloween, and proceeded to celebrate the day by trading insults?

 Have you and your attaché case become indistinguishable from each other?

Or perhaps you've had it stolen by an elevator?

Ever attempted to skip a day's work as a human test subject for toxic substances, by making up a story that your pet tabby died?

 If you've answered no to these questions, then step into the unruly purlieus of L. D. Brodsky's . . . And the Horse You Rode In On, and revel in the experiences of those who've said yes.


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An American Love Story

He had few acquaintances, fewer friends, not a solitary first or seventh cousin, or even a pet, to attest to anomalous fact that he kept his refrigerator perpetually empty. He did so out of respect and profound love for his Kelvinator of thirty-five years, whose humming cycle soothed him, night and day.

Except for her, he lived alone, barely spending more than sleep time in his seedy (you might say sleazy) tear-down, near the district of the city dubbed Dogtown.

Where he existed, his other hours, was an enigma to all but those in the cafés he frequented. He kept no food of any kind at home. You could say he was a professional eat-outer, even if the dictionary lacked a noun of such approximation. He didn’t live to loiter, be seen, talked about (at four-footeight and fifty-seven pounds, he certainly wasn’t much to look at); rather, he dined at Guido’s and the Hot ’n Good Eatery, to spare "Kelvie" the unpredictability of perishables, at least until he contracted the fever that forced him to stay home, for six days, languishing in bed, racked with chills and a fever hovering and quavering above 103. Although he'd never so much as sniffled, before, he was now so ill he couldn’t even hold down soup; just the idea of eating made him dry-heave.

Certain he was done for, a goner, resigned, he made for Kelvie's main food compartment. When his affliction finally passed, with him in tow, she, heartsick, grieving, leaked all her Freon. Not long after reaching room temperature, she stopped. As per her lover's will, she was buried in the landfill, with him snuggled up inside her.






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