Number 511205、_Seymour Doolittle's Visitor_The Train Ride to Our Place_Lola the Tank Mechanic
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Number 511205、
“Number 511205、 Frank Collins. It’s chow time.” Correctional officer Kagan said sternly. He was in his usual stance, his impatience radiating from his uniform. Officer Kagan had arrived to the prison in what couldn’t have been more than 6 months, yet he acted as if he owned the place. He had transferred from another facility somewhere in the Midwest. Frank and him had gotten along well enough though he could be a prick at times. Frank hated Tuesdays. He hated most days, but he had a special loathing for today as it was soup day. They usually have a selection of soup to choose from, but someti...
Seymour Doolittle's Visitor
Seymour Dolittle’s Visitor—George DavisWhen my wife and I bought Marconi Manor, a Victorian home in need of much repair, we renamed it, Dolittle’s Estate. The deed says: Seymour and Dorothy Dolittle owners of said property, located at 115 Main Street, Cumberland Falls, Maine, etc.It was while we were in the throes of remodeling our new home. I was summoned by a workman to join him in our guest room at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Dolittle,” he said, “there’s somethwww.onedoor.ccing in this room that scares me. Do you sense it?”I didn’t sense anything out of the way. “Can’t you feel the cold air, as if there...
The Train Ride to Our Place
As I sit there on the subway, I can't help but think of her. My guiding light as I walked through life. My one and only love. We took this train route many times, going to wherever we desired within the city, going to our place.Our place wasn't too far from where I'm currently at, hidden in plain sight upon the nearby mountain’s face. It was a place that only we knew about. It was ours, and ours alone. We would sit there and look over the city in which we lived. Over the bustling, busy streets, and over the even busier sidewalks. What we saw was ever moving, and almost chaotic, but where we w...
Lola the Tank Mechanic
Lola the Tank Mechanic: A Volunteer in IsraelThat first morning, Lola found herself standing at the barracks window, watching the sun come up and listening to the local dogs barking a canine reveille to awaken the sleeping army base. She watched the mist rising from the distant hills and the leaves on the trees below her rustling in the soft breeze.It was May, 1987, and Lola had arrived in Israel the previous afternoon, after a tedious 12-hour flight from New York. She had come to volunteer on an Israeli army base for two weeks, joining a group of other volunteers who assembled at Ben-Gurion a...