Michael Malone - Weebly

offering her Pascal and Paul Tillich, had not come up
with any answers that satisfied. A sweet boy, but a fool
like most men; men, who can't give birth, giving birth to
gods in order to have gods to love them.
Miss Dingley's collapsible cane flicked open like a
switchblade.
She poked at the darkness with it. One floor below,
her relative Sammy Smalter had finally turned out his
light and gone to sleep.
Slowly, down the hall, the old woman walked,
angered by her turtle pace. Wasted by time, she
couldn't afford to waste time. Then, out on her widow's
walk—though, in fact, she had never wed—she stared
at the star closest to her. The star stared back. But not
at a fat, stooped lady in a white nightgown leaning on
the balcony rail of a Victorian house. No, the star had
no idea, yet, that Miss Ramona Dingley was ever born.
It saw backwards in time, saw a forest in which an
Indian hid and spied on Elijah Dingley, who sat
exhausted in a little clearing and remarked to a
bonneted woman in a cart words he later preserved in a
diary: "Here is as farr as I ride, dear Yokefellow. That