The Disposal Chronicle

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


I was teaching English in Malaysia when the black spot first appeared overhead. It seemed small, barely larger than a fifty sen coin but without any real context it was hard to tell how much higher over the trees it was. Was it small and close or huge and distant? If it was far away, it might be kilometers across. It couldn't possibly be that big, could it? And what could cause such a thing?

These thoughts ran through my head as I continued the lesson on how subjects and predicates work in English. Dermang, a thick faced boy with a mop of raggedly cut black hair, raised his hand. I waved it down and he wrinkled his nose in annoyance. He was used to getting his way from other teachers but after being kicked out of my class three times for disrupting lessons, he knew that I meant what I said.

So I was surprised when he blurted out, "It's coming!"

My rebuke died on my lips as I saw what he saw. A thin white line had appeared connecting the black spot in the sky with the water below.

"Today's lesson is over."


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