The Parables

Humus - Precinct Eight

Humus - Precinct Eight

"Well the fish ain't bitin' but the 'skeeters are," I murmur to myself. "Little buggers gone hidin', they don't wanna get caught. Too nice a day to be dangle on the end of a line, but a bad day's fishin' beats a good day's work everytime."

Ever since we'd left Precinct Eight, I've been murmuring all the fishing songs I know to myself. Each one has been murmured at least five times over, probably more, but I'd rather listen to the sound of my voice than the awkward silence clogging up the car's atmosphere. We tend to sing these fishing songs at the lake when we get bored of listening to the wind compensating for our hushed voices. Somebody would start singing then their friends would join in and then everyone would be singing along. Most of the time it's enjoyable as it makes working seem more fun than it actually is. The only person who doesn't join in, however, is Benji.

Typical Benji. The spoilsport. The killjoy. Now the one shot by a bullet. My lips curl into a smile at the thought of him getting shot. Maybe that would change his attitude. Make him more, kind. I snort, shaking my head. Benji is never going to be kind to anyone, regardless of whether his brain gets damaged by a bullet or not. He'd fit into Hell pretty well if that bullet killed him.

Glancing out of the window, I watch the sun gradually ascend into the sky, awakening from its deep slumber. An amber haze surrounds it, showering the fields below in pools of rich golden light, transforming the grass into barley and the bushes into bales of harvested hay. A gentle breeze picks up, tossing the fallen autumn leaves into the air. They tumble past the car and eventually land limply on the ground a few metres away from where they were picked up. Shadows from the towering trees fall onto the leaves, throwing a dark spotlight onto them as if the moon has risen and night has descended.

"And a bad day's fishin' beats a good day's work," I murmur quietly. "And a bad day's fishin' beats a good day's work every time."

As soon as the song finishes I realise I don't know any more fishing songs, so I'd either have to start singing them all again or I could stop singing completely. As a yawn escapes my mouth, I decide on the latter and close my eyes. Sleep was not a top priority for me last night so I resorted to catching forty winks, which didn't last long at all. So now my voice has grown hoarse and tired, the chance for a nap has eventually arrived. Unfortunately for me, the nap I was hoping to have peacefully is being disrupted by the car's engine and a volley of bird squawks.

Groaning, I open my eyes and peer out of the window. A flock of blackbirds emerge from the trees in the distance, closely followed by a larger group of smaller birds. They soar towards our direction, crying and hollering at the top of their lungs. Rapping on the window in annoyance, I watch the birds scatter in every direction yet screeching even louder. Humming, I wait for the noise to diminish before closing my eyes for the second time and lying back in my seat.

For about five minutes, all I can hear is the gentle thrumming of the car's engine, which acts as a lullaby rocking me gently to sleep. Just as I feel like I'm about to drop off, the car jerks to a halt. Without warning, I slam into the seat in front of me. Unfortunately for me, my face takes the pounding, colliding with the back of the seat like the way a fish I've caught hits the bottom of my bucket. Grimacing in agony, I slowly sit up and lie back in my seat.

"Are we there yet?" I query, craning my neck to see out of the window screen.

"No," the sentry says bluntly. "We can't."

"Can't what?"

"Get there?"

"Why?" My face is a picture of bewilderment. "Why can't we?"

"The car's broke down."

"Wha-?!" My jaw drops to the floor. My eyes widen in stupefaction.

"You'll have to get out and walk." The sentry doesn't suggest it, just seems to order it.