Parallel

To say the man walks along the stretch may be gracious wording. He more aptly lumbers, raising his knees just enough to allow his limp feet to loll from his ankles. And he whispers something to himself. Hurried and sharpened, his words hold spite, but not sense. Even in the muted afternoon glow, I can make out his stifling posture. Limping, his back is coiled over taut like a spring, violently twisting his neck to stare down the debris covered path ahead.

As I trail behind his withering silhouette, ten-paces parallel, I notice myself continuously critical of him. His mannerisms, his demeanor; they tear me from the barren atmosphere choking us. As I break focus and glance around, I note that the highway suspending us is less of a road and more of a lesion in the earth. A scar mocking its original purpose. The debris lessens as we round the bend of the felled highway, but the ruined cars grow denser – the corroded husks likely forced the road to its knees over time. Rocks and roots protrude through crusted chunks of asphalt, as nature proves itself relentless in reclaiming its territory.

We continue forward, my attention contested by the stranger and stretch in front of me, coating any other thoughts. It’s now I realise I’m unsure where we’re going, and as the sun shelters itself further behind the horizon, I assume the man in front isn’t either. Pallid unease chokes the air; I don’t recognise our surroundings, but I somehow know to continue onwards. Intrigued by the vague familiarity of the pale road lines, my gaze follows them as they brokenly repeat across fissured lanes, until a segment of piping lodges itself beneath my foot and causes me to trip. As I stumble, I instinctively reach to my side, expecting something to meet me there. But of course, nothing does. We’re alone out here.

Consequentially, I slam to my knees. No pain registers, I’m too focused on the empty space beside me. I glare to my side, waiting for something to reveal itself. The emerging moonlight and droning cicadas seem curious too, reflecting off rusted car frames in the distance, but to no avail. Turning back, the man in front has mimicked my position. Collapsed to his hands and knees, staring to his side, he’s persistently muttering as usual. It wasn’t him I was reaching for, I know that much. Something about the idea of touching him forces me to stand again, which he mirrors, reluctantly heaving himself back to his feet. Our shadows elongate as we begin to trudge forwards, connecting. Granted, we remain ten-paces apart, and something in me knows that’s deliberate.

I can’t help but feel disorientated. Unsure why we are walking, but unable to stop. I occasionally check to my right, playing peekaboo with my delusions. Still nothing appears. The man and I seem to walk at the same pace, but our movements are far from synced. He continues to scrape the tips of his sneakers against the rubble as he stumbles, cowering as if even his clothes are too heavy on his frame. Eventually, a phrase finds its way through to me.

“…shouldn’t have left you. Sil…” Although I can’t understand him, I do pity him. Despite his revolting form, flaccid limbs and disheartening stance, it’s clear this world has been unkind to him. His hateful posture and vitriolic speech suggest much of it was his own fault, but he doesn’t seem like an immoral person. With this thought, I close a portion of the gap between us, nine-paces parallel.

“I’m so sorry,” I can hear him sobbing now, whimpering through a shunned tone, “I don’t deserve it, but I will plead your forgiveness until the last echo peels from my arid tongue.” He returns to a murmur, his erratic movement knocking a small tin off the roof of an abandoned car, to which we both flinch. The cracking thud reverberates through the road, sound bouncing from each desolate remnant of a vehicle. My hand gravitates to my side once again, but still there’s no-one there. All I can muster is the question, who, and as I ask it, the man cracks his neck to the side and responds.

“Silas.” He mewls softly, his mouth unfurling with sorrow. Step. Eight-paces parallel.

I see clearer once he says that name, and I flick my head sideways again. My vision fractures as I do so, turning to the side to see the dust-choked highway shed away, replaced by a verdant clearing. It’s peaceful afternoon there, the blades of grass gently waver in the subtle wind, and a hand familiarly grasps mine from the side. Helping me to my feet, a casual voice asks,

“Ready to go?” Silas. Memories pour back through me – a cup trying to hold a river, and I’m paralysed by their return. I make helpless eye contact with him, a slight grin crawling up his face from my stunned expression. “…Oli?” he asks, humbly beaming. It’s something to do with the way he says my name, I think, but I snap out of it.

“Yeah- yes, sorry. I’m uh, I’m ready.” I respond, timidly, sharing a slight chuckle over my stuttering. He slowly releases my hand and we begin to walk. Hesitantly, I shift my eyes back to the dismal road and disgusting man ahead, as we begin to walk together now as well, seven-paces parallel. The comparison between these two places makes me shudder. I find comfort in the clearing, but honesty in the highway. I want to go back, and thankfully, Silas’ voice soon draws me there.

“We could try up here?” he suggests, motioning to a run-down pharmacy across the street, and I start to remember our goal. We hustle over to it, kicking in the fraying door, the sunlight purifying long-settled shadows within. Silas works quickly, meticulously rummaging through packets and shelves. Meanwhile, I examine the counters, running my hand along the dust-caked surfaces. I try to ground myself here, but the shadowed road whispers to me.

Another glance forwards delivers me the highway once more. I take my hand off the corroding bus window next to me, the dust caking that also. The man ahead still limps along, and the lanes remain littered with rubble. In a way, this place is peaceful too, but it’s famished; empty. It aches. The man stumbles and I gain a stride towards him, six-paces parallel.

Returning to the pharmacy, I pry open a loosely locked drawer, the springs wailing in protest. I wipe a few labels clean. Eventually, a small box with a promising name peaks out. I move back over to Silas, who has found himself shoulders deep in the cabinets out the back.

“Hey.” I call, handing him the box. It takes him a moment, but once he examines both sides of the packaging, he throws himself onto me, and we cling to each other. He says nothing, nor does he have to. We make our way out, but as we step outside, I realise the daylight has begun to leave us. Stuck by the doorway, I watch as Silas hurriedly pulls the zipper of his pack closed, ready to depart.

“Si.” I protest, to which he holds my eyes, confused.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asks innocently.

“We shouldn’t travel while it’s dark, you know that.”

At this point, he’s poised by the curb, itching to leave. “What? We’ve done it before.” He argues, turning his body to face me.

“This is different. Most of them travel at night and we have precious cargo. Plus, we’ll make better time with some rest.” I rebut.

He taps his foot, uncertain. Eventually, he rolls his eyes, walking back up to me. “Tomorrow morning.” He grits, a piece of gravel popping under his boot as we secure the door behind us.

The sound changes my perspective, the man in front crushing a small rock under his weight as well. I manage another step closer, five-paces parallel.

We set up behind the main counter, our packs tucked out of sight and our sleeping bags with little room in between. Finding the medicine has eased our usually tense demeanors, and we find ourselves reminiscing. We discuss our lives before, laugh at old struggles, and try not to think about new ones. If we weren’t so comfortable, we wouldn’t have both nodded off.

Awoken later in the night by the alarming sounds of a lock being picked, we shoot up, twisting the lantern nozzle off and listening attentively.

A latch clicks open and the hinges warn a quiet creak, the raiders as disciplined as we were warned they would be. Footsteps bring them closer. I can’t help but recall when I demanded we stay, trying to keep us from danger. We were only in this situation because of me. Four-paces parallel.

In sync, and silently, we stay low to the ground and curve the sides of our feet, moving through the isles as they make their way into the pharmacy. I count three, then four, as we cross the final gap before the back storeroom. Silas and I share a look of loosely contained panic. He tries the backdoor and it doesn’t budge; I look down at the doggy door at our feet. Silas’ eyes catch mine, then he glances down too.

“No.” he mouths, but the illumination of a flashlight glides terrifyingly close to us. We stay unseen, but it’s enough of a reminder.

I crouch and start my way through, but I can’t make it with my pack on. Silas helps me slip it off, and I squeeze myself through the narrow exit. I turn and watch, expecting to see him scurry through immediately afterwards. Holding up the plastic flap for him, I peak through to see him furiously rifling through his bag.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, but it sounds like screaming in the echoing night air.

“The medicine.” he plainly responds.

“Don’t be an idiot.” The man in front of me barks, and I’m heaved back to the freeway. I study the man for a moment, he’s blinking more, stumbling less. He’s listening to me, holding something back. Three-paces parallel.

“Don’t be an idiot.” I whisper now, returning to the pharmacy’s backdoor.

“She needs it!” he pleads, as quiet as he can, finally locating the small packet I handed him earlier today. His hand surges through the door, quickly finding mine to safely deposit the medicine into. I grab it, and him, almost trying to heave him through the exit.

“C’mon.” I grunt, desperate. I knew his shoulders were broader than mine, but as they slam into the thick wooden frame, my heart races.

“Oli.” he speaks up, noticeably worried, the warm sound of his voice pouring from the narrow flap. I continue to grunt and pull. “Oli.” he says again, even more tense.

“It’s okay.” I grunt back, still pulling, aware of what he’s trying to convey. I see his face appear as he lays next to the exit. The distant flashlight glares closer and closer. “Silas get up.” I demand, pressure amounting behind my eyes, unable to regulate my volume.

“Oliver.” he says, strangely calm. Our fingers grow cold together in the night air. “It’s okay.” The pain in his voice seeps through, and he takes some time before speaking again. “I um, I love you, Oli.” he stammers. I open my mouth to respond, but all sound evades me. No matter how much I try to force my voice, I can’t speak. Tears glide to my chin.

“Oli?” he asks, almost pleading, his hand squeezing mine tighter.

“I-” his arm is ripped back through the exit. Slamming erupts from the small room as I stare at the plastic flap, helpless. There’s a yell, then the back door pulses towards me slightly, throbbing as somebody is thrown against it. The commotion continues as another flashlight enters the room. Underlying choking sounds become all that echoes to me, until there is no sound at all.

I just listen. Two-paces parallel.

Muted gunshots fly through the decaying back window, my location no longer secret. I start running. Sprinting. One tags me in the calf, but I don’t stop. Hundreds of metres later I’m leaping over the barrier onto the highway. I’m not even sure when I moved from running to walking, it wasn’t conscious I can say that.

The foul man ahead of me is close enough to hear now, his begging and spluttering clearer than ever. “I’m sorry.” he says, repeatedly, guilt dripping from his frame. And for the first time, I understand him.

“I’m sorry.” I say, joining him; imagining what I will tell Silas’ mother. The medicine packet bends around my grip. I twitch as I envision telling her that I said it back, or that I fought by his side. Because I can’t. I loved him, that’s what I could tell her. Despite the fear that overcame me.

One-pace parallel.

Looking up, my vision is mostly comprised of the horrid man’s bent shoulder. I push forward, closing the remaining gap and latching my palm steadily on the back of his wilting shirt. As I do, the sensation echoes and I feel a presence behind me, latching themselves onto the back of my shirt.

To say I didn’t hope as I spun around would be a lie, but as I gaze at the stretch behind me, it’s empty. Only my footsteps in the dew linger. I spin forward; empty also. Not even a trace of the man I’ve been following all this time. The night-dwelling birds snicker at my confusion like an enthused audience.

I try to halt for a moment, but something quickly keeps me walking. I look down at the medicine packet crumbled in my hand, flashes of Silas assaulting my brain once again. The more I think of him, the more I allow fatigue its rightful place over me, and every step grows cumbersome.

I start to lumber, raising my knees just enough to allow my limp feet to loll from my ankles. And I whisper things to myself. Hurried and sharpened, my words hold spite, but not sense. Limping, I try to uphold my posture but cannot. My back coils over, taut like a spring, my neck twisting violently to stare down the debris covered path ahead.

The more I give in, the more I remember him.

“I shouldn’t have left you Silas,” I croon, the words instinctual. “I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve it, but I will plead your forgiveness until the last echo peels from my arid tongue.”

I weep as my bones give out, everything close to me darkening. The medicine packet separates from my hand, hitting the bitumen as do drops of salt water from my eyes. I remember where I’m going, yet I have seconds left.

“I can’t make it my love,” I say to the dimming sky, “may I dream of you instead?”

2025 SHORT FICTION CONTEST JUDGE'S REMARKS

Chances are, if you aren’t drawn to Parallel, you might just not enjoy short fiction at all. Parallel is a stand-out example of what the medium can do: a painting in prose, almost cinematic in its delivery. The story is feverish and dreamlike, like reading one of those images that turns into something else (an autostereogram, Google tells me).

I adored the way the author trusted the reader to fill in blanks, leaning instead on the emotional weight of the characters’ experiences rather than the whats and the whys. The author steps back and allows their characters to drive the narrative. I recognized elements of Stephen King’s short stories – especially The Long Walk – as well as the dystopian foreboding of Shirley Jackson’s short work.

As a writer, the thing I find most impressive about Parallel is the way it builds tension through the use of repetition (“steps parallel”). This story is relentless in its pacing, building and building until at last – without a single wasted word – it arrives at the ending. An ending which, upon reflection, feels as though it were predestined. There truly could not be any other conclusion to the story, and that feeling resonated with me long after I’d finished reading.

Elysia Rourke judged MoonLit Getaway's 2025 Short Fiction Contest.