Parallel

To say the man walks along the stretch would be gracious wording. He more aptly lumbers, raising his knees just enough to allow his limp feet room to loll from his ankles. And he whispers to himself. Hurried and sharpened, the 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 like a taut spring, violently twisting his neck to stare towards the debris 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 that chokes us. I break focus and glance around, noting 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 my mind. It’s now I realise I’m unsure where we’re going, and as the sun shelters itself further and further behind the horizon, I have to assume the man in front isn’t either. A 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 as they brokenly repeat across fissured lanes, until a segment of piping lodges itself beneath my heel 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.

Consequentially, I slam to my knees. The pain doesn’t register, 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 to his feet. Our shadows elongate as we begin to trudge forwards. Granted, we remain ten-paces apart, and something in me knows that’s deliberate.

I can’t help but feel disorientated. Unsure why we’re walking, unable to stop. I occasionally check to my right, peekaboo-ing my delusions. Still nothing appears. The man and I seem to walk at the same pace, but our movements are far from synced. He scrapes 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 it’s hard to understand him, I feel pity for him. Despite his revolting form, his 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 whimpering now, “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 a perplexed murmur. “Who?” I ask, and as I do, the man cracks his neck to the side and responds.

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

Something about his reply feels oddly persuasive, and similar to him, I flick my head to the side. The movement fractures my vision, and the dust-choked highway sheds away, replaced by a verdant clearing in the forest. It’s peaceful afternoon there. The blades of grass gently waver in the subtle wind, and the birds warn a contrived chirp. A familiar hand 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. Seized in helpless eye contact, a grin crawls up his face from my expression. “…Oli?” he asks, entertained. It’s taking me a moment to decide what’s real, until I determine it doesn’t matter. I snap out of it.

“Yeah- yes, sorry. I’m ready.” I respond, sharing a slight chuckle over my stutter. He slowly releases my hand with a smile, 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 as well, seven-paces parallel. The comparison between the two settings makes me shudder. I find comfort in the clearing, candor in the highway. Just as I wish to go back, Silas’ voice draws me there.

“We could try up there?” he suggests, motioning to a run-down pharmacy across the way. 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. In the meantime I examine the counters, running my hand along the dust caked surfaces. I try to ground myself, but the shadowed road whispers to me still.

A sharp glance forwards delivers me the highway once more. I take my hand off the bus window to my side, dust caking that also. The man ahead continues to limp 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 out in protest. I wipe a few labels clean. Eventually, a promising name peaks out. I snatch it and move over to Silas, who is shoulders deep in the cabinets out the back.

“Hey.” I call out, chucking him the small box. It takes him a moment to examine both sides of the packaging, but as realisation hits, he throws himself at me. He says nothing, nor does he have to. Relief can be a bitter thing.

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.

“You coming?” he asks.

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

At this point he’s poised by the curb, itching to leave. “What, what do you mean? We’ve done it before.” He turns 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 and walks back up to me. “Tomorrow morning.” He grits, a piece of gravel popping under his boot as we secure the door behind us.

Back on the road, gravel pieces pop ten-fold, and I manage another step closer. Five-paces parallel.

We set up behind the main counter, our packs tucked away and our sleeping bags with little divide. Finding the medicine eased our usual rigidity, and we find ourselves reminiscing through the night. We discuss our lives before everything. We talk of old situations, old struggles, and try not to divulge into our new ones. If we weren’t so comfortable, we wouldn’t have both nodded off.

Awoken in the night by the sounds of a lock-pick, we shoot up, twisting the lantern off and listening attentively. A latch clicks open and the hinges pose a quiet creak, the raiders as disciplined as we were warned they would be. Footsteps bring them closer. I can’t help but recall demanding we stay, trying to keep us from danger. Yet, 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 pass the final gap to the storeroom. He tries the backdoor and it doesn’t budge, we share a look of loosely contained panic. I look down at a small, jagged opening in the door, clearly torn open by some animal as desperate as us. 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 for now, but it’s a hell of a reminder.

I crouch down and start my way out, but I can’t fit with my pack on. Silas helps me slip it off, and I squeeze through the narrow exit. I turn and watch, expecting to see him scurry through immediately afterwards. Holding up some of the flaps of plaster for him, I stare at the spot in wait. After a moment or so of no movement, I peak through to see him furiously rifling through his bag.

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

“The medicine.” he plainly whispers back.

“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, still silhouetted by the moon. He’s blinking more, stumbling less. It’s like he’s listening to me, but holding something back.

Three-paces parallel.

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

“She needs it!” he pleads, as quietly as he can, finally grasping the small packet. His hand surges through the door, quickly finding mine to safely deposit it into. I grab it, and him, trying to yank him through the exit. I’m painfully aware of the time we don’t have here.

“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, worried, the warm sound of his voice pouring through the narrow gap. I continue to grunt and pull. “Oli.” he says again, more tense than before.

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

“Oliver.” he says, strangely calm. Our fingers grow cold together in the winter. “It’s okay.” His pained voice seeps through, taking some time before speaking again. “I, I love you, Oli.” he mumbles. 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. Silence’s brisk fingers clasp over my jaw, and 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 yelp, then the back door pulses towards me slightly, throbbingas somebody is thrown against it. The commotion continues as another flashlight enters the room. Underlying choking sounds become all that echoes through to me, until they cease with a gunshot, and there’s no sound at all.

I just listened. Two-paces parallel.

Quickly after, muted gunshots fly through the decaying back window, my location no longer secret. I sprint away. One tags me in the calf, but I can’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. I crack my neck forward.

The foul man ahead 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 his chant; imagining Silas’ mother. The medicine packet bends around my grip. I envision telling her I didn’t stay with him. I didn’t let him leave when he thought it right. I didn’t even say it back.

I loved him, that’s what I could tell her, though it’s what I couldn’t tell him. And that truth would pierce me more than any bullet through my skin.

One-pace parallel.

Looking up, my vision is mostly comprised of the horrid man’s bent shoulder. I push forward, closing the remaining step and latching my palm onto his wilting shirt. As I do, the sensation echoes and I feel a gripping presence behind me, clutching 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 linger in the dew. I spin forward, and it’s empty also. Not a trace of the man I’ve been following all this time. The night-dwelling birds snicker at my confusion like an enthused audience, and a sickening urge tells me to laugh also.

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 one last time. 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 room 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 sorry. I don’t deserve it, but I will plead your forgiveness until the last echo peels from my arid tongue.”

I weep softly as my joints separate and everything close to me starts to darken. The medicine packet separates from my hand, hitting the bitumen as do the drops of salt water from my eyes. I finally 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.