Digging Toward the Sun by Andrew Maynard

Two boys build a sand castle at the edge of the earth. Their father watches at a distance, pushing his toes into the sand. It’s not actually quiet—thunderous waves folding in on themselves, wind blitzing sand like shrapnel—just feels that way when the world is louder than you are. The young boys are clumsy and ambitious. The father is proud.

The castle grows. A rising tide threatens to wipe it out. The father is strangled by the urge to protect his sons and their castle but doesn’t want to break the only rule of parenting he’s found valuable: Never interrupt independent play. The boys are working together, building a world of imagination. If magic is real, this is it, he thinks. The ocean stalks toward the only thing he still loves. He picks up a shovel.

The castle is now twice as tall as the father. The boys can no longer add sand to the top, so he cuts a door and erects a staircase that spirals toward the heavens. The tide has reached the castle; the castle has endured. They add another story. Then another. By the fifth floor they are so deep in the work they can no longer picture what it looks like from the outside.

Waves crash at the base of the castle, but the foundation holds strong. They build higher and higher, cutting windows on each floor so they don’t forget the world. The farther they can see, the less discernable it becomes. They dig until the birds fly below their feet.

They dig until the boys are no longer boys, until their peach fuzz turns dark and disorderly. Shoveling sand makes the sons stronger at the same rate that it breaks down the father. No one stops digging; they simply adjust their loads and roles. The older son tells his father that he’ll follow him to the sun. We’re well on our way, the father says. The younger son nods, though he has questions he’s not yet ready to ask.

Above the clouds the temperature drops. Don’t worry, the father says. Just means we’ve reached the stratosphere. I can’t see it, the younger son says. No one can, the father says, but we’re in it. They keep digging toward the warmth of the sun.

The castle sways more and more, and the father says they must remain diligent. No cutting corners. Each floor must be stronger than the last. The younger son stabs his shovel into the floor. I don’t get it. How are we digging upward? This can’t possibly last. The older son looks at his brother as if to say, Where is this coming from?

The father and his sons get seasick in the sky as the swaying intensifies. It feels like we’re the pendulum of a clock, the father says. But upside down, you know? The older son smiles. What’s a clock? The father feels even sicker.

The younger son says he thinks they need to go back to the beach, no longer sure what a beach even is. We’re going to collapse. No, the father says. It’s too late to turn back. He tells his sons their best chance is to make it past the ozone. If they just get a little closer to the sun it will burn the sand to solid glass and they will stabilize. Wonderful, the older son says, then adds, we’ll be able to see the entirety of our work, top to bottom, once the castle is glass. The younger son shakes his head, looks at his father. What makes you think we won’t burn with the sand?

The father, swaying miles and miles above the earth, studies his boys while they sleep. The older one’s head rests comfortably on a pillow he has fashioned from sand, while the younger tosses and turns, wrestling with his dreams. I did this for you, the father whispers.

They can’t simply run down the stairs until they reach the beach. The castle has thinned so dramatically that, in order to avoid collapse on the long journey down, they must transfer the highest floor into lower floors as they go. They must completely undo what they’ve done, floor by floor, grain by grain.

Years pass. The clouds are back overhead. Birds materialize in the sky and swirl around the castle like a mobile over a crib. The castle grows denser with each floor removed. The father’s back arches until he can barely dig. The boys pick up his share of the work. They have full beards and wide shoulders and can now make out the ripples of the waves in the ocean. They squint their eyes when they look down at earth, waiting for it to feel familiar.

Now the father spends most of his days resting in the sand, only standing up when it’s time to descend a floor. Just forty or so more to go. His boys look like he did when this all started. Where did the time go? Suddenly, the ground shakes—an earthquake. The father peers over the edge of the castle and his fears are manifested as he sees waves, miles and miles away, traveling at the speed of a jet. He can hear them, even all the way up here. The older son perks up, turns to his father. What is that? The father tells him a tsunami is coming. What’s a tsunami? The younger son looks out toward the ocean, answers his own question.

The boys argue over what to do. The older wants to dig back toward the sun, the younger toward the earth. The father knows that it’s all for naught. There’s no time to do anything other than remain and reckon: to find out if what they have built can last another day. But the father stays quiet, watching, listening. He leans back, unwilling to make the same mistake twice.

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ANDREW MAYNARD — Andrew’s stories and essays have appeared in DIAGRAM, HAD, True Story, Mud Season Review, Rejection Letters, Bending Genres, and other venues. He lives in Richmond, Virginia, with his wife, two sons, and dog. 

Art by FRANZISKA HOFHANSEL — Franziska is a writer & textile artist living in Brooklyn, NY. She was the recipient of a Truman Capote Fellowship for the duration of her MFA in fiction at the University of Montana. Her work can be found in Dead Mall Press, Gone Lawn, Prolit, & elsewhere. Her textile work can be found & purchased on her Instagram, @cyanide.meinhof.