The Inner Sunrise, Danny Durst
SEARCHING FOR SOLSTICE
The buzz of the world enters her dream before she knows she’s waking up. A low flying police helicopter. The irregular cadence of a leaf-blower. Heavy tires too fast on the neighboring street. The Doppler shift of a passing siren.
Up through her body the dream fades, restless toes coming alive before the legs know what to do. Was it a peaceful dream, embracing the cacophony and transmuting it into something benign? Was it stressful, yet another nightmare of powerlessness? It doesn’t matter so much, really. Her body twists and rolls out of the hot puddle of her disorientation.
One eye flutters open and watches her hand reach for her phone. 6:34 a.m. Don’t do it. Give yourself time. Keep the world at bay a moment longer. But the world does not wait, and her dopamine-starved brain craves a measure of significance. Just a quick look just a quick check in just a quick post so people know I’m still here.
She hasn’t any other place to be. Minute after minute falls through her, fingers scrolling scrolling scrolling. The weight of simply being presses down upon her. But she doesn’t really notice; it is ever so light.
It’s a quarter to nine now. She has projects that need tending. Thirteen young monarch caterpillars have consumed the foliage in their enclosure overnight. They’re starting to infringe. At the terminus of a newly-naked branch, two of the tiny beasts fling up their heads with equal measures of shock at the disruption to their rightful consumption and fury at the audacity of the invading bug. Or maybe their reaction is just a defense mechanism. With mild urgency, she sets about correcting the deficiency.
She waters the garden. Yarrow. Lemon. Verbena. Blue Salvia. Mexican Sage. Dianthus. Strawberry. Milkweed. She trims the milkweed and bleaches the leaves for two minutes, rinsing thoroughly under fresh water. A small curlicue sits heavy in the bleach bowl— a young caterpillar. It must have been hiding in the plant. Now it lies drowned in bleach. A small bit of mourning settles into her center, but she doesn’t really notice it. She moves to clean the frass from the enclosure and give the caterpillars their new food.
By then she had moved outside from the kitchen to her garden, from yeast to butterflies. Still, she had thought it best to keep around. Best to have things that need tending. Best to stay busy, so the mire of the world doesn’t stick to your feet and pull you under.
Flora Westbrook via Pexels
In the kitchen, her hands reach for the oven pad, a tea towel, the rubber trivet. They cocoon around the coffee grinder. The world beyond has already invaded her morning, and she is unwilling to perpetuate its harsh realities. Tea towel and oven pad and rubber trivet altogether merely dampen the noise as she pulverizes the coffee beans. It’s another too-loud sound burrowing into the quiet. A veil of consternation settles across her face. She doesn’t notice it. It is ever so light.
The fridge boasts a kaleidoscope of take-out containers, two half-empty jars of whole grain mustard, and three varieties of non-dairy milk. The almond milk is almost empty. The sourdough starter is limping along, forgotten until the smell of hooch fills the refrigerator. There were three perfect loaves, and then three failures, before she told herself she was only taking a break from baking. She had worked hard, in the beginning, to grow the yeast over two cold damp weeks. By the time her last boules had staled, the neighbors were beginning to seek out yeast of their own. There was none to buy.
By then she had moved from the kitchen to her garden, from yeast to butterflies. Still, she had thought it best to keep around. Best to have things that need tending. Best to stay busy, so the mire of the world doesn’t stick to your feet and pull you under.
Spring has turned to summer. The stillness of April buds explode into May blooms. Her fervid utility is supplanted by an indolence usually reserved for the unrelenting heat of late September, when the wind rises from the high desert and drops hot and heavy through the canyons. At first, she hardly notices the additional weight. It is ever so light. She just . . . finds herself on a horizontal plane. She breathes in, hoping to feel the expectation of doing, exhales lassitude instead. Then she sinks.
She peers at the starter, picks it up to examine it further. It has turned from sour to slightly sweet, ever so light. She places it on the counter to feed, forgets it once again, and walks away.
12:28 p.m. Where did the morning go? The perfect peacefulness of planting and parenting the creatures is nearing its end.
Spring has turned to summer. The stillness of April buds explode into May blooms. Her fervid utility is supplanted by an indolence usually reserved for the unrelenting heat of late September, when the wind rises from the high desert and drops hot and heavy through the canyons. At first, she hardly notices the additional weight. It is ever so light. She just . . . finds herself on a horizontal plane. She breathes in, hoping to feel the expectation of doing, exhales lassitude instead. Then she sinks.
Adrianna Calvo via Pexels
Down through her body, her fibers are stretched taut, vibrating. She is a low thrum. She is a mille-feuille of self-possessed discontent.
Another project, perhaps, will buoy. She holds her phone, the muscles in her hand aching in the act, asking to please do anything else, but she doesn’t know what else to do. What movement can she mime to complete the day? What can she produce? What can she consume? May’s blossoms and chrysalides are gone. June’s seedpods demand long afternoons bursting with light, made for creation and happiness.
Instead, she sinks. Her hands abandon the phone now, laboring to trace patterns in the carpet, her clothes, her skin. A slow spiral whispers ancient knowledge of the sun and stars, of the long day and the shortest of nights.
Fingers begin to trail the edge of the nightmare still clinging to her, though the waking is hours behind. She rolls it between her finger and thumb and flicks the sticky mess away. Her fingers find another edge, not sticky, the unfinished edge of tulle. Her mind interprets the sensation as sharp, but there is no worry. These are only threads of the veil that had sat so lightly upon her until the cumulative weight of each small transgression overwhelmed. She fiddles and pulls until there is nothing left to that edge. She stops sinking.
She hardly noticed before, when the moments settled. Now her body makes her aware of the undoing before she realizes there was undoing to do. The fingers grasp and the arms fling out and away what’s unneeded. A pocket sorrow, a minuscule madness.
9:52 p.m. She dances bare-breasted in the backyard.
The world is still too closed for all that openness. Too close. Two closed windows watching on each side. Yet, for this moment, with her robe draping off her shoulders, she notices the heat from her fire, the cool night air, the ever-present murmur of city traffic. She is ever so light.
She is ever so light.
CARISSA MCQUEEN
Carissa McQueen is a one-bag traveler, stargazer, watercolor painter, and that person who always checks the back of the closet – you know, just in case. She earned her MA in Children’s Literature from Roehampton University and currently lives in Los Angeles, indulging in freelance editing and film projects while launching her children’s publishing company, Pinniped Press.
DANNY DURST
Danny Durst is a young designer from Mexico City. Currently in his 3rd semester of his Bachelor in Industrial Design at the Universidad Anáhuac, he loves to draw and do graphic design in his spare time. Danny describes himself as a dreamer and an imaginative person. He is driven to innovate in the design world by thinking outside the box. Danny is also passionate about astronomy and video games such as Minecraft and Fortnite and his art can be found on his Instagram here.
“Un buen diseño es una mezcla entre el pasado y el futuro para crear un presente perfecto.”-Durst
About the Artwork
The Inner Sunrise was created using Adobe Illustrator and the pictures were sourced from Pixabay.
This cover was created especially for Carissa’s story. The artist felt like depicting the narrator’s personal journey from the start of the 2020 coronavirus lockdown to the start of reopening. The motif of the chrysalid turning into a butterfly is highly symbolic of this journey towards acceptance and relief in hard times. Finally, it was important for Danny to represent Los Angeles as the setting of the story. The change of lighting due to either sunset or sunrise –depending on reader interpretation–also represents the narrator’s journey and change of perspective throughout an interminable “groundhog day” that started in despair and ended in the knowledge that all will be well.