Keeping the Lights On
In a world where the sun has turned off mysteriously, two people commute to work — a suburbian dystopia.
We all pretend not to think about the past.
It could have been last week that I saw — felt — the sun’s true light. But I know it’s not that easy, remembering. We all forget its colour every other day, because… well, it’s not as it used to be. There are some grateful enough to have been born after, who don’t have the memories to mourn, who missed out on the three days of total darkness, and then VWOOOOM! Lights on! Back to normal, everyone. Business as usual.
It only took three days to replace it, like an old car. This one isn’t made of fire, and it doesn’t burn us, but it doesn’t warm us well, either, and it’s got a scream about its brightness. It’s all we can afford in this part of town, and it’s better than true darkness.
Today it’s a knock that wakes me, and I dare it to try again after 7:00.
I bury my head in cold pillows and think of a school morning, early snow, the summer I didn’t miss until it was gone. Walking to school watching the sunrise over low houses, shortcuts through gardens, nothing stirring but me.
When the sun went dark, he took the moon with her. I know she’s there, somewhere, floating in the dark, invisible eclipses when the calendar demands them.
I try getting up, then realise there’s something wrapped around my neck, a necklace I bought from a charity shop with a cross pendant on it. Something old and meaningful, I thought when I first saw it. The meaning of it is still a mystery, but I like to think it weighs me down.
A third knock drives the fog from my mind but not my front yard. It’s still there, like a ghost or some veil over the brown even mess. I smell the morning: turf, and twisting copper wiring of the fake trees that line the street. Suburbia sleeps, alarm clocks silent in unison, waiting, waiting…
His is the first face I’ve seen in weeks, other than the ones wallpapering my bedroom and kitchen, on my fridge or my sofa like old friends. Guilty parties.
He’s holding another ghost in his hand, dancing from a cup of something that smells good, and like true morning. The sky is black again. It hardly isn’t when I’m there to see it. I long for a star this time, but the chorus of streetlights blankets their faces.
“Still no car?” I grumble, taking the cup and bringing it to my lips, letting the steam defrost my features. I don’t want to be mean to him. He just catches me in the middle of a mean streak. “Get a bike, then.”
“And give up our lovely chats?” I think he smiles; my eyes are in the darker night within the cup that touches my bitter lips. “I don’t think so.”
I scowl and shut the door, knowing he’ll be there when I come back. In another four long dregs I’ve drained the cup down to the grains at the bottom and leave it by the sink.
I change as the alarm starts its useless chime. Its mere existence in this house is a question for later. I leave it screaming once again.
Sure as the clockwork that keeps the world turning now, Mike is still at the door, facing away, his chin tipped up. He spins around and smiles that innocent other-age smile I used to sport. He’s wearing his uniform: bright orange overalls which wash out in the silver streetlights.
“You have to admit,” he says, “they’re getting better. This is only the second time this month.” I grunt in vague agreement and grab my keys, then skid past him and into my car. I take a moment alone, shaking off residual sleep and dreams. When the engine reluctantly whirrs to life too, Mike pulls open the passenger door. As usual he leans back and deposits his toolbox somewhere in the mess behind us. “Now I think about it,” he continues, “I shouldn’t be too happy about that.”
The engine settles into a steady rumble, like digestion, and I glance at the display that flickers into 7:01. Too early. My palm slams on the steering wheel one last time, calling whoever hasn’t gotten out of bed to attention.
Against my instructions, Mike keeps talking while I drive.
“If they promote me, I’d be fine with it, you know. I don’t think they’re gonna find somewhere to put the rest of us, though. There’s ten just in this city and the next one over now.” He re-adjusts the pin on his lapel — a smiling sun wearing sunglasses. It used to be funny, once, I think. “I’d have to turn them down if they gave me an office. Fat lot of good I’ll be in one of those.” He wrinkles his nose and counts the trees as they pass us by. “I’d make more money, but I’d see less of the sun. Pity.” It’s my turn to hide disdain. “See less of you, too.”
“Finally,” I contribute, “peace and quiet.”
“Hey, I know you wanna get back to sleep, but you wouldn’t mind — ”
“Yeah, fine. Do what you need to do.”
It’s been a year since I saw lightning.
The road is long and straight ahead, the edges blurred with the unmoving boughs of metallic trees, gone static when the power died. Through the plastic leaves the heads of the streetlights rise and loom over the street. My brow furrows when a dark void ahead approaches at double speed. By instinct, I slam my foot on the brakes and brace myself.
Once we’ve ground to a halt, I see that I was right. In twos, the heads of the streetlights flicker off overhead. I turn off the engine, regretting now the wake-up call. There will be others here, taking what is mine.
Stars.
Mike lets me have my minute. He’ll get his later. I use it to mourn the ones we’ve lost. Like he said, they’re getting better at keeping this new sun turned on, this imposter. A substitute for them all. In my fancies I think they must have been proud of the old one, their brother.
“Still on a timer… Hmm.” Mike breaks the silence when we start driving again. More people join us on the street, delirious but unsurprised. None of them paused like we did; everyone wants to be on time, still.
“We’re getting the new system next year,” I reply. “Uptown got it last month, but we’re still on the waiting list.”
A rare moment shows me Mike’s unsmiling side. He’s memorised the distance between the lights and knows where to direct his disappointment. Mine is pointed elsewhere, our destination. “We shouldn’t have stopped. Let’s just go get — ” He cuts himself off, and the turn of his head almost slows down time, too. “How do you know those plans? Those documents are classified. You’re not meant to know anything about them.”
“Oh — I’m sure you mentioned something about them last time.”
“No. That meeting was a few days ago. How do you know about uptown? Did you — did actually go there?”
Disguising my guilt, I brush some stray hairs from my face. “I talk to people. I have friends.”
“We’re friends, too, Alice. We’re better than that, we’re neighbours. What more could you need?”
“We only talk when you need a lift to work. I wouldn’t even call us colleagues.”
We’re close to something, I can feel it. Someone to blame. I wish I could save him, too. But he’s way too deep in this. Too compliant.
“Maybe once I get this fixed, we can fix that, too,” he offers.
“I think we’re very different people, Mike.”
I park in the empty car park out front, and wait for him to get out after fetching his toolbox, but it just sits on his lap, red and recalling a time it could have spent on a farm. Outside, a high billboard advertises ‘grow in the dark’ vegetable seeds. On the other side is the same grinning sun that he wears on his lapel. In bright, sky-blue letters, it declares that he’s been ‘Keeping The Lights On Since 2003!’
“I’m trying to protect you,” Mike whispers through his teeth. “Something’s happening and I don’t want to get stuck in it when it does. Or you.”
We were right, then.
“We’re heading for some dark days, kid.” Mike exhales the last dregs of hope as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “The only thing to do is keep up hope. And keep calm. Nothing ever came out of panic.”
I consciously switch off the engine. The lit billboard outside hums its draining light as the car park fills up. We are all using so much stardust, all the time. Once, we were foolish enough to believe it infinite and therefore could return. But then we believed everything. I wait, shivering, convincing myself it’s only the cold that makes me shake. But I don’t even believe myself anymore.
Inside the factory, Mike is probably fiddling with the generator. It’s almost embarrassing how complicit he is. No, proud. I see it in his eyes when he glances out the window, searching not for the old sun but the spectre suspended over the street. I hear it, too, in the drone that fills his space after the light flickers back on, casting the sky in the electric blue I remember better than the real thing. His absence is loud, proud, and condemning. When he leaves the building with a bright, sunny grin on his face, I shrink further away.
I clutch the cross necklace under my jacket, poking my chest with the point as if feeling for something not synthetic, but really alive. He notices, and points it out with a laugh. “Let there be light,” he declares to the sky.
“What?” I ask, dropping the necklace and turning the key. The engine comes alive, rumbling the tremors out of me.
“Ah, nothing,” he brushes me off. “Some old saying. Let’s get back and sleep. You look tired.” I am, but I don’t want to say anything to him anymore.
Dark days, indeed.
This story came about from a prompt my sister was following for an art competition, “Under Strange Suns” which I interpreted my own way. I also took inspiration from a short story I remember from primary school, Shaun Tan’s ‘Tales from outer suburbia’ particularly the short story ‘alert but not alarmed,’ which is a great story with amazing illustrations and I recommend the collection.
This story was originally a script for a class, which I rewrote in prose for myself. I like the dynamic of the characters, because they remind me of two other main characters I wrote in my first novel, The Fall of Mars, (which is available to buy on amazon or lulu.)
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