Jupiter Jones

Following the global conflict of the dirty thirties, daylight becomes a scarce commodity. Particles of something (apparently natural) in the atmosphere twilights the whole of the northern hemisphere. In our Gothic Revival suburban semi, Alice and I read large-print smut to one another over breakfast. After that, as the light dims, it’s cocktail hour. 

In the short forties, artificial light is increasingly discouraged because (official explanation) it’s shown to cause incurable malignancies. By then, we two old birds are in our early hundreds, slightly pickled, but not in the last bit malignant. 

Introduction of the Light Tax triggers protests. Dark protests escalate into dark riots. Light is divisive. People say we live in an unequal society; some are born well-lit, others are living like moles. Officials from Central Administration come with the reallocation warrant (confiscation order). We hide light bulbs under my spare prosthetic leg and distract the troopers with whiskey sours.  

When the Light Curfew is introduced, we draw the curtains and drink Negronis. Fuck ‘em, says Alice. We still have the blackout curtains from the blitz of ‘31. Never got round to taking them down. Neighbours inform on neighbours over candles and torches. You’ll get a ticket just for tea lights. We never liked our neighbours. In our own way, we are the resistance.

An official hologram, delivered by postal drone, informs us that Greenwich Meantime has been abolished due to its shameful colonial associations. The clocks are to permanently go forward by three hours. This will (apparently) counteract the persistent low light levels caused by (official explanation) dust in the atmosphere.

We laugh like drains at how the propaganda (official explanation) calls the new time zone ‘Daylight Saving’. I mix Dirty Martinis and grumble about Central Administration’s use of a comic sans font.

Hold on a drop, Alice shrieks, they’ve got a point. She straps on her headtorch, goes down to the basement and comes back with armfuls of jam jars. I laugh so hard I’m glad to be wearing incontinence pants. But we do still have the blackout curtains. 

We start saving light, we push it into jam jars, mason jars, demi johns, and kilner jars. We hoard all the light we can get our hands on. I rack out the spare rooms with industrial shelving and we fill the rooms with light, We have moonlight, firelight, starlight, phosphorescence, first light, lamp light, ultra violet, low light, task lighting, neon and light fantastic. Some of it is feeble, some brief, little more than a spark. Some so bright it makes us giddy. All of it is glorious. We’re surprised to find it improves with keeping. 

Behind those curtains, we put on low-cut dresses and dance together in light that trickles over our wrinkled skin like warm gin fizz.

Jupiter’s prompts were: In the Future, a Hoarder, Tickets

Jupiter Jones lives in Wales and writes short fictions. She is the author of three novellas-in-flash, including Gull Shit Alley and Other Roads to Hell published by Ad Hoc Fiction. She is currently working on a PhD but has spent most of the summer in the garden watching wasps eat all the pears.

Read more from Jupiter

Here on Trash Cat Lit – ‘Kodak Moment‘, ‘Borne‘ and ‘Mac and Marky‘