Based on an old poem on mine, which I have woven throughout, this is a cautionary short story. For once this is not based around a hymn.
Darkness Rising — A Tale of the Near‑Future
Softly, my darling, hear the daylight falling
As our light flickers; now the engine stalling
Stops, and at once becomes most still
Until silence so sharp that it might kill;
Then howling frenzy starts its rage
At loss of air-conditioned cage
The blackout began quietly, almost politely, as though the city were clearing its throat before speaking its final words. At 19:42, the lights dimmed, screens blinked out, and the air‑conditioning sighed into silence. Mary felt the stillness settle over their apartment like a velvet shroud. She reached for Luke’s hand. The power had run out.
“Softly, my darling,” she murmured, recalling the old poem, “hear the daylight falling.”
Outside, the towers that once glowed like constellations now stood as black silhouettes against a bruised sky. The hum of drones ceased. The neon advertisements faded. Even the distant thrum of the city stuttered and died. A world built on circuitry had become, in an instant, a mausoleum.
The power of renewable energy had not been sufficient to replace the old fashioned gas, oil or nuclear power. The heat had caused a spike in demand, and as night fell, cloaked under a blanket of sweat and misery, the cool air pushed out through the air conditioning had been the final tipping point. All over the country, power failed, town by town, city by city. The machine had stopped.
Luke moved to the window. “It’s not just us,” he said. “The whole grid’s gone.”
The silence sharpened, becoming a blade. Mary felt it press against her ribs. In the hallway, someone screamed, raw, panicked, animal. Then came the rising chorus: doors slamming, feet pounding, voices cracking under the weight of sudden fear. The city had lost its air‑conditioned cage, and the frenzy began.
In the streets, people driven by panic would start looting. Shop windows would be broken. And the law, fighting within the darkness, would be powerless to stop a mob driven by fear and desperation. What was it C.P. Snow had said? Civilisation is only a coat of varnish upon the savage underneath.
“Now, my darling,” Luke whispered, “comes the darkness rising.”
It was true. The dusk outside thickened unnaturally, as though the sky itself were collapsing. Without the towers’ lights, the horizon was swallowed whole. Mary imagined idols of modernity crumbling, those sleek devices, those glowing screens, those whispered promises of convenience and control. All gone. All prised open like Pandora’s box.
Only hope remained. Small. Unseen.
Now, my darling, comes the darkness rising
As a dusk of idols crumbles in prising
Open Pandora's box; left alone unseen
Is hope. Alas That which might have been
Was not to be: the silken web falls lightly
But firm; no space here for the sprightly
They lit a candle. Its flame trembled, casting a fragile halo across the room. Mary watched it dance, thinking of the poem’s silken web, of how lightly it fell, how firmly it bound. The city was caught now, ensnared in its own illusions. No space left for the sprightly, the careless, the unprepared. The heat enfolded the population like a shroud before burial.
Luke rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old radio, analogue, battered, stubbornly obsolete. “Maybe,” he said, “we can find a signal.” But only static answered him. Endless, indifferent static. “Only pray, my darling,” Mary said softly, “for a wizard’s spell.” He smiled faintly. “A wizard, or an engineer.” But neither came.
Hours passed. The candle burned low. Outside, the frenzy ebbed into a strange, exhausted quiet. People huddled in stairwells. Cars sat abandoned in the streets. The city, once a titan of light, now lay prostrate beneath the rising dark. Great was the fall of the city, once so proud, brought down by that lifeblood of modern life, energy, draining away.
Luke tried the radio again. Nothing. He set it down gently, as though it were a wounded animal. “They said the grid was resilient,” he whispered. “Redundant. With spare capacity.” Mary rested her head on his shoulder. “They said a lot of things.”
The flame guttered. Shadows stretched across the room, swallowing the last traces of the light. Mary felt the weight of the poem’s final lines, tears of rage, dying light, darkness softly rising. She wanted to believe in fresh tomorrow, in hope waiting unseen at the bottom of Pandora’s box. But the silence outside was too deep, too absolute. Luke’s hand tightened around hers. “We’ll wait for morning.”
Mary nodded, though she knew the truth: morning would come, but the world that greeted it would not be the one they had known. The darkness had risen, and it was not finished. The candle died. The room fell into perfect black. Hope that once flickered in a candle flame was extinguished. And the darkness was rising once more.
Only pray, my darling, for a wizard's spell
To break the enchantment of our hell,
And call forth hope for fresh tomorrow,
That failing there should be no sorrow
But tears of rage against the dying
Of the light, the darkness softly rising.
Darkness Rising — A Tale of the Near‑Future
Softly, my darling, hear the daylight falling
As our light flickers; now the engine stalling
Stops, and at once becomes most still
Until silence so sharp that it might kill;
Then howling frenzy starts its rage
At loss of air-conditioned cage
The blackout began quietly, almost politely, as though the city were clearing its throat before speaking its final words. At 19:42, the lights dimmed, screens blinked out, and the air‑conditioning sighed into silence. Mary felt the stillness settle over their apartment like a velvet shroud. She reached for Luke’s hand. The power had run out.
“Softly, my darling,” she murmured, recalling the old poem, “hear the daylight falling.”
Outside, the towers that once glowed like constellations now stood as black silhouettes against a bruised sky. The hum of drones ceased. The neon advertisements faded. Even the distant thrum of the city stuttered and died. A world built on circuitry had become, in an instant, a mausoleum.
The power of renewable energy had not been sufficient to replace the old fashioned gas, oil or nuclear power. The heat had caused a spike in demand, and as night fell, cloaked under a blanket of sweat and misery, the cool air pushed out through the air conditioning had been the final tipping point. All over the country, power failed, town by town, city by city. The machine had stopped.
Luke moved to the window. “It’s not just us,” he said. “The whole grid’s gone.”
The silence sharpened, becoming a blade. Mary felt it press against her ribs. In the hallway, someone screamed, raw, panicked, animal. Then came the rising chorus: doors slamming, feet pounding, voices cracking under the weight of sudden fear. The city had lost its air‑conditioned cage, and the frenzy began.
In the streets, people driven by panic would start looting. Shop windows would be broken. And the law, fighting within the darkness, would be powerless to stop a mob driven by fear and desperation. What was it C.P. Snow had said? Civilisation is only a coat of varnish upon the savage underneath.
“Now, my darling,” Luke whispered, “comes the darkness rising.”
It was true. The dusk outside thickened unnaturally, as though the sky itself were collapsing. Without the towers’ lights, the horizon was swallowed whole. Mary imagined idols of modernity crumbling, those sleek devices, those glowing screens, those whispered promises of convenience and control. All gone. All prised open like Pandora’s box.
Only hope remained. Small. Unseen.
Now, my darling, comes the darkness rising
As a dusk of idols crumbles in prising
Open Pandora's box; left alone unseen
Is hope. Alas That which might have been
Was not to be: the silken web falls lightly
But firm; no space here for the sprightly
They lit a candle. Its flame trembled, casting a fragile halo across the room. Mary watched it dance, thinking of the poem’s silken web, of how lightly it fell, how firmly it bound. The city was caught now, ensnared in its own illusions. No space left for the sprightly, the careless, the unprepared. The heat enfolded the population like a shroud before burial.
Luke rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old radio, analogue, battered, stubbornly obsolete. “Maybe,” he said, “we can find a signal.” But only static answered him. Endless, indifferent static. “Only pray, my darling,” Mary said softly, “for a wizard’s spell.” He smiled faintly. “A wizard, or an engineer.” But neither came.
Hours passed. The candle burned low. Outside, the frenzy ebbed into a strange, exhausted quiet. People huddled in stairwells. Cars sat abandoned in the streets. The city, once a titan of light, now lay prostrate beneath the rising dark. Great was the fall of the city, once so proud, brought down by that lifeblood of modern life, energy, draining away.
Luke tried the radio again. Nothing. He set it down gently, as though it were a wounded animal. “They said the grid was resilient,” he whispered. “Redundant. With spare capacity.” Mary rested her head on his shoulder. “They said a lot of things.”
The flame guttered. Shadows stretched across the room, swallowing the last traces of the light. Mary felt the weight of the poem’s final lines, tears of rage, dying light, darkness softly rising. She wanted to believe in fresh tomorrow, in hope waiting unseen at the bottom of Pandora’s box. But the silence outside was too deep, too absolute. Luke’s hand tightened around hers. “We’ll wait for morning.”
Mary nodded, though she knew the truth: morning would come, but the world that greeted it would not be the one they had known. The darkness had risen, and it was not finished. The candle died. The room fell into perfect black. Hope that once flickered in a candle flame was extinguished. And the darkness was rising once more.
Only pray, my darling, for a wizard's spell
To break the enchantment of our hell,
And call forth hope for fresh tomorrow,
That failing there should be no sorrow
But tears of rage against the dying
Of the light, the darkness softly rising.
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