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Morning Star

A post-apocalyptic tale

By Jasper A. FlintsmithPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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photo by Jasper A. Flintsmith

Earth has rotated eleven times around the sun since the last time a grumble of an engine or a perfectly timed chime from a sky-scraping cathedral greeted an ear. Long gone are the days when colossal metallic wings glided above the horizon, but the swallows still fly north when the sun warms the earth. A decade has passed since aromas from a café made their way to the street with a clink and clatter of knives and platters; but the welcoming, earthy scent of a low burning, homespun fire does at times still dance along the breeze. Days of old hold memories of blue-lighted screens, but communication persists through words spilling from lips. The crunch of a footstep, the swish of a tail, the simple indications of lives being lived continue to illuminate the Earth, which now basks in proper darkness since the collapse of manmade lights.

Through the arid, golden valley two figures strolled unceremoniously. Cicadas played along with the occasional weak summer wind, drowning out their footsteps with a vibrating insect roar. Tall wheat brushed their thighs as they did their best to remain steady on the crumbling terrain, full of soft holes and cracked, upturned, blistering fragments of old asphalt. Their steps were silently crafted and calculated under the sting of the high noon sun.

“Look at you, sweaty and flushed.” Lucifer turned, starting to walk backwards so they could face their companion behind them. They swept a strand of soaked blond hair behind the woman’s ear, letting their fingers affectionately trail down her bare neck past the heart-shaped locket pasted to her sweat-damp chest. There it sat, unassumingly, nestled in the V-neck curve of her turquoise tank top.

“You didn’t need to harvest,” Lucifer added, teasing. “t wasn’t your shift this morning.” They turned back around, floating a hand to the side, and grazing the tops of wheat as they forged a path through the field, sun searing on their bare back. “Finding somewhere to relax, laying by the creek, and making you forget the heat is a much-improved use of the day,” Lucifer added with a wink, and pulled up a stalk of wheat to place in their mouth, like a stereotypical farmer.

“You’re right, but harvesting was worth it. Our afternoon will be better with freshly picked cherries,” the woman said sweetly, swinging the wicker picnic basket at her side.

“And this,” Lucifer said, reaching around the woman to withdraw a bottle of homemade mead from the basket. Years ago, on a day like this, the bottle would have been sweating profusely having been refrigerated, but today it was hot to the touch.

“When did you sneak that in?” the woman sighed, snatching the green bottle from Lucifer as they both slowed to a halt. She placed it back into the basket, then looked into Lucifer’s grey eyes. “Does Ernst know you’ve taken a bottle?” Before Lucifer could retort, she continued, “What am I saying, of course he doesn’t. You really need to stop. The Council is thinking of ousting you as it is.”

Lucifer turned away from her and took a step forward, but the woman grabbed their upper arm. She looked Lucifer sternly but warmly in the eyes, making sure she had her wily companion’s full attention.

“Seriously, Luce, please mind the rules and stay. I don’t want to lose you. You’re the only friend I have.”

“I’ll try. I’ll be the perfect member of our burgeoning society,” Lucifer promised with a dramatic flourish of their hands. “These people are wonderful entertainment… And for you, of course. I have no desire to end our relationship. It’s the best thing I’ve come across in years,” they added, grabbing the woman’s hand, and bringing it up to their lips for a lingering kiss. The two continued on their way across the field, as the woman contemplated her current situation and Lucifer chewed on the stalk of wheat, hand in hand.

The edge of the field met trees and a steep, shaded slope down to the creek. Holding onto branches they descended to the water’s edge. The woman plopped onto the pebbled ground next to Lucifer who continued to stand, looking both directions along the visible extent of the creek before it was swallowed by trees. No sign of movement.

The woman removed her beat-up, greying sneakers and stretched her legs over the shade-dappled water. Her bare toes met the water; a sigh of refreshment came through her lips. She looked up at Lucifer, who met her gaze and joined her with a graceful bend of the knees, removing worn leather boots. With a splash, their feet were equally reprieved from the afternoon heat. Only the slightest rare breeze blew through the trees, but the shade was respite enough from the harsh sun, something they were quite used to in this post-world atmosphere. Near perfect silence encircled them; the trickling creek and humming cicadas were all that could be heard. Safety, for the moment.

The woman gazed down at her toes bobbing in and out of the water. A gloom washed over her, and Lucifer took notice. Seconds away from uncorking the mead, they stopped themselves to ask, “What is tangling your thoughts in that lovely mind?”

“No one in the Fort likes me. I can tell, they look at me like I’m an outsider even though I’ve been here six years.” She leaned over and rested her head Lucifer’s shoulder. “Everyone wishes I wasn’t around.” She straightened back up to reach for the basket and pulled out the fresh-picked cherries.

“Does it matter?” Lucifer asked. Shoulder feeling light with absence, they reached into the water and grabbed a smooth stone, playing with it in their fingers before skipping it downstream six times to re-join its kin under the water’s surface.

The woman ate cherries one by one, slowly, spitting the pits into the creek, lost in contemplation. After several moments she responded, “I think so.”

“Hm?” Lucifer raised their eyebrows. “Yes, well. You feel cold eyes on your back because you refuse to let anyone close to your heart,” they said knowingly, throwing her off guard.

“I,” the woman stammered, “no… I…” A quick exhale of frustration and defeat, then she conceded with a faint bow of her head. “I suppose that’s true. Maybe no one likes me because I keep to myself.” The sadness in her eyes almost made Lucifer reach out for a touch; instead, they picked up another skipping stone as the woman selected another cherry from the basket. She continued, “I tried. Henrietta and I got on for a bit. And Sage and McAllister. They still talk to me in passing.” Pausing again, she reflected on the last eleven years since civilization as they knew it had crashed to pieces. “Maybe you’re right. I’m the unfriendly one.”

“Sometimes you are,” Lucifer said with a nod, then quickly snagged the mead out of the basket. “But I’m here. Which brings me to my original point: it doesn’t matter.” Lucifer pulled the loosely wedged cork out of the bottle with their teeth. Not bothering with glasses, for there were none, they took a long swig straight from the bottle. Hot on the tongue, but satisfying, nonetheless.

“You really like me? You’re not just killing time?” the woman asked, her green eyes glassy and near tears after recalling old scars and missed opportunities. Red face beaded in sweat, she turned to look upon Lucifer’s countenance for answers.

“Never. I have all the time in the universe. I stopped attempting to ‘kill’ it millennia ago.”

They took another drink and offered the bottle to the woman. She grasped the warm glass weakly and took a gulp, spilling mead down her chin. Lucifer wiped it off for her with their hand.

“Each moment is timeless. Every lover is timeless. Each connection is timeless,” Lucifer explained. Taking in the beauty of their current company and surroundings, they added, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than exploring the present with you now.”

“Oh, and how many lovers have there been?” the woman asked, passing the bottle back and a little further from tears than seconds earlier. Her top was spotted with moisture, but she hadn’t cried. It was only sweat.

“Too many to recount…” Lucifer said, drifting off into a mind’s eye reel of trysts. “But true connections with specific souls? Nine. Some repeated.”

In the distance a rustle came from the woodland beyond the creek. They both perked up, looking in that direction to see if anything would appear. Even after The Collapse and dwindling human populations, animals were keen on keeping out of eyeshot of their two-legged foes, but that wasn’t the worry. Rogue groups still wandered these areas, and Lucifer preferred not to spoil the afternoon with a confrontation.

“How does that work?” the woman asked, drawing them back to the conversation. She took the bottle once more and drank. She wiped her mouth, partly for the mead, and partly for the beads of sweat above her lip.

“Reincarnation, as you call it. Souls come around and around. Mortals don’t realize it, but I do.” The bottle of mead was nearly half empty by now, so Lucifer took one last mouthful and nestled it the river to cool down. Switching to another vice, they took a white roll-up from their torn jeans pocket and struck a match on a nearby rock. Homegrown, as was everything, by the people of the Fort.

After a drag they offered it to the woman, who asked, “Do you know just by looking at a person if they’ve, uh, lived before?” She took the joint precisely and brought it to her lips.

“Yes, but not by physical appearance. I see the core, the soul, the essence of life… whatever you’d like to name it,” Lucifer said, trying to make it understandable for the mortal; a task often complicated by humans’ tendency to need to see to believe. The woman handed the joint back as Lucifer said, “That is my biography to read, instantly and endlessly.” They exhaled another puff. It drifted slowly across the water in the nearly stagnant air.

The woman didn’t respond, only gazed upon Lucifer’s face, while she reached with her free hand to fondle the locket around her neck absentmindedly.

Lucifer’s eyes shifted toward the locket, but they went on, “I can’t turn it off. I can at most make it background noise. Like a distant tune floating in through an open window.” They waved a hand through the layers of smoke hanging in front of them, causing them to disperse.

“You have to focus on a person to hear it?” the woman asked, furrowing her brow.

“Focus to keep it all quiet. Without concerted effort it would be the only thing I hear, the noise of everyone–the truth of all existence.” Lucifer passed the joint back, and clarified, “So the opposite. It’s no different than what humans do.”

This time the smoke caught in the woman’s throat, and she let out a bout of coughs. “How do you mean?” she asked between coughs, leaning forward on her knees trying to catch her breath. “I can’t hear anyone’s thoughts. How is it no different?”

Lucifer plucked the joint from the woman’s fingers and leaned back on a large rock. They exhaled straight up into the trees before flicking the paper remnant into the creek. “The focus. It comes with great difficultly to stay in one’s exact moment in time, rather than amidst memories or speculation of the future. To be present. My framework is simply much larger.”

The silver heart locket inlaid with emerald sparkled on the woman’s neck, catching the corner of Lucifer’s eye. They knew it was a real emerald and wanted to say, but it wasn’t time. It wasn’t time for the woman to tell them what was hidden inside, nor how she came to possess that exact necklace either.

It wasn’t time, yet. But Lucifer was patient.

© Jasper A. Flintsmith 2021

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Jasper A. Flintsmith

Queer writer sharing my point of view one story at a time.

Thank you for reading my work.

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