Essential Eyes: And Other Stories for Surreal Times

By A. H. De Carrasco

Essential Eyes: And Other Stories for Surreal Times

Created at the desk of A. H. De Carrasco, Essential Eyes: And Other Stories for Surreal Times is a collection of old website favorites and never-before-seen stories by the author. One part speculative dark humor and another part serious quest, Essential Eyes lets readers explore what it means to be valuable in times of isolation and social censure, on Earth or someplace new.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. H. De Carrasco
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781939498090

Book preview

ESSENTIAL EYES:

And Other Stories

for Surreal Times

––––––––

A. H. De Carrasco

Essential Eyes: And Other Stories for Surreal Times

©2020 Ann Hasseler De Carrasco

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. Copies of this e-book edition obtained outside of authorized commercial vendors may have been distributed or sold illegally with neither the author nor the publisher being notified or paid. Buy this series from authorized booksellers only.

Cover art and design by A. H. De Carrasco

Stock images courtesy of depositphotos

Final edit, final proofs, and formatting by Gonilu Press, LLC

Published in the United States by Gonilu Press, LLC

ahdecarrasco.com

Essential Eyes: And Other Stories for Surreal Times is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-939498-09-0 (e-book)

Additional copyright information of individual stories is available in the Publication and Acknowledgment section of this book.

Other Books by

A. H. De Carrasco

––––––––

TELLER OF DESTINY®

From Continue

Princes and Fools

Peasant Princess

A Teller of Destiny® Tale

Otti’s Precious Burden

Stories Included in This Collection

Essential Eyes: All That I Am – With humanity’s prospects forever changed, Margo finds her worth is defined by the essential nature of the mundane.

Planned Long Ago – Certainly, the Faultless have an explanation for their imperfect world, because God knows somebody’s got to take the blame.

Eyes – A woman at her window. A year at its end.

When You Were the Tree – A story for mothers and their daughters.

The Flowers of Onka Mansion – Are you human, or are you exotic foliage? When it depends on one man's prerogative, the answer may surprise you.

The Things I Could Have Told You – I watch you by the river. I know what you have done.

Be Then What You Be – Scamper's new mother accuses her of witchcraft (changing Beth into a tiny dog) and Scamper's father believes her.

Barren Magic – Magical measures, a dance of treasures, and pleasures fleeting plant a seed of deceit watered by disappointment that transforms a dancer into a disillusioned sorceress.

God of My Skin – A week ago, little people appeared on my skin.

Wintertide Surprise – Sometimes the biggest of holiday surprises does not come in a box. A modern folktale.

These Things I Do – A peek at living one’s best life.

Who Knew Amy – There’s a woman few know exists, but now you know about her too.

Essential Eyes: Liaison – Margo finds purpose on a new world, but the planet Ekid holds old secrets, and those secrets have a familiar ring to them.

Upon Two Hundred Thousand – A story for 2020.

Snowdrift – Have a look in the mirror, Veraluna. Behold ruthless youth defiantly primping as winter arrives.

Golf Balls – Tisander is gone. An island paradise becomes a shrine of grief for Nessa. As others conspire against her during her weakest moment, she must find strength without him. A story about loss, legacy, and a little magic.

This for Certain – At our parting, I leave a poem.

Table of Contents

Stories Included in This Collection

Essential Eyes: All That I Am

Planned Long Ago

Eyes

When You Were the Tree

The Flowers of Onka Mansion

The Things I Could Have Told You

Be Then What You Be

Barren Magic

God of My Skin

Wintertide Surprise

These Things I Do

Who Knew Amy

Essential Eyes: Liaison

Upon Two Hundred Thousand

Snowdrift

Golf Balls

This for Certain

Publication Notes and Acknowledgments

About the Author

A Note to Our Readers

Thank you for purchasing this collection of short stories.

Sign up for A. H. De Carrasco’s newsletter via her website

and find more short stories and things at

https://ahdecarrasco.com

For Gene Hasseler

and For Gen X, my generation, because you get me.

Essential Eyes: All That I Am

––––––––

I’m essential. This is what my husband says I am, at breakfast time before I lift my forehead off the kitchen island and tilt my head, waiting for his lips to brush my cheek—a quick peck of a kiss. My eyes follow his shadow as it saunters across the simulated morning pastels that light the kitchen. A minute later, I hear the lock to his office click. His day begins.

I clean the dishes before I pop them into the dishwasher, a ritual I do, even in space, as we glide along the thermosphere. We are lucky to be up here.

Below is not good. Below is plague and arctic winter.

Above the world, we dance along in our pods, although everyone is uniquely infected with something. Social Meetings, assigned by Central Station, are an exercise in caution, control, and focused breathing. To dine with a couple or a family on exchange weekends is more than a touch scary. You just never know if you will survive. Sometimes, the sickness manifests as a nasty rash. Other times, it’s more severe, like a blood infection. And still other times, it’s nothing at all, and at those times you jump for joy and reach out to connect again. We tested negative. How about you? Super! Let’s plan for next month. Your pod or ours? Soon, real soon.

So often couples don’t respond well to a visit. They don’t like a joke, a topic, or they actually get sick—which is much worse than not getting along. There’s an element of guilt with the sickness. There are so many unique mutations. It must be hard to internalize—knowing you’ve infected someone else, especially if they end up on a medical vessel. I have this deep fear that something inside me could spread through an entire medical facility and everyone else would die. I have nightmares about this.

I haven’t maintained any friendships, really. The friendships we’ve formed are with people who speak my husband’s original language, so keeping a conversation, or listening with understanding and affection, is difficult for me. It’s easier to let things be. I listen to my music as I sweep the floors of our pod. I bake bread. I mist the plants. I make the bed. I check the outer seams of the pod with our drone, decontaminate our packages, and spray for gnats and spiders. (Yes, they survived the journey and have flourished in the thermosphere, the little jerks.)

Outside this pod is space. Inside me are a million thoughts swirling with possibilities of things to do someday (when the world gets right) or just memories of things already done. Some of those memories I created with my husband, but most I experienced without him. We lived separate lives, but we were happy, I think. A wing, a prayer, and fresh air, my castmates used to sing at the end of rehearsals as we burst open the front doors and raced down the steep steps and headed for the bar, like school children running to the playground. Oh God, how amazing those memories are.

I don’t sing like I used to. My husband is on the vid for hours, and despite technology, the walls are thin. I think about making a Christmas album to share with anyone who might listen, but there’s no appropriate time, or in other words, when there is time, he needs rest. Once, I started collecting egg cartons to place against the walls of my study, but then we had a shortage of eggs in the agricultural loops, and with a sudden shortage of many things, my study became a storage room where, presently, we stock up on dried foods and cans, just in case. Lots of cans. I’ve thought about situating the supplies as a soundproof barrier, but then I just become tired at the mere thought of all that. I tidy up the pod. We have eight rooms. It takes a lot of time to suction every filter and dust every corner. I really am lucky. I know my support is essential, in its own way.

Sometimes, my husband makes a genuine effort to cheer me up and encourage me, and I can ignore the little cues that unmask the silliness of it—but I realize it’s a weird ritual for him, this rah, rah with a dash of condescension. He does it because he needs me. But he can’t help how he feels about my small desires compared to his big responsibilities. He has so little time. Any moment spent lending an ear is precious. I get that. Minute by minute, he is negotiating vital trade throughout the thermosphere.

I just wish I could do something besides wash dishes—something to be remembered by, nothing fancy like the deeds of Plato or Aristotle or bold like those of Lady Bird or Lady Godiva. I did have goals when we first arrived, but my husband’s impatience has always had a weird way of making me anxious. I get tired of his disapproving looks for my efforts when my frivolous pursuits collide with those that make me essential.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, first! and Where’s my coffee?

I’ve considered needlepoint. I could stitch those phrases on pillows.

Up here, patience is reserved for the makers and shakers. For essentials like me, everything is due yesterday—that ironed shirt, those screen wipes, that neck massage. At least in our pod, the daily cleaning ritual is mine and free from other critique (besides punctuality). Believe me, it’s the same in space. Anything beyond the pod? Patience and work equality haven’t survived the vacuum, I can tell you that much. There is unrest, but how can one march in protest in space?

I snicker at that thought. Suddenly I just want a glass of wine. I grab a bottle, uncork it, and fill a glass all the way to the top. Overindulgent of me, sure. I lean against the chair and sip the Chardonnay. I thank God for some small pleasures. It could be so much worse. I could be down on the surface dying of plague or frost. Lucky for me, I am up here. I should be grateful, so very grateful. I could be sick. Instead I am cooking, cleaning, maintaining sanitation, watching old TV shows, and just waiting for my brain to turn to jelly.

With a sigh, I throw back the rest of my wine and place the glass in the dishwasher. Naughty of me.

I walk past the bedroom—another place I am essential. I walk toward the dock. It’s a tiny opening that connects with other pods when we have exchange weekends. I rarely go here. There’s no need usually. We don’t have proper suits. Central Station collected those for inspection after we reached orbit. All exterior repairs are performed by outside essentials.

I hear my husband, his voice lifting in laughter. I pause to listen for a bit. He is always saying something witty. Always filled with life and purpose. I used to have purpose too. I mean, I still have purpose. It’s just different. I am essential now.

I always wanted to be essential, but in a different way.

I open the door to the dock. The air is chilly here. Feels kind of nice. Wakes me up a little. I think maybe that’s enough. I merely need a little cold air to wake up my mind and my body. But I look back at the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, my study that’s now the storage room, and the living rooms, the kitchen, and his office ...

I close the door that leads to my home. The wintry cold bites. I turn around and stare at the last portal that leads to space. Truly, you don’t need to take that big step to make an exit. This place can chill you like a deep freezer. I sit on the floor and lean against the door and wish I had a cigarette as my lips numb and my teeth chatter. I might get up, but then I think, why?

I close my eyes and wonder how long it’ll take him to realize that I’ve left him.

***

I nod off. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m abruptly awoken by my husband yanking the door open, leaving me without back support. I feel almost weightless—have we lost gravity?—until I fall through the threshold and hit my head on the floor.

What the hell are you doing? he demands.

I rub the back of my head, trying to get a grip on the moment.

You know it chimes when the portal is accessed, right? He grabs me under my armpits and pulls me into the room. He kneels beside me. Why would you go out there? What were you thinking?

I can’t answer. I search his eyes, trying to find something there. I see it. Beyond his anger. Beyond his impatience. Worry, at least.

Christ, Margo. Don’t do that ever again. You know I need you. I can’t do this without you.

He gives me a last look before standing up. I gotta get back, he says over his shoulder. Take a warm shower.

I watch him return to his world.

Is it enough?

No.

But it must be.

*****

Planned Long Ago

––––––––

It starts with what I call fuzzy tongue. Doc Jeremy holds the penlight pretty steady in his wrinkled hand, his fingers like crunched paper beyond the light’s bloom. And that, my poor friend, is what you have.

A soft snap reaches my ears, and then blackness assails my eyes. Not a spacious void but a confining space that smells of failure. I panic, the paranoia setting in, and my muscles stiffen as I blink rapidly until my eyes adjust. It takes a while for my heart to adapt. I’m in Jeremy’s place, I tell myself.

His home is cardboard and misplaced metal. His floor is dirt, oil, old chianti, and, probably, piss.

I didn’t think they’d come for me. I handed him what I could—a half pound of turkey jerky wrapped in a purple kerchief. He accepts the jerky and hands me back the kerchief with a smile. Millie’s?

Only the best, I tell him.

He lets out a hoot. Feast tonight.

Don’t share. Contraband can get you kicked off Highway One.

Jeremy crosses his heart.

I straightened up from my squat. My legs are so mad at me, breathing fire over me—like dragons rebelling—from my ankles into my hips and then my chest. I gasp, and Jeremy grabs my elbow. It’s meant in comfort, I’m sure, but it just adds another ache to my muscles and skin.

If it helps, don’t take it personally, Peg, he says, rubbing my arm as an afterthought. He is always kind, which is something of note for anyone in this self-righteous world. When life’s hard, it is even harder for me not to take things personally, or at least just as hard as it is easy for the Faultless to judge the world—especially for the teenage warriors.

I spit on the ground. My mouth is cotton before the gin. Judgy judges everywhere—too young and fresh to have sinned. But just wait—

But they are sinning, Peg.

I sit back down, shocked to remember that he’s right. It is a sin to murder. "So many years, so many lies. I never missed an ER shift. Did my best for humanity. I even chose not to have kids, dammit. I never threw out a disposable diaper