Alien Coffee by John H. Carroll

 
Alien Coffee
     
     
John H. Carroll
     
     
    Published by John H. Carroll at
Smashwords
     
    Copyright 2011 John H. Carroll
    Cover image Copyright 2011 John H.
Carroll
    Cover photography by Tracy Carroll
    Alien hand model: Jessica Jorgenson
     
     
    This story is dedicated to Kit, who
constantly tries to drink from an empty cup.
     
    All characters
appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real aliens, living or dead, is purely
coincidental . . . so far as you know.
     
    Names have been changed to protect the
aliens.
     
     
    Table of
Contents
    Beginning
    About the Author
     
     
    Jillian tried to
take a sip of her coffee only to look at the barren mug in disgust
before setting it back down with a sigh. It was already the third
time her cup had inexplicably become empty that morning. She should
probably trudge downstairs to make a fresh pot, but didn’t want to.
Knowing her, she’d probably load the dishwasher and clean cat puke
from the carpet again.
    The sound of birds singing came through the
open window to provide a stark contrast to the band “Letters From
The Fire” playing in the background. Jillian
paused the hard rock music with her remote and walked over
to look out the window at a beautiful spring morning. A light
breeze carried the scent of pine trees through the air and she
inhaled deeply, feeling tension in her shoulders release. She was
startled when a young bull moose called out in a baritone moan from
the thick trees below.
    The amount of wildlife outside her house
never ceased to amaze Jillian. Bears, raccoons, wolves, deer and
numerous smaller animals traveled through the secluded mountain
forests where she and her husband lived peacefully. They moved to
Priest Lake in Northern Idaho three years earlier after a
multi-week expedition spent looking for a place to relocate from
New York.
    Summertime would draw a lot of tourists
zipping around the lakes and camping along the shorelines, but
their house was far enough away not to be bothered. In the
distance, she could see a few boats floating casually on the
tranquil waters, high from spring runoff after a winter of heavy
snow. It was too far away to tell if the people were fishing or
just out for pleasure underneath the clear blue skies.
    She stretched muscles tight from hunching
over manuscripts. Later on, she would do her daily yoga, which
helped keep her mentally focused and physically healthy. Jillian
didn’t consider herself very pretty. She had short brown hair,
muddy green eyes her husband Raymond loved to stare into, and a
complexion pale from staying inside way too often. It was all
wrapped up in an adequately shaped five foot five package.
    Jillian looked sadly at the empty mug before
picking it up and heading downstairs. A half hour later, she came
back upstairs. The dishwasher was loaded and two spots where the
cats had thrown up were clean.
    The manuscript she was editing was yet
another paranormal romance. It consisted of a misunderstood
zombie-vampire who was in love with a weretroll. Luckily she only
had to copy edit instead of content editing or else she’d just burn
it, but there were so many mistakes it looked like her red pen was
bleeding all over it.
    She went to take a sip of her coffee only to
realize she hadn’t brought it with her. With a groan of
exasperation, Jillian stomped back downstairs to retrieve it. It
was sitting on the counter, half-empty. I must have been
drinking it while loading the dishwasher. She didn’t remember
drinking any, but staring at manuscripts all day made her
absent-minded.
    A few minutes later, she was sitting back at
her desk, deep into editing. Time passed as she crossed out extra
words, unnecessary sentences and fixed numerous punctuation errors.
The writer had decided that everything needed semicolons instead of
commas. Jillian sighed and attempted another drink of coffee.
    It was empty. Again! She could have
sworn she hadn’t drunk all of it, yet there wasn’t even a drop