Life Choices

By Emily Gellhaus

Must. Have. Coffee.

I slog to the counter of Out of This World Café, a hundred pounds of textbooks working to dislocate my shoulders. A briefcase-wielding businessman carries his travel mug to a table near a green-skinned group of tourists from planet Gleesa.

“Bring me all the caffeine, Liz.” I give the gorgeous barista the college nod of exhaustion and despair.

“Finals?” She pumps caramel into a cup, her golden ponytail sweeping slender shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have minored in Grsillian.” I sink onto a stool to rethink my poor life choices. “Who needs twenty-two verb tenses?”

As portal travel cheapened, the demand for translators skyrocketed. I thought it’d be a sweet gig. Sure, I’d have to talk to people­—and aliens, and the occasional sentient plant—but, for once, I’d know exactly what to say. I drop my head on the counter and moan.

Liz sets down my cup. Rolling my forehead, I spot a black Sharpie heart encasing my name, Mark, written in perfect cursive.

“Coffee soothes the savage beast.” The twinkle in her aquamarine eyes set my heart on fire. “Or the savage test. Seriously, quit stressing. What’s the worst that could happen?”

A gleeful laugh erupts behind me. “He fails, drops out of school, and becomes the fifty-year-old minimum wage bachelor mothers use as a cautionary tale.”

“Hello, Cameron,” I mutter. Cameron is one of those annoyingly handsome, effortlessly cool guys you either want to befriend or punch in the face. “Don’t you have baby seals to skin?”

“Liz.” He oozes to the counter and bows over her hand like he’s fresh out of a portal from Chivarus. “Beautiful as ever.”

She actually blushes.

No. I’m supposed to be her knight in shining armor, not this freak of perfection. I rip a Grsillian dictionary from my bag and slam it on the counter.

She jumps, ducks her head, and grabs a rag.

I hide a satisfied smirk, but she’s not looking at me anyway. Why should she? I resist the urge to hammer the dictionary over my skull. There’s cruel irony in a communications major who can’t tell a girl how he feels.

“Ee ish munto sama,” Cameron says tightly.

“What?”

“It’s Grsillian for ‘Jealousy is an ugly accessory.’” He looks down a crooked nose that somehow adds rugged charm. “You’d know that if you had a hope of passing.”

I did know, but my mind has this horrible habit of blanking at extremely inconvenient moments. Maybe I’ll skip the witty comeback and finally punch him in the—

The wall behind us explodes, its concussive force stealing my breath and my barstool.

Shrieks and debris litter the air. A bright blue ring replaces a massive section of brick. Unauthorized portal travel? I didn’t think that was possible anymore.

Something lumbers through. Boulder-like body, stony skin, four arms. Its reputation chases me as I scramble over the counter—a Screeb from Ulbo. Loners. Wild. Little else known.

“Grr esh malo cufa.” Its voice grates like glass on concrete.

Grsillian. Hang on. Grr esh malo. I must consume. Beside me, Liz peers wide-eyed over the counter, clutching a coffee pot like a weapon.

“It’ll be okay.” I immediately regret saying the stupidest thing possible, uselessly pat her shoulder, and strain for answers. I must consume… what?

“Flesh.” Cameron sets his mouth in a grim line. “He’s after flesh.”

It doesn’t sound right, but the creature waves four club-like arms in our direction, and I don’t care if he wants flesh or thumbtacks, as long as it doesn’t come from me. “Come on.” I grab Liz’s hand.

I have a vision of pulling her to her feet and nobly escaping out the back door when Cameron stands.

“Don’t worry.” He wastes time on a wink. “I’ve got this.” Grabbing a red plastic broom, he charges.

I use the distraction to haul Liz to the back. Before we reach it, Cameron flies through the front window, and a heavy table smashes into the doors, blocking our exit.

“Grr esh malo cufa.” The Screeb spills farther into the café.

I spare a millisecond to see if Cameron’s moving—he is­—and delete him from my brain.

“Get down.” Fingernails digging into my arm, Liz jerks me behind the counter.

“Cufa!” the Screeb thunders. More crashes. Roaring. Screams. Another brave moron flies into the bakery display, raining glass and pastries on our heads.

“Cufa.” I snatch my Grsillian dictionary from the counter. “I know I’ve learned that word.”

There. Flesh is cofa. I knew it. So, what’s cufa? Flip. Flip. Flip. I freeze with my finger on the word. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.

Slowly, I stand. Having run out of heroes to fling, the Screeb huffs in place. By some miracle, my coffee sits on the counter, unscathed.

“Wait. Er—pringa.” I raise my hands in surrender, then shakily pick up the cup. Hold it out like an offering.

The Screeb’s rocky brow knits. One arm creaks toward me. I flinch but manage not to run like a terrified toddler. Fingers thick as my wrist encircle the drink. Then he tosses it, cup and all, down his throat and sighs.

“Thank you,” he says in Grsillian, “for consumed coffee.” He looks around, reaches behind him, and drops a clinking pouch in my hand. “Sorry about mess.”

“N-No problem.” I wait until he and the portal disappear, then collapse against the unsteady counter.

Liz helps the dazed man out of the shattered display. “That was… insane.”

“Coffee soothes the savage beast.” My adrenaline is surging, and I take a chance. “Liz, want to see a movie with me?”

“Of course.”

The explosion must have damaged my hearing. “Really?”

“Why do you think I draw hearts on your cups?” She punches my shoulder. “But no monsters, okay?”

I grin. “Deal.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Gellhaus is an adventurer in a homeschooling mom’s body. A former elementary teacher who’s lived in a dozen states, she currently resides in New England with her husband and two children. She enjoys good coffee, good chocolate, and good books. Her future plans include traveling the world and trying all the new things (except bungee jumping, which freaks her out).

---

More Stories | Author Website | Instagram