The Twiller

by David Derrico

  “Well,” Ian said cheerfully, “good thing we made good time so far. Even at this pace we should still arrive in plenty of time.”

  The car crept forward for the next hour or so, making slow but steady progress through the island chain. Ian was amused by the names of the small islands, or “keys,” that he passed. He saw signs for Key Fargo, Honk Key, Mun Key, Marky Mark Key, and Mil Key Way (which sounded oddly familiar). He noticed a string of bars and a festive atmosphere as he drove through Fun Key. He held his nose as he passed through Stin Key. One of the islands was so small, it barely had room for a tiny sign that read “Din Key.” And Ian wasn’t quite sure how to describe what he saw on Achy Break Key.

  Up ahead, loomed a long, narrow bridge that spanned farther than any Ian had yet driven across. A sign near the start identified it as the “Seven Mile Bridge.” Just before Ian reached it, a large, slow-moving car turned in from an adjoining side road to Ian’s right. Feeling upbeat, Ian slowed to let the car in ahead of him, smiling at the elderly alien behind the wheel, who seemed oblivious to the fact that it had pulled out in front of anyone. Ah well, thought Ian, my good deed for the day. He waited patiently for the large, lime-green car to pull onto the bridge, smiling.

  As Ian watched the steady traffic in the oncoming lane, he noticed that he was traveling slower than before. He looked up ahead, straining his neck to see around the large car in front of him. It appeared that a gap had opened up between the elderly driver and the cars ahead. Well, Ian thought nervously, I suppose it’s good to leave some following distance, especially for a driver so old. He sat back and tried to relax. It was still early morning, plenty of time to reach his destination.

  But gradually, the car ahead moved more and more slowly, and the gap between it and the cars ahead grew to the point that Ian could no longer see the cars they were following. Ian considered a gentle tap on the horn to urge the older driver along, and spent almost twenty minutes looking for the horn button (which was, inexplicably, located inside the ash tray behind the Twiller). During this time, he watched the “Estimated Time of Arrival” displayed on his GPS change from noon, to 1 PM, to 3 PM, to 6 PM, then it simply read “Who Knows?” Ian began to grow increasingly concerned, and he did tap his horn a few times in frustration. Unfortunately, when he did so, it only seemed to startle the driver ahead of him into stopping for a bit before gradually pulling away even slower than before.

  Ian tried to think of a way around the old geezer, but the oncoming lane was packed with cars, and the walls of the narrow bridge didn’t leave any room to get around a car as large as the one blocking his path. He fidgeted uselessly for a while, watching the minutes tick away, and when he finally arrived at a signpost that said “Mile 0.1,” he lost it and hopped out of the car. Ignoring the sweltering heat, he walked up to the car ahead, tapping on the window as he walked alongside, easily keeping pace with it.

  “Hello, excuse me?” Ian asked, rapping more loudly on the window. The driver appeared completely unaware, hunched over the steering wheel, but at least peering ahead instead of talking on a cell phone. Ian smacked the window so hard he thought it would break, although it was made of a transparent titanium matrix Ian had no hope of shattering. Eventually, perhaps simply looking to the side to take in the view, the old alien looked Ian’s way and started fumbling for the window switch.

  It took him a solid five minutes to find the switch and lower the window halfway. “Yes, sonny? What are you doing out there on the road? It’s dangerous, with all these cars speeding past!”

  Ian looked to the oncoming traffic, moving along but hardly speeding, and the wide-open road ahead of them. “Sir, I was just wondering if you could perhaps speed it up a bit, or maybe pull over to the side? I am in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Eh? Your name is Harry, you say? Fine to meet you, my boy, just fine to meet you.” The alien offered Ian its wrinkled hand, and Ian shook it lamely. “Did you say you pulled your side?”

  “No,” said Ian, mopping sweat from his forehead and fighting down an urge to yank the alien out of its car. “And my name isn’t—oh, never mind. What I said was, could you possibly speed up a bit?”

  “Marge, Marge,” it called to the sleeping lady seated next to it, “I think this young man would like us to help him pop a zit.” Marge continued to snore loudly.

  “No, sir, maybe if you could just pull over to the side so I can pass?” Ian tried.

  “Hm?” asked the driver. “What did you say your name was again?”

  Ian lost it. He tried reaching through the half-open window to unlock the door to drag the deaf alien out of the car and move it out of his way. “Get out of that car right now, you old—”

  Ian pulled his hand back with a shriek as the driver rapped his knuckles with a cane, hitting him with surprising force. It proceeded to raise the window and turn back to the road, speeding up a tiny bit in an effort to escape from Ian.

  Well, at least that’s something, Ian thought, forced into a light jog to keep up with the car. After pounding uselessly on the window for a few more minutes, the heat became unbearable. He sighed and got back into his car, which was still only a few hundred feet back.

  Ian sped up, catching up to his nemesis easily, and followed angrily a few inches from its bumper. He pounded on the dashboard, shot angry looks at the Twiller, and tried counting to 100. Still the green car blocked his way, and Ian glanced nervously at his watch. It was nearing noon, and, up ahead in the distance, Ian could just make out the “Mile 0.2” sign.

  . . . . .

  Over six hours later, the large green car finally inched off the bridge at just about exactly 1 mph. The instant the concrete wall ended, Ian zoomed around the old driver, flipped him the bird, and drove as fast as the tiny car would go.

  It was after 6:30, and the suns hung low in the sky. The GPS still showed almost 100 miles to go, and Ian drove like a maniac. He weaved around cars, drove on grass and gravel, bumped slower cars out of the way when necessary, and used the oncoming lane as often as he dared. He was making good time, but still the minutes ticked away.

  Finally, a sign reading “Westerly Key” blurred by and Ian gritted his teeth as he pushed the throttle lever as far forward as it would go. Up ahead, over one last short bridge, was an island slightly larger than most he had sped past. Only another mile to go ….

  A movement from the sky above grabbed Ian’s attention, and his heart raced as a shuttle descended onto the island, right on schedule. The traffic had picked up on Westerly Key, and Ian’s driving became more frantic as he rushed toward where the shuttle had landed. He dodged cars, motor scooters, and what he swore were chickens on the sidewalks. He finally turned down a side street and could see the shuttle resting in a parking lot near a building with a red striped awning.

  No time for dinner, Ian thought, and gunned it.

  But he was too late. As he watched helplessly, the shuttle lifted off and slowly rose into the air, its engines streaming smoke as Ian skidded the car to a halt below.

  It was 7:02.

  “NO!” Ian cried, leaping out of the car and waving his hands frantically over his head, “Sanders, I’m here, damn you! Don’t go!”

  The Twiller casually followed Ian out of the car. Ian looked to it pleadingly, but it seemed uninterested in his plight. In fact, it seemed to be on its stupid cell phone. “How can you be on the phone at a time like this?” Ian cried.

  The Twiller pressed a button and calmly put the phone away. “Twill twill,” it said, its voice oddly relaxed.

  Ian looked back to the receding shuttle, which climbed higher and higher into the air. Ian squinted against the light of the setting suns, and thought he could make out a smaller bright light streaking across the sky. His mouth hung open as the light screamed closer and closer, angling purposefully toward the shuttle. As it got closer, Ian finally figured out what it was.

  “So long, Colonel,” he said softly, unable to tear his eyes away. “Sorry for doubting you.”

&nbs
p; The missile slammed into the shuttle and exploded into a great ball of fire and light. Ian covered his eyes to avoid the glare. When he looked back, only a small, dissipating cloud of smoke marked where the shuttle used to be.

  Ian slumped to the ground, lifeless, dejected. His one hope for getting off the planet, for ending his wild roller-coaster ride and getting home to see Earth again—gone. The Colonel was crazy, sure, but Ian was filled with sadness over his death. The poor guy, so close to completing his mission, and then this. Ian suppressed a sniffle. And on an empty stomach, no less, he couldn’t help but think.

  . . . . .

  Ian sat forlornly in the parking lot, watching aircars come and go and staring at small bits of smoldering wreckage that had been his only real chance at returning home to Earth. He was oblivious to The Twiller, who hovered quietly nearby, probably realizing that consoling Ian would be useless. All he had been through, the various planets he had visited, all his many adventures, and it had taken over 50,000 words for him to get a single opportunity to get back home, and that opportunity had quite literally blown up in his face. He sighed wearily. There was no way he could go through another 50,000 words. Well, maybe in a sequel. But not right now.

  Ian sat motionlessly for over an hour, ignoring the distant buzzing sound that signaled the coming of the mosquitoes. Finally, his legs got numb and he got up to walk around, kicking angrily at rocks and wandering aimlessly in circles around the parking lot. He kicked at a particularly annoying rock and nearly hit a thin, haggard alien dressed in rags and slumped up against the side of the nearby restaurant. “Hey,” it grumbled, growling at Ian as it rearranged some cards it was playing with.

  “Sorry,” Ian apologized, taking a few steps toward the sullen creature. The alien was playing a card game, with several columns of cards spread across the ground in front of it. Some columns were longer than others, and the bottom-most card in each column was face up, while the rest were face down. The cards had alien symbols and pictures on them, but, as Ian watched, he sensed that the game was familiar to him somehow. The alien had another stack of cards in one of its hands, and it counted three cards from the deck and turned them face-up as a group, then frowned and flipped over the next group of three cards. When it had gone through all the cards, it emitted a guttural sound that Ian took to indicate displeasure, and it turned the deck back face-down and went back to turning over groups of cards three at a time.

  It finally clicked for Ian. “Ugh, solitaire. I hate that game.”

  The alien looked up from its cards. “You’ve played it before?”

  “Yeah, never liked it though. Why would I want to play a game where you lose like 90% of the time no matter what you do?” Ian shook his head. “That’s not a game. That’s life.”

  “Amen, brother,” said the creature, and Ian slumped down next to it.

  . . . . .

  Ian spent the night with his new friend, playing solitaire and discussing the unfairness and general hostility of the Universe. Ian had stopped caring, stopped hoping for a way home, even stopped noticing the stench of his companion. Fortunately, the smell served to keep the mosquitoes at bay, although Ian would hardly have cared if they had skewered him and sucked him dry. The Twiller tried several times to cheer Ian up, get him to move, perhaps check them into a hotel, or maybe find someplace that smelled better to spend the night, but Ian shrugged off his friend’s suggestions. He eventually fell asleep slumped up against the side of the building, lacking the energy or motivation to move.

  Ian awoke to the blazing hot sun. He blinked his eyes and looked around. His friend from the night before was gone, apparently smart enough not to sleep out in the open where the morning sun would scorch him. The Twiller hid behind a discarded soda cup for shade.

  “Twill,” it said hopefully as Ian stirred.

  “Hmph,” Ian grumbled. “Do you have a way for me to get home?”

  “Twill twill,” is said softly, lowering its large eyes to the ground.

  “That’s what I thought.” Ian grimaced. “I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “Twill.”

  “You’re right, it’s all just so hopeless. I feel like I’ll never get back home.”

  “Twill,” his friend replied, as was its custom.

  Just then, an ovoid silver spaceship descended about twenty feet from Ian. A sleek silver ramp unfolded from the ship and an alien stuck its thin head out. “Headed to Earth?” it asked.

  Not wanting to question his luck, Ian scampered aboard, the Twiller in tow. A few short hours later, the ship deposited Ian back on Earth, right back on his own front lawn, in fact. It sped off, and Ian headed inside, relieved to find that he hadn’t, in fact, left the gas on.

  Although he was clearly overjoyed, a frown creased Ian’s lips. He looked to the Twiller. “Well, that sure was an unoriginal and anticlimactic ending.” He slowly shook his head. “You don’t think the author could have come up with something that required a little more thought or effort? Some sort of surprise or clever bit at the end? What was he thinking?”

  The Twiller turned its large, oval eyes to its friend. “Beats the heck out of me,” it said. “I just work here.”

  * * * * *

  Epilogue

  Ian snored, deep in sleep as he slumbered in his own bed, back on his own planet, for this first time in a long time. Nearby floated the Twiller, who was not sleeping. In fact, it was wide awake.

  The Twiller pulled a tiny electronic device—which Ian had mistakenly believed to be a simple cell phone—from somewhere and began to input something into it. This was remarkable for any number of reasons: first, that the Twiller had no hands or arms; second, that the device appeared from nowhere, since the Twiller wore no clothing and had no pockets of any kind; and third, that tiny words began to appear on the screen, as if by telepathy.

  The words, had any human had eyesight good enough to see them, and been well-versed in the secret language that twillers used for their own covert internal communications, would have been quite shocking. Luckily, no human eye would ever see them.

  On a tiny screen, under a heading that read, “Humans,” the words entered by the Twiller were simply, “No threat.” Under that, in green block lettering, was a question: “ANNIHILATE, ENSLAVE, IGNORE?” A small cursor flashed at the end of the line, waiting for a response.

  The Twiller looked to the sleeping form of the human named Ian, thinking back to when it had first met this human, back when it had stowed away on the Anasazi ship that was on its way to Earth. It remembered how helpless the creature had been then, how it had nearly been killed twice if not for the Twiller’s own direct intervention—and that’s only in the first chapter alone. Since then, true, the creature had become marginally more capable, but still.

  The Twiller floated closer to its subject and watched as it slept, oblivious, for a moment. The human’s face was scrunched up comically by the pillow, and its few remaining strands of hair were disheveled. It seemed to be babbling incoherently in response to some silly dream. A small stream of drool dripped from its open mouth.

  Uncharacteristically, the Twiller hesitated as it looked back to the tiny display on its tiny device, which still awaited a response: “ANNIHILATE, ENSLAVE, IGNORE?” The Twiller nearly always chose the first option; in fact, it was almost automatic. Only rarely was there some reason to choose the second, in the case of a species that could serve some use to the twillers after their imminent takeover of the Universe. The umquillions of Sargentemum IV, for example, the best chefs the Universe had ever known.

  The Twiller’s eyes moved quickly onward and focused on the final option. With a mental shake and a tiny shrug, the Twiller selected that final option from the menu. The word “IGNORE” flashed once on the screen, the information was transmitted, and the display faded.

  Its task completed, the Twiller put the tiny electronic device back wherever it came from, closed its large ovoid eyes, and teleported itself to a far
away planet that, like the Twiller itself, would never again be seen by human eyes.

  * * * * *

  THE END...?

  Thank you for reading The Twiller—I hope you enjoyed it.

  Please be sure to check out my website, www.davidderrico.com, where you can find new information on my first two novels (Right Ascension and Declination), short stories, my “Always Write” blog, and updates on my latest writing projects.

  For More Information About

  Right Ascension, Declination, The Twiller, Author Events, And The Latest News And Information, Please Visit

  WWW.DAVIDDERRICO.COM

  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Derrico was born just north of Miami, Florida, and developed his appreciation for complex moral issues while receiving a degree in philosophy from the University of Florida in Gainesville. He wrote his first novel, Right Ascension, before attending law school at the University of California, Berkeley School of Law (Boalt Hall). Right Ascension was first published by Bookbooters Press in 2000, and garnered its inaugural eBook of the Year Award.

  Derrico wrote his second novel, Declination, during law school, while he was probably supposed to be studying. Nonetheless, he graduated, passed the California Bar Exam, and worked as an attorney at a large, international law firm in Los Angeles for several years. While practicing law (all that practice actually made him pretty good at it), he managed to write some short stories and start work on his third novel, The Twiller.