Writing for Fun
June 2019
Twilight - Anne Wilson
It was the twilight hour: that period of the day when evening would soon be upon him and the darkness of his environment would descend, engulfing him in the process. It was almost too much to bear as he sat tapping his fingers impatiently. He knew what would be taking place and for that he needed to make sure he looked his best before he opened the door of the confined space in which he spent so much of his time.
He was a vain creature. Every item of his clothing was meticulously cared for. The black suit, so old-fashioned by contemporary standards sat on him un-creased as if it had never been worn and the cloak, so carefully placed on his shoulders, lay there flamboyantly – an integral part of his being.
He patted his hair, before placing a top hat on his head; pleased that the gel he had applied earlier had resulted in the dark strands maintaining their rigidity. His pale lips parted with the smiling self-satisfaction of a perfectionist who knows he has achieved his aim. He looked at the clock and, on hearing a voice call out, pushed open the door.
He walked rapidly and reached his intended destination. The darkness of the scene overwhelmed him initially: it always did - and he blinked his eyes rapidly several times in succession. After a few seconds he saw her – framed under the dim light of a lamppost. Tall willowy and attractive, she smiled enticingly as she leaned back seductively and thrust her right leg forward. He moved towards her. Her fate was sealed.
‘Good evening, my dear,’ he purred seductively, raising his hat.
‘Hello,’ she whined slowly and enticingly. ‘And what can I do for you?’
He smiled menacingly, exhibiting a jagged molar at the far end of each side of a mouth of an otherwise perfect set of teeth. Raising his cloak over his head he bent towards over her and she screamed at the top of her lungs, smoke from the fog whirling around in the background. There was a tussle as she tried to resist his clutches but eventually he managed to bite into her neck and she crumpled, falling limply at his feet. Glancing around him furtively, he fled, hearing the sound of a policeman’s whistle in the distance.
He ran along in the pitch black, lifting his cloak as he did so and careful not to trip over anything hazardous on the way. Eventually he reached the dressing room door, from which he had made his exit only a few minutes before and, pushing it open, his faced wreathed in perspiration from the adrenaline rush, he placed his top hat on the dressing table and removed his cloak, laying it down neatly on the chair.
He needed a drink. It was the same every night – the craving caused by a combination of nerves and disgust with himself that he had descended so markedly down the ladder of fame. Each provincial tour marked an inexorable progression down yet another rung. With shaking hand he reached furtively for the bottle he kept hidden away in a drawer. In the street the theatre lights twinkled mockingly in a gesture of defiance, framing a publicity poster proclaiming:
DON’T BE OUT FOR THE COUNT – COME AND SEE ‘TWILIGHT’ – A NEW, HILARIOUS PLAY THAT WILL LEAVE YOU ACHING WITH MIRTH.