I wrote this one while I was camping on the shores of lake Hawea.

The Photographer

The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...

As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.

The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.

Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".

The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".