"Opening Literary Lines To The Moon" ~ One Late-Night Steemit Adve...

Late at night, only the Moon is listening.

"Once Upon A Time..."

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night.
A Night Like No Other.
He Hadn't Slept For Days.
A Shrill Scream Cut Through The Still-Night Air.
Like A Feral Tom.
Howling At A Harvest Moon.
In February...?
The Hairs Stood Up On The Back Of His Neck.
Somewhere A Baby Cried In The Night.
Relevance Is A Fickle Companion Indeed.
It Is Later Than You Think.

A Cold Chill Ran Up And Down His Spine.
Like An Electric Current Through A Bare Bulb.
This Light Jacket Is Not Suited.
For A Chill Night In Mid-Winter.

The Full Moon Slid Rapidly Across The Darkening Sky.
He Clicked The Shutter.
Nothing Happened.
He Pushed It Again.
Nothing Happened, AGAIN!
It Is Later Than You Might Believe.

He Saw For The First Time The Error Of His Ways.
Instruction Manuals Seldom Lie.
He Moved The Selector Dial.
Lodged Half-Way Between A and P.
To The P.
The Shutter Fired.
He Cursed In The Darkness.
Looking At The Display Screen.
The World Within Went Black.
It Is Later Than You Realize.

The Clock Struck Midnight.
He Shook His Fist At The Darkening Sky.
And Cursed The gods Of Efficient Photographic Procedure.
Time Was Not On His Side.
Sometimes You Only Get One Chance In Life.
Yet Life Is Full Of Second Chances.
This Time, He Would Do It Right.
He Raised The Camera Skyward.
Towards The Silvery Moon.
Rather Than At His Darkened Feet.
How He Despised Night-Photos Of His Shoes.

It Is Later Than You Can Fathom.
The Camera Fired.
As Design Would Have It.
Again. And Again.
He Let Loose A Deep Sigh Of Relief.
Giving Thanks To The Very Stars Above.
For This Modern Digital Medium Of Image Capture.
Shooting Kodachrome Film.
He Would Now Be A Broken and Destitute Man.

Another Tom Cried Out In The Inky Black.
A Chill-Like Icewater-Coursed Through His Veins.
He Thought Aloud.
It Is Later Than You Know.
He Wished He Had Packed The Better Tripod.

He Had Not.
The Bogen Professional Model 1021.
Now Safely Tucked Away.
In the Broom Closet Back Home.

He Cursed The Luck.
Then Realized This Was Not Luck.
But The Hand Of Laziness.
Slapped Upon His Brow.
Of Potential Reward.
Like A Small BassFish.
Delivered By An Older Brother.
And His Monumental Lack Of Wit.
At Lake Bloomburg.
So Many Years Long-Past.
It Is Later Than You Think.

Traveling Back In Time.
Weariness Washed Over Him In Large Crashing Waves.
Memories Of That Fated Fish.
He Relented.
“A Crummy Tripod Is Better Than Hand-Held.”
“And Hand-Held Is Better Than No Picture Of The Moon At All. ”