“Tom Vowler takes us into the thick of the moment with slow confident detail that makes us poise within time, where actions have distinct consequences and there is a path taken through havoc. He captures what happens at the intersection of human fragility and the might of nature, using language that caresses and haunts.”
Catherine McNamara
“Beautifully written bite-sized stories, exploring ghosts and hauntings and loss. Stimulating and satisfying – a splendid collection.”
Alison Moore
The Trajectory of Ghosts is very ethereal and very necessary.
ISBN: 978-1-7394122-3-4
36 pages
R.R.P. £6.99
A sample flash fiction from The Trajectory of Ghosts can be enjoyed below.
PRE-ORDER The Trajectory of Ghosts NOW using the paypal options below. [The Trajectory of Ghosts is out in October 2024; pre-orders are posted out in the week of publication.]
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Ghost Rock
We’re losing the moon, you say. It’s past midnight and we are sitting in the rubble of our eight-year coupling, sipping cheap red wine in a pool of moonlight on the kitchen floor. You’ve told me this before, but I indulge you as you articulate this little-known quirk of astrophysics, how our ghost rock is gradually slipping its orbit, an inch or so a year, the rate a fingernail grows. You are wearing the burgundy jumper we fought for custody of, its scent now a blend of our odours. I consider the division of other nouns we’ve accumulated: CDs, furniture, friends. The tidal bulge caused by the moon always sits just ahead of it, you continue, the force slinging the moon outwards, like being on a roundabout. I have to teach a writing class in the morning and, for a second, I marshal sufficient pragmatism to note this phenomenon as a potential prompt. Lunar poetry can occupy them while I try to buttress myself. You announce that days will lengthen as the Earth’s rotation slows and, like a spinning plate losing its centrifugal force, the planet will become unstable. Eventually, it will cease turning altogether. From nothing, a car alarm mauls the air, violating the stillness. You wait for it to discontinue, then offer me a seductive smile. It’s possible we may yet converge in the bedroom, a final plundering of one another, rhapsodic and ferocious, an act guillotining past and future. You know the Americans were going to detonate a nuclear bomb on its surface, you say. In the 1950s. Just to flaunt it at the Soviets. Despite the wine harshening with every sip, I realise I could listen to you all night.
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