But Henry took the picture in the first place because he saw the ghost image with his naked eyes, so the camera lens is out.
Atmosphere it is! This is somewhat corroborated by the fact that different exposures show different separations between the images — something that could be explained by changing atmospheric conditions. The atmosphere, whose layers can have very different humidity and temperature, can be a very effective reflector and refractor.
'Ghost moons' discovered in orbit around Earth
A life-affirming read. He is ever seeking to acquire and encourage understanding of even the most wretched souls. Playful, haunting and moving, this is writing of the highest quality. If you love great books, read this, then everything Ron Butlin has penned.
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Ghost Moon is no different. The rather staccato style was not what I was expecting from the Makar, although there are touches of memorable lyricism and poignant symbolism: the Ghost Moon of the title is the name Maggie gives to the emerging Moon as she pushes Tom in his pram: seemingly as distant as her dreams.
This may be a short, compact novel but the slim tome is miraculously obese with feelings, life and a story that must have been repeated over and over during the last plus years. Indeed this is how Ron makes a difference: before Ghost Moon I didn't fully understand the effects of the 'moral society' of the 50s that many still hark back to but now I do. Under the Cover An excerpt from Ghost Moon.
Two ‘Ghost Moons’ orbit Earth
She opened one groggy eye to discover her daughter Melissa standing at her bedside in the darkened room. Behind her, the alarm clock glowed the time: one a. Not again. Brock had to get up early, at quarter to seven, to be at the office by eight. As he said, the rest of them could sleep all day if they chose, but he had to earn a living.
Besides, he hated the fact that Missy sometimes still wet the bed. He was a pediatrician, he knew Missy should be over wetting the bed by now, and he tended to take her frequent accidents personally. Through the hall window, left uncurtained because it was small and high and on the second floor, Louise could see pinpricks of tiny stars and a wan sickle moon drifting against the black sky. It seemed so real! She was really, really tired, and this was getting to be almost a nightly occurrence. As a seven-year-old, Missy was getting her up at night almost as much as she had when she was a baby.
Under the Cover
Louise had started leaving the light on at night because, in addition to wetting her bed, Missy had suddenly become afraid of the dark. She had nightmares about monsters hiding in her room and watching her as she slept.
Sometimes she woke up screaming, and Louise would jump from bed like she had been shot and race down the hall to find her daughter huddled in the center of her bed, in a ball, with the covers pulled over her head, crying her eyes out and gasping something that made no sense. Inevitably, Louise ended up bringing Missy into bed with her and Brock, a practice of which he strongly disapproved. Louise treated her like a baby, rewarding her misdeeds by giving her attention which was what Brock said she wanted all along when Missy should have been disciplined instead.
Louise knew that Brock probably knew best — as he frequently pointed out, he was the expert — but she could not find it in her heart to punish her seven-year-old daughter for being afraid of the dark. Or for wetting the bed. Or, as Brock said, for nearly anything at all. She sighed. When she turned around, nightgown in hand, she was frowning. Maybe Brock was right, she thought. Maybe she should try being a little tougher on Missy. She was really becoming tired of getting up in the middle of almost every single night. Accustomed to the ritual, Missy had already pulled her wet nightgown off and was in the act of dropping it on the floor.
When Missy glanced quickly up at her, her big hazel eyes questioning, Louise gave the braid a small tug.
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Missy was so very little, after all. And she was small for her age. Her body had just not yet matured as much as that of most seven-year-olds. Brock, of course, said that was nonsense. Damn Brock. She smoothed a pink wool blanket over the sheets and pulled back a corner.
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No matter whether Brock was the expert or not. Louise tucked the clean, dry bedclothes around her daughter as Missy snuggled onto her side, a small smile curving her lips as her cheek burrowed deep into the pillow with its tiny white hearts on a deep pink background.
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