Thomas Miller's Blog - Posts Tagged "from-the-pen-of-thomas-miller"
The Hunger of Men
The Hunger of Men
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
When Hunger Becomes a Mirror, What Do You See?
They said hunger would pass like weather.
They said men would remember kindness when the shelves went bare.
But hunger isn’t a storm—it’s a mirror. And in The Hunger of Men, everyone in Palatka, Florida, is forced to look too long.
From Thomas Miller, author of When Goodness Dies and The Deadly Lust of Chesterson Manor, comes his most haunting novel yet—an unflinching portrait of a small Florida town devoured by desperation after the government shuts down the Federal Food Relief Program.
As the world stops pretending it can afford mercy, Sheriff Barny McMillin clings to law like a drowning man grips a stone, while his ex-wife Jill Carroway builds a kitchen out of faith and scraps to keep hope alive. Between them lies a river—of guilt, pride, and the last fragile strands of humanity.
Set along the smoke-stained banks of the St. Johns River, The Hunger of Men is not a story of monsters under the bed—it’s about the ones that climb out when the bed is empty and the pantry is bare. It’s about what decency costs when the world stops feeding it.
From the Author
“There are stories you tell to pass time, and stories you tell because time has already passed you.
The Hunger of Men came from the second kind.”
— Thomas Miller, Palatka, Florida
If You Loved
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
The Stand by Stephen King
or the haunting Southern realism of William Faulkner
Then this book will stay with you long after the last page.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
When Hunger Becomes a Mirror, What Do You See?
They said hunger would pass like weather.
They said men would remember kindness when the shelves went bare.
But hunger isn’t a storm—it’s a mirror. And in The Hunger of Men, everyone in Palatka, Florida, is forced to look too long.
From Thomas Miller, author of When Goodness Dies and The Deadly Lust of Chesterson Manor, comes his most haunting novel yet—an unflinching portrait of a small Florida town devoured by desperation after the government shuts down the Federal Food Relief Program.
As the world stops pretending it can afford mercy, Sheriff Barny McMillin clings to law like a drowning man grips a stone, while his ex-wife Jill Carroway builds a kitchen out of faith and scraps to keep hope alive. Between them lies a river—of guilt, pride, and the last fragile strands of humanity.
Set along the smoke-stained banks of the St. Johns River, The Hunger of Men is not a story of monsters under the bed—it’s about the ones that climb out when the bed is empty and the pantry is bare. It’s about what decency costs when the world stops feeding it.
From the Author
“There are stories you tell to pass time, and stories you tell because time has already passed you.
The Hunger of Men came from the second kind.”
— Thomas Miller, Palatka, Florida
If You Loved
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
The Stand by Stephen King
or the haunting Southern realism of William Faulkner
Then this book will stay with you long after the last page.
The Hunger of Men
The Hunger of Men
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
When Hunger Becomes a Mirror, What Do You See?
They said hunger would pass like weather.
They said men would remember kindness when the shelves went bare.
But hunger isn’t a storm—it’s a mirror. And in The Hunger of Men, everyone in Palatka, Florida, is forced to look too long.
From Thomas Miller, author of When Goodness Dies and The Deadly Lust of Chesterson Manor, comes his most haunting novel yet—an unflinching portrait of a small Florida town devoured by desperation after the government shuts down the Federal Food Relief Program.
As the world stops pretending it can afford mercy, Sheriff Barny McMillin clings to law like a drowning man grips a stone, while his ex-wife Jill Carroway builds a kitchen out of faith and scraps to keep hope alive. Between them lies a river—of guilt, pride, and the last fragile strands of humanity.
Set along the smoke-stained banks of the St. Johns River, The Hunger of Men is not a story of monsters under the bed—it’s about the ones that climb out when the bed is empty and the pantry is bare. It’s about what decency costs when the world stops feeding it.
From the Author
“There are stories you tell to pass time, and stories you tell because time has already passed you.
The Hunger of Men came from the second kind.”
— Thomas Miller, Palatka, Florida
If You Loved
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
The Stand by Stephen King
or the haunting Southern realism of William Faulkner
Then this book will stay with you long after the last page.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
When Hunger Becomes a Mirror, What Do You See?
They said hunger would pass like weather.
They said men would remember kindness when the shelves went bare.
But hunger isn’t a storm—it’s a mirror. And in The Hunger of Men, everyone in Palatka, Florida, is forced to look too long.
From Thomas Miller, author of When Goodness Dies and The Deadly Lust of Chesterson Manor, comes his most haunting novel yet—an unflinching portrait of a small Florida town devoured by desperation after the government shuts down the Federal Food Relief Program.
As the world stops pretending it can afford mercy, Sheriff Barny McMillin clings to law like a drowning man grips a stone, while his ex-wife Jill Carroway builds a kitchen out of faith and scraps to keep hope alive. Between them lies a river—of guilt, pride, and the last fragile strands of humanity.
Set along the smoke-stained banks of the St. Johns River, The Hunger of Men is not a story of monsters under the bed—it’s about the ones that climb out when the bed is empty and the pantry is bare. It’s about what decency costs when the world stops feeding it.
From the Author
“There are stories you tell to pass time, and stories you tell because time has already passed you.
The Hunger of Men came from the second kind.”
— Thomas Miller, Palatka, Florida
If You Loved
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
The Stand by Stephen King
or the haunting Southern realism of William Faulkner
Then this book will stay with you long after the last page.
South Of The Border “The Motel That Eats Time”:
South Of The Border “The Motel That Eats Time”: A Chilling Roadside Trap You’ll Never Escape
Every family road trip has that one unforgettable stop. For the Mills family in South of the Border: The Motel That Eats Time, it’s a roadside attraction that becomes a nightmare from which there’s no waking up.
Thomas Miller takes one of the Southeast’s most recognizable tourist icons—South of the Border, with its neon sombreros and smiling mascot—and twists it into something deeply unsettling. What begins as a lighthearted detour becomes a descent into a place where time, memory, and even reality itself begin to slip away.
The brilliance of Miller’s storytelling lies in his ability to make the familiar terrifying. The billboards that once made us laugh on long drives through Carolina highways now feel like warnings we ignored. The cold air of the Motor Inn becomes a presence of its own, almost alive, whispering that something beneath the surface is feeding.
Each chapter pulls the reader deeper into the illusion of hospitality—free food, free games, free everything—and the quiet horror behind it all. The further the Mills family goes, the less they understand about the place they’ve entered… and the more we start to realize that the border isn’t a location at all, but a threshold between life, memory, and the kind of hunger that never dies.
Miller’s writing is cinematic, patient, and devastatingly atmospheric. The details—the hum of the air conditioner, the flicker of a neon sombrero, the too-wide smiles of the staff—build a dread that lingers long after the last page. This is not just horror; it’s Americana turned inside out, a ghost story wrapped in a roadside souvenir.
If you loved The Twilight Zone, Silent Hill, or The Shining, this book will pull you in and keep you cold long after you’ve finished reading.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller, South of the Border: The Motel That Eats Time is a haunting journey through the roadside attractions of memory, loss, and endless hunger.
Read it. But remember:
Once you check in, you may never check out.
Every family road trip has that one unforgettable stop. For the Mills family in South of the Border: The Motel That Eats Time, it’s a roadside attraction that becomes a nightmare from which there’s no waking up.
Thomas Miller takes one of the Southeast’s most recognizable tourist icons—South of the Border, with its neon sombreros and smiling mascot—and twists it into something deeply unsettling. What begins as a lighthearted detour becomes a descent into a place where time, memory, and even reality itself begin to slip away.
The brilliance of Miller’s storytelling lies in his ability to make the familiar terrifying. The billboards that once made us laugh on long drives through Carolina highways now feel like warnings we ignored. The cold air of the Motor Inn becomes a presence of its own, almost alive, whispering that something beneath the surface is feeding.
Each chapter pulls the reader deeper into the illusion of hospitality—free food, free games, free everything—and the quiet horror behind it all. The further the Mills family goes, the less they understand about the place they’ve entered… and the more we start to realize that the border isn’t a location at all, but a threshold between life, memory, and the kind of hunger that never dies.
Miller’s writing is cinematic, patient, and devastatingly atmospheric. The details—the hum of the air conditioner, the flicker of a neon sombrero, the too-wide smiles of the staff—build a dread that lingers long after the last page. This is not just horror; it’s Americana turned inside out, a ghost story wrapped in a roadside souvenir.
If you loved The Twilight Zone, Silent Hill, or The Shining, this book will pull you in and keep you cold long after you’ve finished reading.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller, South of the Border: The Motel That Eats Time is a haunting journey through the roadside attractions of memory, loss, and endless hunger.
Read it. But remember:
Once you check in, you may never check out.
“The Last Breath of Jacob Masterson”
“The Last Breath of Jacob Masterson”
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
In the hospice that forgot his name,
Jacob Masterson waited for the end.
No flowers, no hymns, no whisper of care—
just the ticking of machines that mocked
the rhythm of a dying heart.
He once loved, though none recalled her face.
She left no note, no scent, no sigh.
And he—too proud, too broken—
never said goodbye, believing
there’d be time.
There never is.
His bed sheets stuck to fevered skin,
his mouth a cave of salt and blood.
The nurses passed, eyes turned to charts—
not to him.
When he begged for mercy,
the morphine bag hung silent,
half-empty, unkind.
Inside him, organs tore like paper.
A wet crack, a ripping flood—
his stomach folding in on itself,
his bowels twisting, his veins
bursting like overripe fruit.
He screamed, but only the walls
answered,
peeling in quiet applause.
The room stank of rust and ruin.
He reached for God,
but found only
the buzzing of a fluorescent light
that would not die before he did.
And when it was done—
when Jacob Masterson fell still—
the world did not pause.
The clock kept time.
The machines kept their cruel hum.
Later, two faces came,
the ones who’d smiled false love
for his will and worn-down home.
They stood over his grave
in the rain,
laughed like children
who’d stolen candy from a corpse,
and when the night deepened,
they made love on the mound—
bodies pressed in mockery
of the man beneath.
And the earth did not cry.
The moon did not turn away.
Only the worms knew
how deep his sorrow went,
how much of him still bled
beneath their feet.
There was no goodbye.
There never is.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
In the hospice that forgot his name,
Jacob Masterson waited for the end.
No flowers, no hymns, no whisper of care—
just the ticking of machines that mocked
the rhythm of a dying heart.
He once loved, though none recalled her face.
She left no note, no scent, no sigh.
And he—too proud, too broken—
never said goodbye, believing
there’d be time.
There never is.
His bed sheets stuck to fevered skin,
his mouth a cave of salt and blood.
The nurses passed, eyes turned to charts—
not to him.
When he begged for mercy,
the morphine bag hung silent,
half-empty, unkind.
Inside him, organs tore like paper.
A wet crack, a ripping flood—
his stomach folding in on itself,
his bowels twisting, his veins
bursting like overripe fruit.
He screamed, but only the walls
answered,
peeling in quiet applause.
The room stank of rust and ruin.
He reached for God,
but found only
the buzzing of a fluorescent light
that would not die before he did.
And when it was done—
when Jacob Masterson fell still—
the world did not pause.
The clock kept time.
The machines kept their cruel hum.
Later, two faces came,
the ones who’d smiled false love
for his will and worn-down home.
They stood over his grave
in the rain,
laughed like children
who’d stolen candy from a corpse,
and when the night deepened,
they made love on the mound—
bodies pressed in mockery
of the man beneath.
And the earth did not cry.
The moon did not turn away.
Only the worms knew
how deep his sorrow went,
how much of him still bled
beneath their feet.
There was no goodbye.
There never is.
Christmas Sadness
Christmas Sadness
by Thomas Miller
The lights still glow, but not for me,
They shine for ghosts I cannot see.
Wrapped in cheer the world pretends,
While memory breaks where joy should bend.
The tree stands tall in borrowed grace,
A shadow dressed in former days.
Each ornament, a fragile lie,
Reflects the tears I do not cry.
Carols float through thinning air,
Songs for hearts no longer there.
Their echoes linger, soft and slow,
Like footprints fading in the snow.
The clock moves on, the season stays,
Repeating all its cruel displays.
Time forgives, but never heals
The quiet weight of what I feel.
Yet in this sorrow, dressed in white,
A candle fights the endless night.
Not hope, perhaps, but something true:
The strength to make it quietly through.
by Thomas Miller
The lights still glow, but not for me,
They shine for ghosts I cannot see.
Wrapped in cheer the world pretends,
While memory breaks where joy should bend.
The tree stands tall in borrowed grace,
A shadow dressed in former days.
Each ornament, a fragile lie,
Reflects the tears I do not cry.
Carols float through thinning air,
Songs for hearts no longer there.
Their echoes linger, soft and slow,
Like footprints fading in the snow.
The clock moves on, the season stays,
Repeating all its cruel displays.
Time forgives, but never heals
The quiet weight of what I feel.
Yet in this sorrow, dressed in white,
A candle fights the endless night.
Not hope, perhaps, but something true:
The strength to make it quietly through.
