Thomas Miller's Blog - Posts Tagged "thomas-miller"
The Widow’s Lament
The Widow’s Lament
By Thomas Miller
In the small hours before the dawn,
A widow weeps, her love long gone.
She clings to a photo, worn and frayed,
Of the life they shared, now decayed.
Her tears fall silent, like autumn rain,
A steady stream of endless pain.
She speaks his name, a whispered plea,
But only the night returns her plea.
The bed they shared now cold and bare,
A space where once love filled the air.
She lies alone, her heart a stone,
In a house that no longer feels like home.
Yet every night, she dreams him near,
His voice a ghost she longs to hear.
But when she wakes, the truth is clear—
He’s gone, and she’s left with only her fear.
By Thomas Miller
In the small hours before the dawn,
A widow weeps, her love long gone.
She clings to a photo, worn and frayed,
Of the life they shared, now decayed.
Her tears fall silent, like autumn rain,
A steady stream of endless pain.
She speaks his name, a whispered plea,
But only the night returns her plea.
The bed they shared now cold and bare,
A space where once love filled the air.
She lies alone, her heart a stone,
In a house that no longer feels like home.
Yet every night, she dreams him near,
His voice a ghost she longs to hear.
But when she wakes, the truth is clear—
He’s gone, and she’s left with only her fear.
A Christmas Knife
A Christmas Knife
By Thomas Miller
The biting chill of Christmas morning settled deep in Thomas Manhyme Jr.’s bones as he trudged through the snow-covered cemetery. His breath came out in visible clouds, dissipating into the gray sky as he clutched a single red rose in his trembling hand. The headstone of Thomas Manhyme Sr. loomed ahead, its stark granite surface engraved with the name that had been both a legacy and a burden.
"Why?" Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. "Why did you leave us?"
Silence answered him, as cold and unyielding as the winter air. He knelt, his knees pressing into the icy ground, and placed the rose against the headstone. His fingers brushed over the etched letters of his father’s name, his heart heavy with the question that had haunted him since he was a boy.
His father had taken his life when Thomas was just seven. He remembered the confusion, the unanswered questions, and the strange way his mother never spoke of it—except in anger. She had blamed his father, berated him even in death, as if her words could reach his restless soul.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," Thomas said bitterly, rising to his feet. "I’ll never understand you."
He turned and walked back to the small, crumbling house he still shared with his mother. As he approached the front porch, he stopped abruptly. A small, rectangular package, wrapped crudely in brown paper and tied with string, sat on the stoop.
Curious, and wary, Thomas picked it up. It was heavier than he expected. He brought it inside, the cold of the object biting into his fingers even through the paper.
Setting it down on the table, he pulled at the string and unfolded the paper. The sight made his stomach churn, and his vision blurred with tears.
It was a knife.
Not just any knife—it was the knife. The one his father had used to end his life. Its blade was tarnished but unmistakable. Thomas recoiled, the table screeching as he stumbled backward.
"What… the… hell?" he gasped, his hands shaking. His mother’s cruel laughter echoed from the doorway.
"Merry Christmas, darling," she sneered. Her voice was venomous, sharp like the blade itself. "Thought you’d want a little reminder of your dear old dad."
Thomas stared at her in disbelief, his heart pounding. He had always known his mother was bitter, cruel even, but this… this was beyond anything he could have imagined.
"Why?" he choked out. "Why would you do this?"
Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Because you’re just like him, Thomas. Weak. Pathetic. And I want you to remember that."
Anger surged through him, raw and blinding. But beneath it, a deeper truth emerged—a realization that burned brighter than his fury. His mother wasn’t just cruel; she was broken, consumed by bitterness and hate. Her cruelty was her prison, and he refused to be like her. He wouldn’t let her drag him into the darkness she lived in.
Thomas stormed out, leaving the knife and his mother behind. The icy streets offered no comfort, but the cold felt cleaner than the suffocating toxicity of that house. As he walked aimlessly, his heart heavy and his thoughts a whirlwind, he spotted a figure huddled against a lamppost.
A frail woman, wrapped in tattered blankets, was weeping softly. Her face was gaunt, her hands trembling as she clutched a paper cup with a few coins in it. She looked up as he approached, her red-rimmed eyes filled with shame and despair.
"Are you okay?" Thomas asked gently.
She shook her head. "I’m alone. No family. No home. Just another Christmas with nothing but the cold."
Thomas felt a pang in his chest. For the first time that day, he saw someone more lost than he was. Without hesitation, he extended his hand.
"Come with me," he said. "Let’s not spend Christmas alone."
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she hesitated. But something in his voice, in his earnestness, convinced her to take his hand.
Back at his house, Thomas avoided his mother’s glare as he led the woman inside. He ignored her muttered curses and went straight to the kitchen, throwing together whatever he could find—a roast, some vegetables, and even a pie he had planned to eat alone.
The woman, whose name was Mary, sat at the table, her hands warming around a cup of tea. As the food cooked, she shared snippets of her life—a series of heartbreaks and misfortunes that had led her to the streets. Thomas listened, his heart aching for her but also feeling something he hadn’t felt in years: purpose.
When the meal was ready, they ate together in the flickering light of the Christmas tree. Laughter and warmth filled the room, a stark contrast to the icy silence that usually pervaded the house. For the first time in years, Thomas felt a sense of peace.
As they finished their meal, he glanced out the window at the night sky. He imagined his father looking down, and for the first time, he felt not anger or confusion, but understanding.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," he whispered, a small smile forming on his lips. "I think I get it now."
His father’s legacy wasn’t in the knife or the pain it had caused. It was in the choice to rise above it, to find hope in the darkest moments, and to be the kind of man who could bring light into someone else’s life.
And in that moment, Thomas Manhyme Jr. knew he was no longer trapped by his past. He had found a way forward, one act of kindness at a time.
By Thomas Miller
The biting chill of Christmas morning settled deep in Thomas Manhyme Jr.’s bones as he trudged through the snow-covered cemetery. His breath came out in visible clouds, dissipating into the gray sky as he clutched a single red rose in his trembling hand. The headstone of Thomas Manhyme Sr. loomed ahead, its stark granite surface engraved with the name that had been both a legacy and a burden.
"Why?" Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. "Why did you leave us?"
Silence answered him, as cold and unyielding as the winter air. He knelt, his knees pressing into the icy ground, and placed the rose against the headstone. His fingers brushed over the etched letters of his father’s name, his heart heavy with the question that had haunted him since he was a boy.
His father had taken his life when Thomas was just seven. He remembered the confusion, the unanswered questions, and the strange way his mother never spoke of it—except in anger. She had blamed his father, berated him even in death, as if her words could reach his restless soul.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," Thomas said bitterly, rising to his feet. "I’ll never understand you."
He turned and walked back to the small, crumbling house he still shared with his mother. As he approached the front porch, he stopped abruptly. A small, rectangular package, wrapped crudely in brown paper and tied with string, sat on the stoop.
Curious, and wary, Thomas picked it up. It was heavier than he expected. He brought it inside, the cold of the object biting into his fingers even through the paper.
Setting it down on the table, he pulled at the string and unfolded the paper. The sight made his stomach churn, and his vision blurred with tears.
It was a knife.
Not just any knife—it was the knife. The one his father had used to end his life. Its blade was tarnished but unmistakable. Thomas recoiled, the table screeching as he stumbled backward.
"What… the… hell?" he gasped, his hands shaking. His mother’s cruel laughter echoed from the doorway.
"Merry Christmas, darling," she sneered. Her voice was venomous, sharp like the blade itself. "Thought you’d want a little reminder of your dear old dad."
Thomas stared at her in disbelief, his heart pounding. He had always known his mother was bitter, cruel even, but this… this was beyond anything he could have imagined.
"Why?" he choked out. "Why would you do this?"
Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Because you’re just like him, Thomas. Weak. Pathetic. And I want you to remember that."
Anger surged through him, raw and blinding. But beneath it, a deeper truth emerged—a realization that burned brighter than his fury. His mother wasn’t just cruel; she was broken, consumed by bitterness and hate. Her cruelty was her prison, and he refused to be like her. He wouldn’t let her drag him into the darkness she lived in.
Thomas stormed out, leaving the knife and his mother behind. The icy streets offered no comfort, but the cold felt cleaner than the suffocating toxicity of that house. As he walked aimlessly, his heart heavy and his thoughts a whirlwind, he spotted a figure huddled against a lamppost.
A frail woman, wrapped in tattered blankets, was weeping softly. Her face was gaunt, her hands trembling as she clutched a paper cup with a few coins in it. She looked up as he approached, her red-rimmed eyes filled with shame and despair.
"Are you okay?" Thomas asked gently.
She shook her head. "I’m alone. No family. No home. Just another Christmas with nothing but the cold."
Thomas felt a pang in his chest. For the first time that day, he saw someone more lost than he was. Without hesitation, he extended his hand.
"Come with me," he said. "Let’s not spend Christmas alone."
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she hesitated. But something in his voice, in his earnestness, convinced her to take his hand.
Back at his house, Thomas avoided his mother’s glare as he led the woman inside. He ignored her muttered curses and went straight to the kitchen, throwing together whatever he could find—a roast, some vegetables, and even a pie he had planned to eat alone.
The woman, whose name was Mary, sat at the table, her hands warming around a cup of tea. As the food cooked, she shared snippets of her life—a series of heartbreaks and misfortunes that had led her to the streets. Thomas listened, his heart aching for her but also feeling something he hadn’t felt in years: purpose.
When the meal was ready, they ate together in the flickering light of the Christmas tree. Laughter and warmth filled the room, a stark contrast to the icy silence that usually pervaded the house. For the first time in years, Thomas felt a sense of peace.
As they finished their meal, he glanced out the window at the night sky. He imagined his father looking down, and for the first time, he felt not anger or confusion, but understanding.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," he whispered, a small smile forming on his lips. "I think I get it now."
His father’s legacy wasn’t in the knife or the pain it had caused. It was in the choice to rise above it, to find hope in the darkest moments, and to be the kind of man who could bring light into someone else’s life.
And in that moment, Thomas Manhyme Jr. knew he was no longer trapped by his past. He had found a way forward, one act of kindness at a time.
Meta World Horizons Chronicles: Life Beyond the Code
Meta World Horizons Chronicles: Life Beyond the Code
Welcome to the "Meta World Horizons Chronicles," a captivating series by world author Thomas Miller that delves into the hidden lives of the Community Guides in Horizon Central. These guides aren't just your everyday avatars; they live, work, and play in the VR space, tirelessly ensuring that the virtual world remains safe and vibrant for everyone. When you log off, their day is just beginning.
These guides have lives just like ours, but their world exists entirely within the metaverse. They have apartments in Horizon Central, venues to unwind, and secrets that only unfold after hours. From scandalous love hookups to the intricate web of their personal lives, this series reveals what goes on behind the scenes in the VR world.
"Meta World Horizons Chronicles" offers an exclusive glimpse into the unseen moments of these dedicated guides, exploring the drama, the joy, and the complex reality of living in the metaverse. Dive into their stories and discover what it truly means to be a guardian of the virtual realm
https://www.authorthomasmiller.com/20...
Welcome to the "Meta World Horizons Chronicles," a captivating series by world author Thomas Miller that delves into the hidden lives of the Community Guides in Horizon Central. These guides aren't just your everyday avatars; they live, work, and play in the VR space, tirelessly ensuring that the virtual world remains safe and vibrant for everyone. When you log off, their day is just beginning.
These guides have lives just like ours, but their world exists entirely within the metaverse. They have apartments in Horizon Central, venues to unwind, and secrets that only unfold after hours. From scandalous love hookups to the intricate web of their personal lives, this series reveals what goes on behind the scenes in the VR world.
"Meta World Horizons Chronicles" offers an exclusive glimpse into the unseen moments of these dedicated guides, exploring the drama, the joy, and the complex reality of living in the metaverse. Dive into their stories and discover what it truly means to be a guardian of the virtual realm
https://www.authorthomasmiller.com/20...
The House on the Hill
The House on the Hill
By Thomas Miller
There stands a house on a lonesome hill,
Where time stands still, and hearts grow chill.
Its windows are dark, its doors long sealed,
A tomb of secrets, never revealed.
Within those walls, whispers reside,
Echoes of those who lived and died.
They speak of love that turned to pain,
Of lives cut short in the pouring rain.
The air is thick with sorrow’s weight,
As if the house itself bears fate.
Each creak of wood, each sigh of stone,
Tells of a place where no one’s alone.
For in the night, when the moon is high,
You can hear the wails, the softest cry.
The house on the hill, where memories cling,
A mournful dirge, forever to sing.
By Thomas Miller
There stands a house on a lonesome hill,
Where time stands still, and hearts grow chill.
Its windows are dark, its doors long sealed,
A tomb of secrets, never revealed.
Within those walls, whispers reside,
Echoes of those who lived and died.
They speak of love that turned to pain,
Of lives cut short in the pouring rain.
The air is thick with sorrow’s weight,
As if the house itself bears fate.
Each creak of wood, each sigh of stone,
Tells of a place where no one’s alone.
For in the night, when the moon is high,
You can hear the wails, the softest cry.
The house on the hill, where memories cling,
A mournful dirge, forever to sing.
poems that echoes vol 1
1. The Light of Her Smile
In the shadowed halls of endless night, A beacon shines, so pure and bright, Her smile, a whisper in the dark, Ignites the soul, ignites the spark.
She stands with grace, defies the storm, A heart of gold, a spirit warm, Through trials fierce, through pain and strife, She dances on, the light of life.
— Thomas M
2. Echoes of Yesterday
In the quiet of the evening's end, Where memories and dreams descend, The echoes of a distant past, In haunting whispers, hold us fast.
A love once lost, a friend now gone, In twilight’s glow, their spirits dawn, They linger there, in shades of grey, The echoes of our yesterday.
— Thomas Miller
3. A Sailor's Heart
Upon the sea, so vast and wide, A sailor's heart, his only guide, He braves the storm, the wind, the rain, His soul a compass, free of chain.
The ocean's song, a lullaby, Beneath the stars, the endless sky, He finds his peace, his purpose true, In waves that sing of skies so blue.
— Thomas Miller
4. The Dance of Autumn Leaves
Beneath the trees of autumn's grace, The leaves embark on one last race, They twirl and spin in crisp, cool air, A final dance, a love affair.
The earth receives them, soft and kind, A gentle bed for rest to find, In hues of gold, of red, of brown, They lay to sleep upon the ground.
— Thomas Miller
5. Silent Screams
In the silence of the night, Where shadows blend with pale moonlight, A heart's cry echoes through the void, A silent scream, a pain alloyed.
No voice to speak, no ear to hear, The tears that fall, the unspoken fear, Yet in the dark, a whisper breathes, A hope that clings, a heart that seethes.
— Thomas Miller
6. The Guardian of Dreams
In the realm where dreams take flight, A guardian stands, bathed in light, He watches o’er the sleeping souls, And guides them through the starlit shoals.
With gentle hands and eyes that gleam, He weaves the threads of every dream, He keeps the nightmares far at bay, And holds the dawn till break of day.
— Thomas Miller
7. The Forgotten Path
Among the woods where shadows play, There lies a path, long gone astray, With moss and vine, it’s overgrown, A silent trail, by time unknown.
Yet there, the echoes still remain, Of laughter, love, of joy and pain, A path forgotten, but not lost, A tale untold, at memory’s cost.
— Thomas Miller
8. The Phoenix's Rise
From ashes cold, from smoldering flame, The phoenix rises, free from shame, Its wings anew, it takes to flight, A symbol of undying light.
Through trials fierce, it finds rebirth, A testament to hope and worth, For in the fire, we find our grace, And rise again, to take our place.
— Thomas Milleriller
In the shadowed halls of endless night, A beacon shines, so pure and bright, Her smile, a whisper in the dark, Ignites the soul, ignites the spark.
She stands with grace, defies the storm, A heart of gold, a spirit warm, Through trials fierce, through pain and strife, She dances on, the light of life.
— Thomas M
2. Echoes of Yesterday
In the quiet of the evening's end, Where memories and dreams descend, The echoes of a distant past, In haunting whispers, hold us fast.
A love once lost, a friend now gone, In twilight’s glow, their spirits dawn, They linger there, in shades of grey, The echoes of our yesterday.
— Thomas Miller
3. A Sailor's Heart
Upon the sea, so vast and wide, A sailor's heart, his only guide, He braves the storm, the wind, the rain, His soul a compass, free of chain.
The ocean's song, a lullaby, Beneath the stars, the endless sky, He finds his peace, his purpose true, In waves that sing of skies so blue.
— Thomas Miller
4. The Dance of Autumn Leaves
Beneath the trees of autumn's grace, The leaves embark on one last race, They twirl and spin in crisp, cool air, A final dance, a love affair.
The earth receives them, soft and kind, A gentle bed for rest to find, In hues of gold, of red, of brown, They lay to sleep upon the ground.
— Thomas Miller
5. Silent Screams
In the silence of the night, Where shadows blend with pale moonlight, A heart's cry echoes through the void, A silent scream, a pain alloyed.
No voice to speak, no ear to hear, The tears that fall, the unspoken fear, Yet in the dark, a whisper breathes, A hope that clings, a heart that seethes.
— Thomas Miller
6. The Guardian of Dreams
In the realm where dreams take flight, A guardian stands, bathed in light, He watches o’er the sleeping souls, And guides them through the starlit shoals.
With gentle hands and eyes that gleam, He weaves the threads of every dream, He keeps the nightmares far at bay, And holds the dawn till break of day.
— Thomas Miller
7. The Forgotten Path
Among the woods where shadows play, There lies a path, long gone astray, With moss and vine, it’s overgrown, A silent trail, by time unknown.
Yet there, the echoes still remain, Of laughter, love, of joy and pain, A path forgotten, but not lost, A tale untold, at memory’s cost.
— Thomas Miller
8. The Phoenix's Rise
From ashes cold, from smoldering flame, The phoenix rises, free from shame, Its wings anew, it takes to flight, A symbol of undying light.
Through trials fierce, it finds rebirth, A testament to hope and worth, For in the fire, we find our grace, And rise again, to take our place.
— Thomas Milleriller
The Story Of Francis Ludwick
The Story Of Francis Ludwick
By Thomas Miller
Chapter 1: Introduction to Palatka
Nestled along the banks of the St. Johns River, Palatka is a small yet vibrant city with a population of 100,000. Its charming streets, dotted with historic buildings and lush greenery, exude a serene and welcoming atmosphere. Despite its modest size, Palatka boasts an unexpected cultural gem: the Palatka Philharmonic. This renowned institution has brought a touch of grandiosity to the city, making it a hub for music lovers and artists alike.
The Palatka Philharmonic was established through a collaboration with the Jacksonville Philharmonic, not to be confused with the Jacksonville Symphony Orchestra. The decision to base a philharmonic orchestra in such a small city raised many eyebrows. Yet, the unique blend of Palatka’s quaint charm and the high-caliber performances of the orchestra has created a cultural oasis that continues to thrive.
The Philharmonic’s influence extends beyond the borders of Palatka, attracting visitors and musicians from neighboring cities. Its concerts are highly anticipated events, drawing crowds who eagerly fill the seats of the Palatka Performing Arts Center. This grand theater, with its elegant architecture and state-of-the-art acoustics, serves as the perfect venue for the Philharmonic’s performances.
https://www.authorthomasmiller.com/20...
By Thomas Miller
Chapter 1: Introduction to Palatka
Nestled along the banks of the St. Johns River, Palatka is a small yet vibrant city with a population of 100,000. Its charming streets, dotted with historic buildings and lush greenery, exude a serene and welcoming atmosphere. Despite its modest size, Palatka boasts an unexpected cultural gem: the Palatka Philharmonic. This renowned institution has brought a touch of grandiosity to the city, making it a hub for music lovers and artists alike.
The Palatka Philharmonic was established through a collaboration with the Jacksonville Philharmonic, not to be confused with the Jacksonville Symphony Orchestra. The decision to base a philharmonic orchestra in such a small city raised many eyebrows. Yet, the unique blend of Palatka’s quaint charm and the high-caliber performances of the orchestra has created a cultural oasis that continues to thrive.
The Philharmonic’s influence extends beyond the borders of Palatka, attracting visitors and musicians from neighboring cities. Its concerts are highly anticipated events, drawing crowds who eagerly fill the seats of the Palatka Performing Arts Center. This grand theater, with its elegant architecture and state-of-the-art acoustics, serves as the perfect venue for the Philharmonic’s performances.
https://www.authorthomasmiller.com/20...
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.
