There was something about yesterday’s hike that lit a fire under our collective ass. Did you know that the queen and I share an ass? Spank one; we both feel it. It’s all about family, in the end(s).
Seriously; the queen went to do what she does best, and I began some outdoor projects I’d been putting off since depression. Depression is a unit of measurement; did you know that? Four hours later, I’d completed them all, and even stumbled over a few extras.
I truly miss sitting on my patio…
Well shit. Someone emptied an entire handgun in the street about twenty feet from where I sat. I hope no one was hurt. There's been so much loss and pain in this neighborhood as of late. I care, but I don't care enough to get up and look. It's Mad Max rules here. Mind yo biz.
City life. I didn’t even flinch, and that’s not a brag. Where was I?
I can barely smell the gunsmoke above my Asian anti-mosquito incense. Living so close to the Trinity River, the inner city mosquito swarms know no season or time. It’s nonstop swatting. Because of that, I began studying some old remedies created from Asian rice farmers. Water traps with a kiss of oil on top; things of that nature.
OCT Skeeters will smoke your weed and give you herpes. I must be smarter than the bug, therefore I must go Asian. White folks, regardless of geographical origin, will want to spray some stinky aresol shit on it for a quicker solution. That’s not me. I try to help the environment whenever I can, otherwise this whole hippie gig doesn’t work.
Also, the humans on my block are nose blind. It’s a choice, and a damned good one.
The Edison Bulbs come to life, giving off that County Fair vibe from childhood. Stoned, asleep on a parent’s shoulder; what’s the difference? That’s right. Fifty years. Because of indisputable mathematics.
Warm, summer air, barely pushed between the neighborhood trees, until it isn’t. The breeze collects its strength as the sun dips low on an otherwise cloudless day.
It’s just a different swing set, dude. That’s all it is. Time travel, long and painful, but instantaneous in the minds of those brave enough to seek the path.
Texas tickles the sunburn on the back of my neck, thanking me for giving her a chance this weekend. I walked her trails and I waded her rivers, smiling every moment. I did so with a wonderful partner who led most of the way, and stuffed me full of amazing food. Any moment now, she’s going to plop her tiny butt down next to me, lean into my sun-crisped shoulder, and tell me how she loved her weekend. We rarely fail to gush when one of us slam dunks something to break the monotony.
There’s a piece of me that wants to fetch the acoustic, but I have new neighbors I’ve not met. Perhaps they’re unworthy of my musical shenanigans. It’s hard to be a hippie fifty years after the fact. Someone must, though. That someone may as well be me.
I don’t recall if I’ve ever felt this peaceful before…
In this moment, I mean.
And then the new neighbors come home, breaking my concentration. Warring lesbians with a pet dog. That’s my initial guess. The details matter not; all I care for is privacy, quiet, and tolerance when it’s my turn to make a little noise. My vinyl collection grows weekly, and my speakers sound like they’re from the seventies. Appetite For Destruction? Zep IV? Back In Black? Yeah, Friday is jam day. If we can see eye to eye on that shit, then it’s copasetic.
My only red flag is that they’ve both glared my way a half dozen times in a few moments without speaking. I get it, and I’ve always gotten it. I look like the freaking enemy; a middle aged, bearded white dude. Maybe they didn’t see me sitting here? These bare legs are mighty blinding.
Holy Hannigan’s Whore-phans; when is this going to end? I can hear them discussing the “white dude sitting down there”, and find them lucky I’ll never refer to them as “those black chicks up there”. That’s not my thing. The door swings both ways, but some of us have the decency to knock first.
I took the initiative to break the ice because I accidentally clouded her out. That’s my last name as a verb. I apologized, and introduced myself with my street name lol. Damn, that’s hilarious. My street name. English is basically a second language most places I go, and it was easier for them to call me “Gonzo”. My UK lit agent called me that (RIP) and I never really grasped onto it until recently. I didn’t want to have Thompson conversations with book-smart chodes. Chodes with flashing lights who haven’t investigated the fifteen or so gunshots that rang out twenty minutes ago. Insert Joe Walsh anthem here.
Back to it. Concentrate. Breathe.
It’s been a beautiful night in my porch swing. The bug deterrent fizzles out, and I finish my evening’s allowance of crop. I spent the whole time deep in regression. Touching, remembering; I’m there. Places I’ve not been since. Memories grace my nostrils in the most realistic of ways. My nostrils? Rarely do memories occur there; that’s why some people marry the same chick twice.
I’d disappeared inside a target on Trinity at a particular moment in time which occurred around forty-five years ago. I hadn’t smelled that smell since the early eighties. A drawer in a kitchen, filled halfway with whatever needed to go there throughout decades. You know the drawer I mean. It always had that unique smell house to house, combination to combination. That smell belonged to me.
This is why I worried when I began. I worried I’d be successful, and with great power comes great responsibility. Maybe it was a fluke, but I doubt it. I’ve been successful twice now. What if I get lost?
Besides, I just realized my wife had her head on my shoulder. Come to find out, she had a great weekend. She does that sometimes.
I’ll try again, but it’s more unsettling than I imagined. Third time’s a charm?
Want to help support The Gonzo Wolf? Buy and review some fiction!
To most, 1865 was an eye-opening year. The American Civil War was officially over and the soldiers fortunate enough to survive the bloody conflict returned home to collect the pieces of their former lives. To young Arizonan, Robert Jack, the fateful desert homecoming marked the end to all he once knew. Forgiveness is overrated. Death is final. Revenge, however, dances between the fine lines of mortality and eternity. Love always finds a way.
“Reading Jim Walker and the Redemption Hymn is equal parts quirky fun and riveting action. Cloud’s confident, entertaining voice draws the reader in like an old radio western: the perfect bite-sized story with a main character you’re ready to follow through every adventure he finds himself on. So, tune in next time…”
– Megan Stockton, author of Lovely, Dark & Deep
The history books would read that Jim Walker was brutally executed after the Battle of Goliad, but a few promises in the right ear blurred the contrast between blood and ink. Now an aging bounty hunter on the verge of retirement, his services are requested in the Northern Arizona Territory to solve the terrifying mystery of the Verde River Massacre. With guns from a local Deputy, courage from a saloon proprietor, and a deathbed confession from an all-too-familiar Medicine Woman, Jim sets off on what could be his final adventure. Will he lay the ghosts of his past to rest once and for all, or is he simply whistling his Redemption Hymn?
“Someone call DC and tell them this is how you write a female hero character!” – Lisa Lee Tone, Bibliophelia Templum
Angel Burns is a young firefighter with a shrouded history. During a routine night at work, she stumbles upon a demonic ceremony that brings her memories out of hiding – as well as her repressed supernatural powers. Angel soon learns her life was intended for things greater than extinguishing fires for mortals. Now on the payroll of the Vatican, Angel embarks upon an epic quest to protect the Gutenberg Bibles from evil. If successful, she will secure peace for generations. If she fails, the power of the ancient books will bestow an eternity of darkness upon all humanity!
Toby Liberman is nearing the end of his rope. After a fateful confrontation with his wife’s lover, he is chased into the woods only to be discovered by an unidentifiable creature. He is attacked and rendered unconscious. Upon waking at the scene of a gruesome triple homicide, Toby is arrested as the sole suspect and thrown into a jail cell with a strange man that knows way too much about his predicament. The stranger reveals to Toby that he now possesses the curse of the werewolf. Using his new-found strength to flee his captors, Toby begins to discover that things are not what they seem in the sleepy town of Twin Oaks, TX. Now hunted by law enforcement, as well as the town’s gun toting civilians, Toby seeks vengeance against his false accusers and embarks upon a quest to clear his name once and for all.
A Curse Beyond Comprehension. A Power Beyond Belief. A Girl Far From Home. Katie Liberman is your typical eighteen-year-old college student…or at least that’s what her family thinks. Picking up five years after the events of A Taste of Home, Katie has dropped out of school and embarked upon a dangerous quest to find Kurt Jimmerson, the New York City attorney responsible for her family’s werewolf curse. Unknown to her, the attorney’s grip on the ‘City That Never Sleeps’ is tighter than imagined and she’ll need any and all help available to be victorious. But… where do you find friends when you’re Far From Home?
Twin Oaks, Texas is at war! Taking place immediately after the Far From Home events in New York City, Katie Liberman has returned to rescue her birthplace from the clutches of her nemesis. As the paranormal battle of North vs. South rages in the shadows, the tiny town must decide to fight against the odds or become one with the darkness. Blood will be shed and only one will survive as the final battle of the Home Series concludes.
I know this is the part where I’m supposed to talk about the book, but I feel as though the synopsis needs its own preface to truly understand. 2023 was quite an eye-opening year! I began it by living my dream as a vintage steam locomotive fireman, but that dream was soon squashed thanks to my writing career. It won’t matter that you wrote your extreme horror offerings years ago and under a pen name. Also, it won’t matter that your publisher and author friends from days gone by express pleasantries and kind, nurturing words to your face, because they’ll clique-up and talk trash the minute you turn your back. F**k the biz, create. Create for art, not clicks. Click for love, not hate. Those are words true artists should have no issues living by, yet most seem to hide behind their keyboard shields, flinging ill-thought words of destruction toward once-trusted ears. Don’t pour something into everything; pour everything into something. Do it all by yourself if necessary. With any luck, 2024 will be the year of The Reverend. I’m not exactly sure what that means yet, but we’ll find out together. Anyway, here are a few short stories and poems I wrote as C. Derick Miller in 2023. I stole them from myself. Fair and square. Enjoy.
Poetry has always come naturally to me. Whether it is an expression of emotion toward someone I care about, or a display of humor pointed in the direction of those I loathe, it is my true outlet. Several of these works were written in a passenger seat while exploring the highways of the United States and somehow managed to survive “The Great Ex-Wife/Ex-Girlfriend Poetry Purge” of 2019. Others were penned during COVID-19 quarantine. Although it may not be the most epic poetry collection you’ve ever read, it all contains bits of blood and soul. You will feel something. Guaranteed.
“This profound collection of horror brings classic monsters into new light in the modern day” – B.L. Blankenship, God Walks The Dark Hills series.
The modern world is a crazy place. Worrying about childish politicians, empty grocery store shelves, and our pending membership to the “global disease of the week” club, it leaves very little time for the average reader to finish an entire novel. This is where Six from Five Seven: Short Stories from a Short Man comes in clutch! A story per day to keep the impending apocalypse away, with a single day left over to contemplate why you purchased this book in the first place. That sounds like an entertaining week when compared to the one you were destined to have regardless. What do a cursed husband, a privileged brat, a curious prostitute, a repressed savior, a vengeful son, and two hell-bound soldiers have in common? Their stories lie within the pages of this collection and invite you to tag along on their journeys of fate, redemption, and demise. When finished, you, dear reader, can hide this book inside your basement with the rest of those important documents you wished you’d never taken home. The FBI won’t be happy, but at least they’ll know you’re a cool person for owning a copy while conducting the raid. That must count for something, right? Let’s hope the judge thinks so!
Also, there’s a few other things not listed here that are floating around out there. Best of luck with the hunt.
Current Projects
Rev. Dare Cloud
Reverend · adjective. worthy of adoration or reverence. synonyms: sublime · sacred.
is a Dallas author, musician, and gonzo journalist. Some of his works include the controversial splatter-western Starving Zoe (written as C. Derick Miller), the Taste of Home trilogy, and the ongoing Jim Walker series. His literary crushes are (of course) Hunter S. Thompson, J.D. Salinger, and Kevin Smith. Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.
“You’ve got to press it on you You’ve just been thinking That’s what you do, baby Hold it down, Dare!” – Gorillaz
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