In my seven years of slumming it in a freshly painted, gentrification nightmare/wet dream, I’ve never heard it so quiet. On Independence Day? This place has always been a beautiful war zone worthy of doping up your dog on Benadryl. That’s a thing, folks.
This year, something changed. I can only speculate as to what happened, but that’s never stopped me.
Let’s get you in the right mood…
This is a little ridiculous, but I feel like getting a bit of writing done. The pinky on my left hand is sore because the first thing I did when I woke up was write a song. A complete song. I came up with a riff on Friday as a joke for my daughter, and I swapped it right over into the lyrics of this tune. I called it Child Support. I might play it this weekend. Me and young Charlie Rose will be waiting our turn at Opening Bell in Cedars on Saturday.
This is where I’m at right now. I had another small guitar breakthrough, and everything is flowing really well. Me and the Les Paul are becoming great friends, as I hoped we would be. I still have some major imposter syndrome, both leftover from the writing career and me not taking music seriously until my 50th birthday. I didn’t take writing seriously until my 30th birthday, if I did at all. Before that? Society’s status quo; I failed miserably. Goddamn, what if music lasts until I’m 70? What in the fresh-fork an I going to learn between there and 90? It sounds exhausting!
That’s a thing.
Charlie is new at this, but she’s thirteen. The Reverend is new at this, and I’m fifty-two. Mentally, she and I are on the same level. Skill level as well; I can just say dirty words in my songs and get away with it.
The neighborhood. The neighborhood fireworks were sparse and minimal last night. I’m not sure of the exact reasoning, but I’m sure it had a lot to do with the price of things nowadays. A brick of beef could cost you a day’s pay if you happen to work a part time minimum wage gig, and that’s the kind of thing Russians were doing when I attended Junior High. Is this where we are now, folks? Surely not, because everyone we see on television (mostly politicians) are dressed head to toe in luxury still smelling of their Chic Fil A lunch sandwich. The one in which they disposed of half, and didn’t even drop a tear for the starving children in Africa aka little Joey from around the way.
It also doesn’t help that many of my neighbors are racially profiled at first glance, and didn’t want to tangle with the trigger-happy, incompetent Gestapo conveniently cosplaying as local officer # 3. I don’t blame my neighbors; I’m as white as the Pope’s ass, and I don’t want to tangle with those DPD f*cko’s. The law, the money, and the influence are all on their side from the moment they step on-scene, and my mouth wouldn’t survive prison. The drawback of being an artist. Those hair-metal guys from our childhoods cried when no one else was looking. Guaranteed.
Because of the above, I feel as though another July 4th slipped by without fanfare. Sadly, I don’t have many of of those left, if any. Who knows what tomorrow brings? I mean, yeah…I hope it’s aliens, but it probably won’t be. I could die. I seriously got a call from the FBI seven years ago verifying that someone wanted to kill me; tomorrow could be their lucky day. That’s why I wanted to sing this morning, and why my pinky hurts. You can’t be a singer unless you sing. Guitar took a bit more autistic effort, but dammit it feels amazing. If these are truly my last days, then I went out exactly as I wanted: a loudmouth, legendary son of a bitch, shunned by those who tasted me by proxy, with a gravestone worthy of a good rubbing. The fact I feel that way about myself means I’ve learned the answer to the ultimate question. As long as I can keep up this charade until the day I die; I won.
Between now and then, I’d like to experience a bit more illegal neighborhood fireworks worthy of the Brooklyn grids. The kind where you check your roof to make sure the bastard isn’t on fire, but you smile while you’re doing it. The kind with tailgates, bug-bites, and pretty heads on hardened shoulders.
Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.
Off to see Obsession this afternoon; I’m late to the game. Rev-iew to follow.
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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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