Fred Miller’s Publications


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Fred’s first short story, The Wedding, was published in 2003 in Puckerbrush Review, a print publication edited by the New England Poet Laureate Constance Hunting. Other stories by Fred have appeared in these publications: The Houston Literary Review, The Front Porch Review, Skive Magazine (Australia), Corner Club Press, Writing Raw, Scarlett Rosebud, Troubadour 21, Dew On The Kutzu-a Southern Ezine, Static Movement, Eunoia Review (Singapore), Roar & Thunder (Australia), Kaleidoscope, Bartleby Snopes, The Cynic Online, Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, Oxford Today, Connotation Press: An Online Artifact, Bewildering Stories, The Literary Yard (India), Fiction on the Web (UK) DuLugstSoSchon (Germany), Eskimo Pie, Deep South Review, Fabula Argentea, The Fable Online (UAE), Through The Gaps, The Linnet’s Wings (Ire.), Jellyfish Review (Indonesia), Donut Factory, Down In The Dirt, Potluck, Dime Show Review, TreeHouse Arts, AWS (Can), The Flash Fiction Press, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Charles Charter, Corvus Review, 50-Word Stories, Storgy, CommuterLit (Canada), The Wagon Magazine (India), Quail Bell Magazine, Literary Heist (Canada), Ariel Chart (Australia), New Reader Magazine ( NY, London, Hong Kong, The Philippines), CafeLit (UK), Paragraph Planet (UK), Furtive Dalliance, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Spillwords, Little Rose Magazine, The Creativity Webzine, The Literary Yard, Potato Soup Journal, The Ink Pantry (UK), Anti Heroin Chic, Academy of Heart and Mind, A Story in 100 Words, Six Sentences, Fine Lines, Page and Spine, FreedomFiction, Winamop, Writers Club, Grey Thoughts, Imspired, Storgy, Agape Review, Trouvaille Review, Poetic Sun, Sequoia Speaks, Discretionary Love, Soul-Lit, Littoral Press UK, The Bluebird Word, and Literally Stories (UK).

All of Fred’s stories are edited by

Muffy Harman

Three Poems in Agape Review

The Breech

Like sly evening shadows 
that slip toward the maw of dusk,
my days have begun to fade in time.

Pushing, struggling, shuffling, 
I stir knowing all will soon erode 
toward the eternal dust to come.... 

Read the rest here.

Wonders of the Spirit

Have you seen the iridescent breast of a
hummingbird in reflections of morning light?

Have you heard the echoes of a mockingbird
announcing his new perch in a stalwart oak?

Perhaps you have gazed on anxious moonbeams
a-sparkle over light-hearted, chattering brooks....

Read the rest here.

River of Dreams

River of my dreams
flowing passively by,
yet immersed in unbridled
joy watching moonbeams
in rhythm with ripples below.... 

Read the rest here.



Parked on a bench near the corner, 

she sat with one hand clutching a purse,

the other one rocking a stroller. 

In the gentle mist, I came to a stop 

and eased out of the car. With an umbrella, 

I moved to her side as a downpour ensued.


With her narrowed eyes locked onto mine, 

she said, “It took you long enough to get here.” 

“Ma’am?” I said. “Aren’t you from the studio?” 

she said. “Um, no, I just stopped to offer 

you cover from the rain,” I said. 

Well… Cecil is taking his sweet time, you know.”


“Are you sure you’re not from the studio?”

 “I’m sure.” It was becoming harder 

to hear her voice in the thumping rain. 

I looked down the street at a red and 

white awning. “Perhaps I could offer 

you some lunch.” “I could eat,” she said.


“And we can get your baby out of the rain.”

She laughed and looked under the sunshade 

of the baby carriage. “You hear that, Marcus?

You’re a baby.” She cackled as I peered 

into the carriage and saw a small dog standing,

his tail in vigorous motion.


At the door of the fast-food eatery, 

she parked the buggy by the door

and pulled a tarp up over the sunshade 

to prevent the rain from reaching the dog. 

“You behave, Marcus. I’ll be back 

with something good for you,” she said.


As we stepped into the restaurant, 

she paused and looked up at me. 

“You recognize me?” she said. I gazed 

at the short, plump gray-haired woman, 

her tattered sweater held together with safety pins. 

“Um, no, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” I said.


“I’m Miriam, Miriam McKinney. I was in Cleo’s entourage 

in the movie Cleopatra. That was my debut film. Cecil said 

my work was splendid and he’d call when he needed me next. 

Damn him, he’s taking his sweet time. I’m a star. My time is coming

though, I know it is,” she said. She was looking at a compact mirror 

and wiping away heavy eyebrow liner that had run in the rain.


We moved toward the counter where an associate 

in a paper cadet hat stood beaming at us. “May I 

help you?” he said with a big toothy grin. “What 

will you have, Miriam?” I asked. She never broke 

eye contact with the young man at the counter. She barked,

“Gimme a cheeseburger, animal style and a side of fries.”


“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “and you, sir?” he said, 

his eyes widening. I gazed up at the wall menu. 

This was a new experience for me, but before I 

could say anything, Miriam barked, “Give him a 

Double-Double with fries and give us two pink lemonades,”  

she said as she shuffled away toward a table.


My billfold in hand, I asked, “What do I owe you?”

The associate, his smile unwavering, said, “The guest 

ahead of you has paid for your order.” I looked around. 

No one was there. Though puzzled, I said, “Thank you, 

thank you very much.” “A name for the order, sir?”  

he said. Miriam shouted across the room, “Cleo.”


When I arrived at the table, she pulled 

a faded newspaper from her purse, and 

unfolded it. Her finger moved 

to a photo on a page. “That’s me to the right 

of Cleopatra. Claudette got it right. Liz overplayed  

the part.” She shook her head. “What a disaster.”


With almost no delay, I heard the paper hat associate

shout, “Cleo.” I stepped up to the counter and took

the sack and two drinks. When I returned to the table,

Miriam had replaced the newspaper in her purse

and was looking at her fingernails. I sat down and 

handed the sack to her so she could retrieve her sandwich. 


She stood, grabbed the sack and one of the drinks and looked 

down at me. “Are you sure you aren’t with the studio?” 

“I’m sure,” I said. “Well, I thank you and Marcus thanks you,” 

she said. She quickly turned and was gone. Flummoxed, 

I peered down at the red palm motif on the cup 

and drummed my fingers in rhythm with the rain.


“IN-N-OUT” is one of fifty-three poems in Fred’s new

book “MY LA, Poems by Fred Miller,” available on


An Autumn Walk

First published in Winamop

Our reliable mantel clock ticks away through the early morning hours,

reminding me I am alone. A week ago, the village priest, in solemn

tones, presided over your last rites as we said our final goodbyes.

The womenfolk of the village have come and gone with carefully

chosen words, cakes, and casseroles. All is still except for Sam,

his tail in motion as I scratch his floppy ears….

Read the rest here.


First published in Littoral Press UK.

Arriving home, I saw her eager little eyes
feasting on the Sesame Street fare of the day
with three small fingers placed between her lips.

Pausing to watch her, I recalled those rosy little
cheeks cuddled in the crook of her mother’s
arm, her long eyelashes at rest, her mouth agape.

One evening, I skipped a sentence in a bedtime story
only to feel her chubby hands against my cheeks
and heard a mighty protest: “No,” she said with
authority. I returned to the first page and began anew.

Once satisfied, she allowed me to cover her with a blanket. Her night
light glowing, I gazed on reflections of quarter moons, fairies, and stars
against a pale pink wall. And turned to her and whispered, “I love you,
Susan.” She blinked and replied “I know” before drifting off into dreamland.

The Poet

First published in Littoral Press UK.

A morning Wall Street Journal covers
a shadow that has entered my space.
“A poem for some change?” he says.

My newspaper slowly descends at
this interruption. I gaze at his face, a
map rutted with country roads and lanes,

the whites of his eyes laced
with latitudes and longitudes
leading down paths to nowhere.

He pauses to search my mute countenance,
his look filled with suspicion and despair.
“A poem for some change?” he says again.

My paper now folded, I rise and lead him
to the counter and offer him breakfast.
He nods. “Coffee?” “That would be nice,” he says.

I signal the counterman, slide my credit card
into the slot and wait. Then I return to my seat,
leaving this sojourner studying me as I move away.

Soon I realize someone is again in my presence.
I glance over my paper at this would-be poet and wait.
He takes a breath and chimes in:

“The lightning bug is very brilliant,
he hasn’t any mind.
He goes stumbling through his existence
with his headlight on behind.”

A broken grin emerges across his face.
Through a tear in his tattered shirt, I spot
needle tracks, hallmarks of an endless hell.

My eyes lock onto a vision of fading hope. He nods and
shuffles away, his monk’s pate covering an abyss that
at one time must have housed insights and grand visions.

My ability to concentrate on financial updates shot,

I fold the paper and rise to leave. Passing him across the room,
I hear his simple plea recited again, “A poem for some change?”

California Wildflowers

First published in Fine Lines.

Wild sea fairies astir in sparkling amber nods
abide in soft rhythms with secreted zephyrs
fashioned by lively spirits that zip around and
gift alluring pleasures for eager eyes to see.

Dawning rains cloak purple haze in sparkling bonnets
while awaiting new glories of the morning light
to come as ramparts of desert bluebells fill the
hills with reflections of the vast expanse above.

Happy are those who are favored to stroll among
the baby blue eyes, lupine, and canyon flowers,
brushstrokes of assurance that traces of nature’s
pursuits teem across the scope of all creation.