The Ride by John Everex

They look like my sons, but they’re not. I pretend they’re driving me to town as usual, but the

radio news verifies my suspicion: there’s no way Carl would listen to that man and not shout

obscenities. At eighty-two, I’m old enough to know leukemia ain’t gonna’ kill me, despite it

running wild through my withered body. No, it’ll be my heart, as it was for my pa and his before

him. I’ve done well getting this far – it’s further than they did. The engine shifts as we drop a

gear, approaching the turnpike, the freeway continuing on toward the southern cities. We’re

headed toward the open space of the mountains as I thought. I try to examine the boys in the

front, but my eyes haven’t worked in years. They’re soft focus, which is romantic and cosy they

say, but I can’t see shit.

I left my glasses at my place.

Utopia Mansions it’s called – my place – a bit like a cheap motel, but full of old shufflers

and nosers. I’d wanted a beachside residence with a view of the sea, but I got rooms smelling of

old man’s piss and cleaning chemicals. My home isn’t much different from the hospital mom

pushed me out into. Liz is laughing at me, wherever she is – she died ten years ago of lung

cancer, a lifetime of smoking and a slow death being strangled by the shit inside her lungs – but

at least she doesn’t have to live at Utopia Mansions.

The car slows further, the mountains still a purple bruise. We pass a rest area, a camper

van spilling people from inside. Kids. A dog. We used to do that as a family. “We used to do

that,” I say, my voice croaking. They ignore me and I feel like shouting. But I remind myself,

they are not my sons and I’m not going to give them any satisfaction. I stare out of the window

as mute as the dead, trying to get my brain in gear. I used to be top notch, to matter, until the

agency made cuts and our department was no longer needed. Severance they called it, a pension

and a long slide into retirement.

I look for indications of who they are – the similarities with Carl and John are uncanny –

they dress the same. Similar haircuts. Of an age. New clothes. Both of them. That’s the thing, my

sons never went for fashion; thrift store or second-hand was their style. These two are dressed

up to look like my sons, but wearing new clothes, judging by the creases in the never-worn-

before shirt. The way fake Carl holds the wheel too; his hands are uptight and professional, not

the slouch that Carl takes, one hand always itching to hold a cigarette like his mum.

And he’s not smoking.

And they still say nothing.

As we pull into a petrol station, I see the restrooms,

knowing this might be my only chance.

John started inventing stories as a child and haven’t stopped. John writes on Twitter (@EverexJohn) and publish work regularly on his blog ( ) as well as through His writing comes in various forms and lengths, including microfiction, flash fiction and short stories. John also write poetry, being especially fond of haiku. Currently, he is working on a new novel, which will be published in 2020. In addition to writing, I am a father, husband and teacher and currently live in the south of England

Poetry by Abuh Monday Eneojo Another Flight & Solace


And then I walked into the background

To visit the lonesome age of the proud

To see them at sea

And hear their incessant plea.


They looked at me with disgust

But I, with plight

I could sense the sense of this marauding

Beast in a stance

But their dancing eyes swindled the glittering heart-dance


And then my inexorable rump spoke

Hey! Leave this yoke for another day

This beast of the nation to their talkless talk

And deliberate dive to death’s play



When a man sinks into the wells of life

He doesn’t know how to stop the strife

He must pry into the thoughts of his mind

Willing or not; it exhumes and he is blind

In his conundrum ways suffice

Coming in like water embracing the soil.

In aged age of aptness he smiles the mice

He malice the world as he takes a solitude coil.

Abuh Monday Eneojo is a poet, author, trumpeter, Voice over artist and an on air personality at a campus radio in Kogi State, Nigeria. He also is an ardent lover of nature whose work revolves around the nature of things. His first publication, The World Within, was published September, 2018. He also loves the acrostic form of poetry. You can contact him on Facebook @Abuh Monday Eneojo, Twitter@MondayDpoet and LinkedIn@Monday Abuh or via email:



and host

Music prompt which comes up Sat&Sun 4-9PM (GMT). 4Lo me and turn on notification to feel the beat!


Holding Onto Dreams (c) Linda Crate

holding onto dreams

I remember

being bullied as a child

for everything:

being shy, my weight,

the color of my eyes,

my laugh, my refusal to

drink underage,

my clothes, my sensitivity—

anything perceived as weakness

was a weapon they’d use

against me,

it wasn’t until my uncle

took his own life

I realized that i didn’t want to die

just wanted the pain inside

of me to wither away

like a flower before winter;

and I feel so guilty for being so lost

inside my own pain

that I didn’t realize he had struggles

of his own—

but he told me to chase my dreams

relentlessly and never let them go,

and so, I am here holding onto this anthem;

hoping one day I can make him proud.

Linda M. Crate’s poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has six published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), more than bone music (Clare Songbirds Publishing, March 2019), and one micro-chapbook Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018). She is also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Productions, June 2018).

Follow Linda on twitter @thysilverdoe


Photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash.



re-post Poetry: The Reflecting Mind by Hillary Behsharam from FOTM Poetry & Art Digest Issue 1

The Reflecting Mind


You will know it

by the black smoke

and the fires I 

keep burning 

day and night.

Creation comes- 

in a tempestuous wave

an explosion of words

a book of images from

a tale yet to be told.

It is the business of every moment

to learn

which fuel burns hottest,

with the brightest flames for

highlighting phantoms

in the stardust.

“I am a poet from Chicago, and I am perpetually revising myself. I am in love with the stars and hope to have the chance to visit them someday. I have been writing poetry since high school, but until now I’ve focused more on developing myself, my influences, and my store of words than on publishing. I am continually working to develop a community of fellow lovers of writing and poetry on my twitter and Patreon. Join me!”

Twitter: @Behsharam

Image result for black smoke unsplash

Poetry by Samuel Strathman : Instability & Going Backwards


keep the sound out

keep your hands to yourself

let me think on my own


loneliness does not

faze me at all

companionship is the

root of all my problems


wait for me to come to you

or else I will shatter at your feet




caffeine lacks its usual potency

I am out of my body

a hollow chalky sound

bouncing off a long hallway

stumbling further and further from

where i belong

after you left

I fell into a sinkhole

where i started beating

myself up over losing you


Twitter: @_strathman

Samuel Strathman is a Jewish/Canadian poet, author, and educator who was diagnosed with a non-verbal learning disability at the age of seven.  Some of his poems have appeared in Half a Grapefruit Magazine, Montreal Writes, Peeking Cat Poetry, and Anti-Heroin Chic, with more to come later this year.  His book “The Radical Dreams” became available on Amazon back in April of 2018.  He lives in Toronto, Ontario