an online magazine of fragmentary writing



Spring 2010 :: Current Issue

The Black Pen

Scott Allen

I’m in a place.

Silence is better.

I sent her a song.

The man who talked to himself.

It’s “no” every step of the way.

I feel like a dead animal.

Being alone is what makes you what you are.

A friend with no friends.

We don’t see a lot with our eyes.

God said, “shh.”

We are neither dead nor living, but somewhere in between.

I see old people racing to the finish line in their cars.

Pens everywhere.

He walked down to the river.
Sat down on his knees.
And hoped.
He went looking for inspiration, imagination and feeling.

By the time progress comes around, there isn’t any.

Everything is new, so a moment is important.

A boat with red sails moving by.
I am near the ocean.

Life is a crusade for some, a bonanza for others.

Don’t think about ___________.

Lost, losing, getting, a loss.

There was music behind them.

Is there anything to the motion of traffic?
The uncertain destination of cars.

Hope is endless, not continuous.

It is the same for everybody, except you, me.

There is a voice, no matter what it is, it is still a voice.

We live on and on hoping to find this “on and on.”

I can see my eyes.
They see something else.
I don’t know how it works.

All things disappear into a crowd.

I’m not even a part of this world.
I’m a particle.

It was death again, once more, forever someone else’s.

A gift to myself.

It is because the artist is free that we are free.

They watched him sleep.

We are made to live.
To wake up each day and keep going.
At least our bodies are.
Our minds are another story.

Forgotten, detached.

Don’t ever see him, just look at his words.

I write like someone else, but with my own pen.

My house is an apartment.
My apartment is a room.
My room is a dwelling.
My dwelling is a home.

We are all bored, chaotic.

At the very bottom of her voice, tease, scratch, the.

He looked down from his car at the squirrel, lying peacefully, by the road.

Speech is a habit.
Silence is a wait.

Words are kind of dreamy.

The night is in me.
The day is outside.
I’m like night and day.

What is the present?
Somewhat present.

Away, going, bye, once again, back!

We don’t know what is going on, but we do.

I’m supposed to be the same no matter what happens.

I’m so bereft of pleasure that I cry a little.

All I have to do is listen.

It takes time to be good.
It comes and goes.

Is there a language other than language?
The question of music.

A moment (un)like any other.

“Why would you want someone to read this?”
“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps…no, I’m not sure.”



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