George was writing at the kitchen table. He watched his pen climb steathily upwards towards the top of letters , trying to guess what the pen was trying to say. But the pen knew more than he did and it was not telling him, a mere boy after all. For this was his Aunt’s favourite pen. Inked, even now each day in case she had something to say and she usually did. Today George found a word he did not know forming in front of him. A word long enough to be familiar, yet not so. He watched and waited for the pen to finish and as it teased him with its hesitance, a thin layer of white dust started to float down onto his hand and to settle like sand.