James removed the sterling silver Cross pen from the mahogany box with reverence. He sat for a moment and relished the feel of the cold metal in the cleft between his thumb and index finger. “The words want to live, James,” he whispered to the pen. “You’ll help them won’t you?”

His life was full of dead words: on television, billboards, books, even the bottle of cranberry juice in the fridge. All dead words, shot onto paper by a laser printer or beamed onto a screen. It made him quite upset. So many lovely words that wanted life…

He placed his hand in the top left corner of the page and began writing. His eyes widened as the tip of the pen flowed gracefully over the paper and letters blossomed and grew. He smiled as they entwined around each other in graceful, symbiotic harmony. The pen wove an intricate tapestry of ink onto the page: You’re in good hands with Allstate, Five dollar foot-long, Cease-fire broken in Gaza.

“Beautiful, beautiful words, James. They’ll be alright now. You let them live.”