She liked to talk. I thought it was silly how much she talked, but she didn’t care one bit. She was dark colored, like most of her family. She had a creative mind and spent hours writing and drawing to her heart’s content.

Her words were admired and adored but she herself was ignored and thrown aside when she wasn’t needed. She had lain on the floor for hours once, forgotten and lost.

She couldn’t express her joy when she was found and placed into the cup on the desk, among her other pens once more.