I make writing, but I am not made of wood or ink. You might see me in a older classroom.

I’m a type of sword, with a long thin blade. I’m quick and nimble, for dueling I’m made.

They call me a god wherever I rome and Close to the heat is where I call home. Seven siblings I have, now that one’s gone. I shepherded men atop mighty redstone. I make you reflect when I pour on the scene. I’ve made kings mad, and led a great queen

I'm angry but not I'm not raging. I'm an intersection but I have no traffic lights. I'm a symbol of life for some, but I'm a tool of death. I'm the passing of a ball, but the ball contains no dancers.

They may be small. They may be huge. They may be fast. They may be slow. Some are still here, flying around. Yet they have been here for millions of years. What are they?