Word: truncate

truncate

\ TRUHNG-keyt \  , verb;

1. To shorten by cutting off a part; cut short: Truncate detailed explanations.

2. Mathematics, Computers.  To shorten (a number) by dropping a digit or digits: The numbers 1.4142 and 1.4987 can both be truncated to 1.4.

adjective:

1. Truncated.

2. Biology . A. Square or broad at the end, as if cut off transversely. B. Lacking the apex, as certain spiral shells.

***************************

    “Well, how is it?” Asked Jeremy hopefully wringing his hands while Alice, his older sister, looked over the pages. She sighed and put them down.

    “It's too long.” She said.

    “Too long? What do you mean too long?”

    “I mean exactly what I said. Your story is too long.”

    Jeremy didn't respond right away, hoping for some kind of elaboration. When it was clear none was coming, he spoke.

    “Well, what makes it too long? I mean, I think it's the exact right length.”

    “Then you're wrong. Look here,” Alice said, picking up the pages and flipping to the last few, “Your story is twenty-eight pages long. The problem is, the main climax occurs on page twenty-two, and the story is really complete at twenty-four. The rest is just you trying to pad out the story as long as possible.” She handed the story to her brother to look over again. He skimmed the pages briefly. He wrote them after all, so he didn't need to read them in any detail. That was Alice's job.

    “I don't see it. The pages you think are just padding show how the main character is moving on with his life. He got over his relationship problems and was once again able to write.”

    “And you show that very well at the end of page twenty-four, with the line: 'He looked at the old, dusty pad and pen, and sat down in front of them.' After that, the reader should be able to connect the dots and figure out that he started writing again, and you can effectively end the story with that line. After that, it's all just how he resumes his career and such. Totally unnecessary.”

    “But it shows his progress as a character. You always say there should be some kind of progress and development in my characters, the ending pages show that.”

    “And so do the previous twenty pages or so. Those last four pages are like adding an extra layer of whipped cream to an ice cream sundae that already has a lot of it.” 

   Jeremy looked up at Alice, her problems with his current story temporarily forgotten with the off hand compliment. This was the first time she had said something like that since he had started writing.

    “So your saying the rest of my story is good?” He asked. Alice looked away, suddenly finding the floor much more interesting.

    “Well, I didn't say that. You have improved though. You just have to work on knowing when to end it.”

    “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” He smiled knowingly at her. For her, comparing anything to an ice cream sundae was the highest compliment she could give. She would never admit it, of course, but she clearly liked the story up until the end. He words just made him think that he was right, and that she was just trying to find something to complain about.

    “So,” he continued, “Other than lopping off the last four pages, what else should I do.” He leaned forwards, leaning his elbows on the table they had been sitting at, and folding his hands under his chin.

    “Of course there's still things you should do.” She glared at his obvious attitude. She had chosen her words poorly, and now her younger brother would get a big head and ignore most of her advice. But she had to give it anyway. Otherwise he would never learn. “There's so many other small errors in the story, I don't even know where to begin.”

    “Well then,” Jeremy said, his smug grin still on his face. “Let's get to work.”

***************

A writer writing about a writer writing about a writer.  Let's just hope that writer isn't also writing about a writer, otherwise this could get really out of hand. 

 

Word: hieratic

hieratic

\ hahy-uh-RAT-ik \  , adjective;

1. Highly restrained or severe in emotional import: Some of the more hieratic sculptures leave the viewer curiously unmoved.

2. Also, hi·er·at·i·cal. of or pertaining to priests or the priesthood; sacerdotal; priestly.

3. Noting or pertaining to a form of ancient Egyptian writing consisting of abridged forms of hieroglyphics, used by the priests in their records.

4. Noting or pertaining to certain styles in art in which the representations or methods are fixed by or as if by religious tradition.

noun:

1. Ancient Egyptian hieratic writing.

*******************

   The priest waited patiently for the door to the pleasant looking suburban house to open, clutching his bible like it was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. In truth, he was just very nervous. Considering what he had been called about, it was quite understandable. Mr. Jacobs had called him up a few hours ago, ranting about demonic possessions and unholy noises coming from his son's room. Possession was a tricky subject for the priesthood. He knew the prayers to say, just like any other priest in the world, but he never actually expected to use them. He had always thought that such things were the work of over active imaginations. Yet, Mr. Jacobs and his family had always been good, level headed people who never thought much of such stories.

    It was Mrs. Jacobs who opened the door. She was dressed haphazardly, in stark contrast to her normal well kept, neat appearance. Her eyes were bloodshot, with deep dark rings under them. She had clearly not gotten much sleep. She was shacking visibly when she opened the door, a worried look on her face. But, when she saw him, she seemed to cheer up a bit.

    “Father Michael, thank god you're here.” She motioned him to come into the house. Everything seemed normal. Nice, neatly arranged furniture, paintings and a few potted plants dotted the hall and family room. The artificial smell of flower scented air freshener filled the room, so much so that it seemed as if they were swimming in it.

    “We tried dealing with it ourselves, but nothing seems to work. If anything, our influence has just made the problem worse.” She said, panic coloring her words.

    “Calm down. Why don't we sit and you can tell me exactly what's happening.” They sat on the newly upholstered, overstuffed couch. Mrs. Jacobs took a few deep breaths before continuing.

    “Well, at first the changes in Adam were slow, and gradual. We didn't even notice at first until only a few days ago. He started dressing in darker colors, listening to his music louder than normal. Then he started styling his hair oddly, and wearing things with chains on them. And now, well, we just don't know what to do. It's obvious that something unholy has taken hold of him, and well, we just can't live with such a thing.” She held her head in order to muffle the tears and short sobs that had started.

    He took a deep breath and thought about what he should do. From what she said it didn't sound like anything abnormal, but he had always heard that the devil worked in ways that were unexpected. So he would give her the benefit of the doubt for now.

    “Why don't we go upstairs and take a look then.”

    She nodded quickly, and got up, leading the way up the stairs. The stairwell was lined with family photos. The young boy pictured in them appeared to be just as well kept and behaved as his parents, so it was no wonder that the behavior she had described would warrant such an extreme response.

    They got to the boys room. Mr. Jacobs was sitting in front of the closed door, as if he wanted to keep something inside. When he saw the two of them, he got up and gave Father Michael a look that was both grateful and worried. He went up to his wife and the two clasped hands tightly, looking from each other to him.

    “He's in there.” Mr. Jacobs said. There was nothing odd about the door itself, and no sounds came from inside, so nothing seemed any different from normal. Then suddenly, the door opened, flying open with a bang.

    Adam stood in the doorway. He was dressed head to toe in baggy, black clothing, with chains of various lengths and thicknesses draped around him. His face was covered in white makeup, with the exception of his lips and around his eyes, which were also black. His hair was done up in sloppy rows of short spikes, each of a different length and thickness. His eyes looked at his parents and the priest blankly, no expressions showing on his white face.

    “Something wrong?” He said, taking care to move his lips as little as possible. It was clear that he was taking great pains to maintain he emotionless expression, but his eyes told them that he was more annoyed at the perceived intrusion.

    “No, no. Nothing important.” Said Father Michael, taking the Jacobs by the shoulders and leading them back down the staircase, and back to the family room. As they sat down loud, chaotic music filtered down from Adam's room. The worried parents looked hopefully at their guest.

    “Well Father, can you do something to save him?” Mr. Jacobs asked. The priest sighed and thought carefully about what to tell them.

    “I'm afraid there's nothing that I can do about him.” He said. The Jacobs' looked scared.

    “Is he really that fargone?” Mrs. Jacobs asked, leaning forwards.

    “No, it's just that he's not possessed.” He said. “Your son has just gone into a more rebellious stage in his life. I think he's just acting like that to be as different from you two as he possibly can. There's many more young people acting and dressing in the same manner your son is. The only thing you can do is wait for him to grow out of it.”

    The music from Adam's room grew louder as the teenaged boy emerged from his room. He went downstairs and quickly entered the kitchen, emerging with a half gallon of milk. The boy looked at the adults with the same elaborated look of not caring, and proceeded to go back to his room, chugging the milk as he went.

    “Unfortunately.” Father Michael said, concluding his thoughts as the door shut and the music was again smothered by the door.

    “Are you sure?” Mrs. Jacobs asked desperately, “There must be something you can do for him.”

    “I'll pray for his soul every day, and hope he comes to his senses.” He said, getting up. The other two mimicked the action, and held each other tightly.

    “I guess we really don't have any choice but to put up with it, do we?” Mr. Jacobs asked in a final bid to get the priest to do something. He just looked the two of them over and sighed again.

    “Maybe you could try counseling. It may not matter, but it's probably the best thing that you can do for him.” He said, hoping that would satisfy them. “Now, if you'll excuse me I'll see you all on Sunday.” The two parents nodded sadly, but said nothing as he turned and left, hearing the loud music play all the while.

   **********
Right now, I'm sure my parents are very, VERY glad I never rebelled in such an extreme manner. 

Word: concatenate

    

concatenate

\ kon-KAT-n-eyt \  , verb;

1. To link together; unite in a series or chain.

adjective:

1. Linked together, as in a chain.

****************
    The late autumn air was crisp, with a light breeze stirring up the fallen leaves, making them move through the air like dancers.  The sounds of children laughing and shouting filled the air while they ran around looking for their next big score.  Some of them moved in a way that only large amounts of sugar can bring to small bodies, fueling their scavenging like nothing else can, while their parents and older siblings frantically tried to keep up with the hyperactive children.  Even the setting sun did its part to bring the mood of the day to it’s peak, casting it’s brilliant red-orange light over the street from the cloudless sky.
    All this was lost on Ben, who was currently laying face down in a pile of soft dirt and leaves.  The only sound that he could hear of importance was the raucous laughter of his friends, who chose to make fun of his situation rather than help him up.  Ben didn’t share in seeing the humor of the current situation.
    He and his two friends, Ed and Carl, had chosen to save some money by pooling their limited funds into one big group costume for Halloween.  For some reason they thought a chain gang would be a good idea.  Ben’s current position was due to him tripping over the thick plastic chain fastened to his ankle.  He was just glad the ground was soft, and so avoided any serious injury.  Even so, the taste of dirt and leaves in his mouth was putting a huge damper on the otherwise enjoyable night he had been having up to that point.
    “You guys could at least help me up.”  Was the first thing he said, spitting up a stray leaf that had stubbornly remained in this mouth while sitting up.
    “Why?  I think you should roll around a bit more.  Makes the costume look more authentic.” Said Ed, laughing through his words.  He and Carl laughed even harder at the joke.
    “Oh really?”  Said Ben, grabbing the length of chain around Ed’s leg, “Well then maybe you should join me.”  He yanked hard on the chain, pulling Ed’s leg out from under him.  Ed fell hard on his backside and slumped down onto the soft ground.  Carl laughed all the harder at the sight.
    “You too.”  Ben said, repeating the action on Carl, who had finally stopped laughing now that he too was on the ground.  This time it was Ben’s turn to laugh at the other two.  They just looked at each other and joined in.  It took awhile for their laughing to die down and for the three of them to finally start to help each other up.
    “So why did we think this was a good idea again?”  Ben asked, dusting himself off.
    “I think we were watching some cheap prison movie or something.”  Carl said, stretching out his unchained leg.  “Guess we figured that was as good idea as any, so we went with it.”
    “Man we can so dumb sometimes.”  Ed said, picking up a few of the things the trio had dropped when they fell.  It was mostly bags of candy they had managed to coax out of people they visited, but also included plastic tools they had taken with then.
    “Guess that’s why we put up with each other.”  Ben said, taking the plastic shovel that was being offered to him.
    “Only until someone better comes along.”  Carl said, and then was immediately struck on the head with his sledgehammer before grabbing the fake tool out of Ed’s hands.  
    “Well then, shall we head off?”  Ed said, shouldering his pickaxe, imitating to motion from so many movies.  
    “Indeed we shall.”  Ben said, holding both his bag of candy and shovel in what he hoped was a dramatic motion.  “For we still have much to accomplish on this night.”
    “Yup.  Gotta show these little kids what a real sugar rush is after all.”  Carl said, casting his gaze at the children that had come to see what the commotion was about.  The three lined up in a row and shuffled off, making a very large effort into making their chain jangle as they went.
********************
Nothing much to say today.  Although, now I wonder if anyone reading this will try to make a costume like this when Halloween comes. 
shuffled off, making a very large effort into making their chain jangle as they went.

Word: hew

 

hew

\ hyoo \  , verb;

1. To uphold, follow closely, or conform (usually followed by to): to hew to the tenets of one's political party.

2. To strike with cutting blows; cut: He hewed more vigorously each time.

3. To strike forcibly with an ax, sword, or other cutting instrument; chop; hack.

4. To make, shape, smooth, etc., with cutting blows: to hew a passage through the crowd; to hew a statue from marble.

******************************
    “Damn it!”  Carus shouted, having missed his target.  He had intended to deliver a quick, light thrust to the top of the head, stunning it just long enough to deliver a killing blow to the skull.  The only problem was that he wasn’t using the large warhammer he was accustomed to using.  He had instead gone into battle with a large battle axe instead.  Although the use of the two was supposedly similar (at least according to the arms merchant who had sold it to him), but there were quite a few of his normal maneuvers that he couldn’t use.
    The reason for the change in weapons was the creatures he and his companions had been hired to eliminate rendered his hammer ineffective.  The creatures appeared to be a large ape with the skin of an octopus.  Their bones and organs also took qualities of the latter animal.  Although solid, they could be made soft and malleable at a moments notice.  It made them able move in ways that would also be impossible with a fully rigid skeleton.  This quality also gave them an annoying immunity to blunt force trauma.  By the same token though, they were somewhat more vulnerable to cutting weapons, which is why Carus chose to bring an axe instead of his hammer.  
    He heard a slight chuckle to his left, no doubt in response to his frustration at not being able to effectively dispatch the enemies.  
    “Oh shut up.”  He said, swinging the axe in a broad, horizontal arc, which also missed its target as the beast contorted its body away from the strike.
    “Sorry, can’t help it.”  Lars said, laughter coming through the words.  Lars for once, was quite satisfied with the current job.  Not only did it not require trudging through any number of unpleasant environments, taking place in a wide open field, but he got to watch the normally calm and precise Carus floundering around like a novice.  His weapons of choice, a pair of thin swords, were also very well suited to the task, designed to deliver several quick cuts that the creatures couldn’t evade effectively.   
    “It’s just the irony of the situation,”  He continued “Not only have I taken out more of these guys then you, but you’re the one complaining more than I am.”  He laughed again as he delivered an alternating series of horizontal and vertical strikes, felling another of the creatures.  “It’s just so...poetic if you think about it.”  
    “I thought I told you to shut up about it.”  Carus said, making another clumsy swing at a creature that had chosen to get in between the two of them.  The attack nicked the creature, but didn’t inflict any serious wounds.  Carus grumbled and muttered to himself as he readied another swing.  The creature didn’t let him set up the attack, leaping at the large man before he could ready his weapon.  Before the creature hit him, a wave of purple arcane energy hit it, followed immediately by it hitting the ground in two neatly cut pieces.
    “You know,”  said Grena, swinging her string of beads around her finger with the large looping clasp at the end, “I think both of you should just keep your mouths shut and focus on killing these things.”  
    “She swung the beads around again, releasing another arcane blade from the end of the necklace like a hunter flinging a stone from a sling.  Another of the creatures fell apart from the magic attack.  

“Speaking of killing them, why not use something else?  You know, maybe a big ball of fire or something.”  Lars said, using one of his blades to carve a spiral pattern into one of the creatures by running around it.

Grena sighed as she released another spell.

“You know any spells like that would take too long to cast.  And it’s not fire, it’s...”

“A collection of magical energy focused to give it properties similar to real fire, I know.”  Lars interrupted, “I’m just saying maybe trying something other than cutting them might speed things up a bit.    “  even as he was talking, he continued his assault of them, running two of the creatures through, using one of his swords on each of them.

“And I thought you were having fun here.”  She said, continuing her arcane barrage as well.

“Well, yeah I am.  But it’s getting late, and we gotta eat sometime you know.”  He said, smirking a bit.

“It always amazes me how you can think about food so soon after mercilessly slaughtering living creatures.”  She said, frowning a bit.

“You know he’s a crazed killer.”  Said Carus, after finally landing a lethal hit on one of the creatures.  “I’m surprised he hasn’t been arrested for murder yet.”

“So I like to kill things.”  Lars said, “Like you two are any different.”  As if to emphasize his point, he clipped off one of the creatures heads by scissoring it between two swords at the same time Grena used a particularly large wave of energy to cut through a short line of them, and Carus cleaved through one of them with a lucky vertical strike.  They couldn’t really say anything to refute Lars’s statement, given they knew it was true on some level.  The most they could hope for was to use their desire for lethal violence to more constructive ends.  It was the reason why they had all become adventurers, and why they had teamed up.

“Maybe,”  said Carus, “but you seem to revel in it.”  

“I’ve just embraced my inner killer, unlike you two.”  

“No, you’re just a sociopath that doesn’t want to deal with killing people.”

Lars couldn’t argue the point effectively, so he opted to deliver a comically over dramatic crazed grin as he dispatched another of the creatures. The other two didn’t seem to recognize the humor in the look, so he abandoned it.

The banter having been broken by his failed attempt  at humor, the trio continued their fight it relative silence, with the  exception of Carus’s frustrated exclamations, and Lars’s satisfied chuckles immediately following them.  It took them a good ten minutes, but they finally managed to dispatch the last of the creatures.  

As soon as the last one fell, Carus flopped back into a sitting position, dropping the axe unceremoniously behind him, not wanting to bother with the weapon any more than he had to now that its task was finished.  Grena took a deep breath and smiled as she fastened her beads around her neck, kneeling down to rest and recover her energy.  Lars smiled and breathed deeply as he cleaned his swords.

“You know,” he said, wiping one of the blades off, “We should do jobs like this more often.” The other two just turned and glared at him as he laughed, putting his swords away. 

************

I like these three, can you tell?  Anyway, I've been thinking a bit, and figured I might give something a try.  I've started two stories that can become the start of longer, more detailed stories.   So, instead of hoping for the right words to continue those stories, I might try just writing them up in their entirety and then putting them on a different site that can support such things (*coughdeviantartcough*)  It might take awhile before I get around to such things, and I haven't even decided if I'm going to do this, but when (and if) I do so, I'll put up links to them here.  They might even take the place of a weekly story or two. 

Word: foible

foible

\ FOI-buhl \  , noun;

1. A minor weakness or failing of character; slight flaw or defect: an all-too-human foible.

2. The weaker part of a sword blade, between the middle and the point (opposed to forte).

********************************

    The boy looked curiously at the figure that his small flashlight fell upon in the corner of the attic.  The man stood as far away as possible, squirming around to keep the probing light off him, so the boy couldn’t make out any kind of features the man had.  
    “Are you a bad guy?”  The boy asked.  The odd man stopped moving briefly, bringing his hand up to his face in thought.
    “Bad guy?” He repeated.  His voice was soft and quiet.  Almost melodic.  The boy still couldn’t make out any features, but he was starting to see that there was something odd about the mans skin.
    “Uh huh.  Mommy says that strange people coming into our house are bad guys.  She won’t say why though.”  The man thought some more about this.
    “I don’t think I’m a bad guy.  After all, I have been here for a long time now.”  The boy thought about this, and seemed satisfied with that explanation.
    “How’d you get here then?”
    “I’ve always been here.”
    “Why?”  A pause.  The man started shuffling around again, as if he was nervous about something and didn’t know what to do about it.
    “I was...” He paused again, searching for the right word, “made here.”  The boy giggled a bit.
    “That’s silly.  People aren’t made.  They’re born.”
    “Not me.  I was made.”
    The boy thought about this statement a bit.
    “Are you a robot then?”
    “Robot?”
    “Yeah, you know.  Like a person, buy with metal and wires and stuff.”
    “No, I don’t have any of that.  I think I’m similar though.”
    The boy’s face seemed to light up when he heard that.  
    “Can I see?”
    The man didn’t answer for a bit.
    “Alright, but please don’t be scared.”  He slowly made his way out from the corner he was in, and came into the more well lit areas of the attic.  As soon as he did, it was obvious what was so odd about him.  His entire body was clear.  The light from the boy’s flashlight shined right through him.  He was made of glass.  It was as if a fine glass sculpture had somehow come to life.  The only part of him that was different was the red, heart shaped piece in his chest, where a normal person’s heart would be.  
    “Cool!”  The boy exclaimed, running over to the glass man, looking intently at him, even passing his hand along to the opposite side of the glass leg, looking at it through the distortion of the glass.
    The glass man was obviously not used to this reaction.  He looked at the boy playing around.  It looked like he wanted to smile, but something kept him from doing so.  The boy backed away a bit and looked up into the blank features of the man’s face.
    “So what are you doing here?”  He asked.
    “As I said, I’ve always been here.  It’s where I was made.”  
    “What happened to the person who made you?”  
    The man looked down a bit and sighed.
    “He left.”
    “Why?”
    “I think it’s because he made a mistake with me.”  The boy looked the man up and down, but as far as his young eyes could tell, the glass man was just like a normal person, except that he was see-through.  
    “He did?  Where?”
    The man knelt down, and put his face close to the boys.
    “Right here.”  He said, pointing out a tiny, thin crack along his right cheek.  It was so faint that it could only be seen if someone was looking for it.  He stood up again, this time pointing out the heart in his chest.  “And here.”  He said, almost sadly.  Again, any crack that might have been there was so faint that it could hardly be seen.  
    “Why are those so bad?  You can’t even see them really.”
    “It didn’t matter to him.  The man who made me hated to make mistakes.  I saw him throw many things away just because he saw something wrong with them.  I think the only reason he didn’t throw me out is because I could just walk back in.”
    The boy laughed a bit at that.  Then still smiling, he went over to the glass man and looked at the heart again.  It seemed to be glowing faintly, like a candle in a paper lantern.  He didn’t know if it was because of the glowing, or because of the glass in the way, but he couldn’t see even the smallest of cracks there.  
    “How’d he mess up this part?”  He asked, pointing it out,  “It doesn’t look like anything’s wrong with it.”
    “There is.  It’s on the inside.  You see, I have emotions, just like anyone else.  I have felt lonely, and sad, and sometimes even angry.  He made my heart so that I could.  But, because he made just that single tiny mistake, I can’t show what I feel.  Maybe it’s also because of the mistake on my face, but no matter what I do, I can’t show my emotions.  I can’t smile, or cry, or anything like that.”  He sighed again and sat down on a nearby wooden box.
    “Oh.”  The boy thought a bit.  It seemed like the man didn’t want to talk about that anymore, so he figured that he would ask something different.  “So what do you do here?  I mean, you can’t just wait around or anything.  That would be boring.  So what do you do?”
    Even through the man’s emotionless face, the question seemed to cheer him up.  He stood up and rummaged a bit in a large pile of things near the far wall.  He found what he was looking for, and turned back to the boy, showing him a small glass figure.  It was a bird.  A pigeon most likely, but it was so well made that it seemed like it would start flying around the room at any moment.
    “I think my maker wanted me to help his work.  He made it so I can shape glass with my hands.  Watch.”  He went back to the pile and pulled out a shapeless lump of glass.  He held it up and moved the fingers of his other hand along the side.  The glass yielded to him as if it was clay.  “I stay here and made things I see out of glass like this.”
    “How many did you make.”  
    The man didn’t respond.  Instead he went over to what seemed like a large shelf with a cover over it.  He pulled to cover off, revealing what must have been hundreds of glass figures, all of them just as well made and detailed as the pigeon.  The boy’s eyes widened when he saw them all.  The looked at the man, and then to his handiwork.
    “You must’ve really been here a long time to make this many.”  He said, looking over the many figures that lined the shelf.

“Long enough that I remember when people used candles instead of light bulbs.”

The boy thought about this, not really being able to think of such a thing, he gave up trying to figure out just how long that must have been.

“And you’ve only stayed in here?”  He asked, waving his arms around to indicate the attic.

“Yes.  Most people don’t act like you do around me.  They get scared, and usually run.

Or the try and break me.  I usually just try and be as quiet as possible whenever someone new moves in.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Very.  I’m sure that I would have lost my mind if I had one.”

The boy didn’t seem to like this very much.  

“Ok.  From now on, I’m going to come up here every night, so you don’t get lonely anymore.”  

“Really?  You will?”  The man’s voice sounded hopeful, even if it didn’t show on his face.

“Yup.  I can even bring other things for you to do.  I can probably get a lot of stuff you can use.”

“Thank you.  I think I feel...happy right now.”  The man said.  It looked like he was trying to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to.  He looked up, out the small round window, and saw the sun coming up.  “But right now, I think you need to go, before your parents notice you’re not in your room.”

The boy turned and saw the sun coming up.  He nodded to the glass man and moved

to the entrance of the attic.  Before he left though, he turned around and faced the man.
    “By the way, my name’s Ian.  What’s yours?”
    “I never got a name.”  The boy nodded to himself.
    “Ok, I’ll think of one for you then.  I’ll probably have it by tonight.  See you then.”  He said, opening the door and tiptoeing back to his room.

  ******************************************

It's times like these that I wish I had given myself a higher word count to work with.  Oh well.  Not sure if I'm going to continue this here on the blog or not yet.  I might continue it elsewhere though, turning it into a full sized short story, since there is a lot I would have like to do with these characters.  What do you guys think?