Lacking in equal doses of sense and thought, Allister one day tried to swallow a walnut that was in equal doses of uncracked and whole. It was one of those flashes of reactions that happen before the mind can protest, a child running across a busy street in chase of a ball. It was one of those flashes of reactions that become lodged in your windpipe and suffocate. Allister had been alone and knew little of the Heimlich (as the Heimlich had yet to be born) and little of any other means of dislodging. He simply clutched his throat and wrestled to breathe past the walnut.
When lightness of the head took over, Allister succumbed to reason, that his passing would come as the result of the stupidest of knee jerk reactions. He sat in his favorite chair, closed his eyes, and let the glaze of suffocation take over. And there was, at first, darkness of the purest variety and then a sudden shot of light. A flare that opened Allister's mind and took him through images of his life, a flip book of memories. His first cry, his first laugh, his first job, his first love, his first child, his second child, his second job, and so on so forth in thirds, fourths, and fifths. There were hugs and handshakes and walks and jogs and yards and pastures and friends and families and birthdays and funerals and houses and apartments and the feel of felt hats and leather briefcase handles and all flashing so fast, yet so full, and leading up to the ultimate climax of death by walnut.
Each and every memory was given due thought and due flash. And as they raced by, as seconds ticked by, Allister's breath grew weaker. His body grew limp, until that last possible moment when the body should have, by all reason, given up entirely. At that moment, when all else relaxed, there was a pulse, a tremor that rushed through a channel of nerves and sent his fist clenched first above his head and then into his gut hard enough to manually push a burst of air up his windpipe and pop the walnut like it were a champagne cork on New Years, sailing free and into the air. Allister lurched forward, frantically sucking in new air. And when he had been respiratorally satiated, he sat still, as still as he ever remembered sitting and looked at his clenched fist. It was the first time he ever really thought about having a fist, having an arm, having two of both in fact. He stared in the silent and soft look that only comes in the most gracious of moments when words fall flat.
When Allister regained thought, regained word, he thought of the flashes of memory and asked, "What," with utmost sincerity and confusion. For, the only memory that actually belonged to him was the choking of the walnut.
When lightness of the head took over, Allister succumbed to reason, that his passing would come as the result of the stupidest of knee jerk reactions. He sat in his favorite chair, closed his eyes, and let the glaze of suffocation take over. And there was, at first, darkness of the purest variety and then a sudden shot of light. A flare that opened Allister's mind and took him through images of his life, a flip book of memories. His first cry, his first laugh, his first job, his first love, his first child, his second child, his second job, and so on so forth in thirds, fourths, and fifths. There were hugs and handshakes and walks and jogs and yards and pastures and friends and families and birthdays and funerals and houses and apartments and the feel of felt hats and leather briefcase handles and all flashing so fast, yet so full, and leading up to the ultimate climax of death by walnut.
Each and every memory was given due thought and due flash. And as they raced by, as seconds ticked by, Allister's breath grew weaker. His body grew limp, until that last possible moment when the body should have, by all reason, given up entirely. At that moment, when all else relaxed, there was a pulse, a tremor that rushed through a channel of nerves and sent his fist clenched first above his head and then into his gut hard enough to manually push a burst of air up his windpipe and pop the walnut like it were a champagne cork on New Years, sailing free and into the air. Allister lurched forward, frantically sucking in new air. And when he had been respiratorally satiated, he sat still, as still as he ever remembered sitting and looked at his clenched fist. It was the first time he ever really thought about having a fist, having an arm, having two of both in fact. He stared in the silent and soft look that only comes in the most gracious of moments when words fall flat.
When Allister regained thought, regained word, he thought of the flashes of memory and asked, "What," with utmost sincerity and confusion. For, the only memory that actually belonged to him was the choking of the walnut.
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