And when he had landed or when he had bounced off of his skull, blacked out, heaped over, and finally regained consciousness, Allister made a decision. Years later, many would say that his action came as a symptom of the slight damage delivered to his brain from the landing. But, Allister always declared his decision to be of the most conscious variety, one made in a clear and functional head.
It was simple. It had made so much sense, the catapult catapulting him. Allister became a conservationist of words. Not necessarily for the sake of saving words for future generations, but because it could be so easy.
And, so, he penned. For, what else was a pen to do? He nosed. For what else was a nose to do? And when he needed to be somewhere, he biked, trained, or cared for the same question asked earlier but applied to different modes of transportation.
You may think hearing someone talk in this manner would be confusing. And you would be right eventually. But, at the start, oh, the joy in it all. How telephones telephoned and water watered and the wind winded and horses horsed and cows cowed and birds birded. It was so easy. So free and with such purpose. And think of all the words saved for the future (though Allister did not necessarily)! All wrapped and papered in wrapping paper and boxed in boxes and bowed with bows! For children to children with!
But, soon enough, the bubble bubbled for complications complicated things-as they tend to do. For a shoe can shoe, but so much more, too. And feet and legs and hands and fingers and toes and lips and even ears. Oh, they can shoe and feet and leg and hand and finger and toe and lip and ear. But, there was more. So much more and just not enough verbs. Not that way, anyway.
And, so it was, that Allister found himself unwrapping the wrapping and unboxing the boxes. Taking the words out, letting them free to do what they may do. To fill the air and roll in and out of mouths and ears.