Allister rarely spoke above a whisper. His vocal chords were sensitive. Allister attributed this to a childhood habit of drinking water from a rusty pail, although there is no medical evidence to support this theory. In fact some circles believe the contrary-that the increase in rust would thereby increase his iron intake, thus making him healthier. It should be noted that this theory also lacks proper medical evidence.
Theories aside, though eloquent, Allister was most certainly quiet. This quite often was mistaken for sheepishness or shyness (previously thought to be one and the same). Such was not the case with Allister. Though quiet, Allister erupted in excitement (or was it giddiness?). He would be the first to admit that he did not always know how to share this with anyone-how he loved to frolic in the pauses, painting pictures and following imaginary lines (sunrises squirting from a fellow's nose). His world was at once ours and at once only his.
Understandably, the quiet made some uncomfortable. More than once (I would say sixty-eight times) the host/ess of the party would reach towards Allister in that way you would find a shepherd reaching for a baby lamb bleating and mangled by a wolf. Allister was not bleating. He was not mangled by a wolf. He was not a baby lamb and he wished not to be treated so. It was an argument that his silence defeated his wishes and made him to look devastatingly sad. This discrepancy only occurred if you paid attention solely to the lack of Allister's voice and not to the corners of his mouth. If you had been paying attention to these corners, you would notice an ever so slightly upward point from both sides that made the slightest of smirks.
Whilst others dreaded the silence, Allister sculpted the pauses into structures of such majesty that they only existed in his quiet. He would, of course, speak when he felt the drip of conversation in his mouth. But, not unless needed. Too much was to be done in the quiet. The table was playing a most disadvantaged game of tag with the chairs. The salt and pepper shakers were discussing Voltaire in the hearty manner of spices. And when the music would begin and the party would "finally start"-as some would say-and all collected on the dance floor, waving Allister to join them, he often times was happier where he was. After all, there was a symphony being conducted in the quiet. And light was bouncing and giggling off of the chandelier crystals.
Theories aside, though eloquent, Allister was most certainly quiet. This quite often was mistaken for sheepishness or shyness (previously thought to be one and the same). Such was not the case with Allister. Though quiet, Allister erupted in excitement (or was it giddiness?). He would be the first to admit that he did not always know how to share this with anyone-how he loved to frolic in the pauses, painting pictures and following imaginary lines (sunrises squirting from a fellow's nose). His world was at once ours and at once only his.
Understandably, the quiet made some uncomfortable. More than once (I would say sixty-eight times) the host/ess of the party would reach towards Allister in that way you would find a shepherd reaching for a baby lamb bleating and mangled by a wolf. Allister was not bleating. He was not mangled by a wolf. He was not a baby lamb and he wished not to be treated so. It was an argument that his silence defeated his wishes and made him to look devastatingly sad. This discrepancy only occurred if you paid attention solely to the lack of Allister's voice and not to the corners of his mouth. If you had been paying attention to these corners, you would notice an ever so slightly upward point from both sides that made the slightest of smirks.
Whilst others dreaded the silence, Allister sculpted the pauses into structures of such majesty that they only existed in his quiet. He would, of course, speak when he felt the drip of conversation in his mouth. But, not unless needed. Too much was to be done in the quiet. The table was playing a most disadvantaged game of tag with the chairs. The salt and pepper shakers were discussing Voltaire in the hearty manner of spices. And when the music would begin and the party would "finally start"-as some would say-and all collected on the dance floor, waving Allister to join them, he often times was happier where he was. After all, there was a symphony being conducted in the quiet. And light was bouncing and giggling off of the chandelier crystals.
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