The Republic of Thoronia

So, here in Thoronia we have been epically busy living life, running things into walls and making stories. So, we’ve been a bit out of date when it comes to our usual selection of reviews on stuff and things, comments about worlds and other various tidbits of information. So, we’ve compiled it all here into one post. Tons of reviews of things, pointless arguments and opinions about random stuff. Why? Because we are well aware that the Republic of Thoronia is your number one place for news and reviews, and you value our opinions far more than everyone else’s. Right? Break!

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            The recorder, the ancient marvel of equipment that enabled children across the globe to be able to play music in ways that they never though imaginable. Granted, the instrument is used for formal classical performances by real, educated adults, but the recorders acumen lies not in the professional exposition, but in the amateur’s usage.

            When I was in elementary school we would play the recorders as a class, to a tune that the teacher, the crotchety Mrs. Fray, who, I believe was teaching to us from beyond the grave. She appeared to be at least 620 years old, give or take a few, seeing as how I could only count to about 30 at the time. Each Halloween we were assigned two things, one, learn Grieg’s “In the Hall of Mountain King,” and two, take an excerpt from your favorite book or commercial and make a tune out of it.

            Grieg was, unfortunately just an ugly excuse to force us into reading sheet music. When the assignment ended up being due, Mrs. Fray would simply tell us to bow our heads and close our eyes, and then she would proceed to play “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” on a dusty, scratched old LP. The song was, when listened to it in this manner quite frightening, but it wasn’t the music that frightened me, it was the ideas that it gave me.

            The image that I’d created in my mind of the mountain king’s hall was something like this: A cumbrous underground hall, by underground, I mean under a mountain. The hall was elephantine and elegant, with tapestries and other meaningful displays all around it. The king himself was a colossal ogre of a man, sort of a combination of Andre the Giant and Gollum. He would exhibit robes that were crimson and covered his entire body and would scream aloud to his minions the tasks in which he decided for that day. He could also make lightening spark out of the mountain… and lava. He also had a sizable crown that was made out of the bones of the frightening and snarly monsters that he would capture inside of the mountain. I was always there, eyes closed at first, but suddenly whisked away to the King’s hall, where I would be forced to sit and watch as he tossed around orders and would speak with his gnarly teeth to his disciples. I was never noticed, thankfully, but at each moment I felt on the verge of being spotted and eaten by the King.

            After listening to the song in the dark music room we would give our “midterm.” Our “original” piece that we’d converted into music. I chose the Shane Company commercial at the time. It was really the only thing I could remember without having to actually work at it. It was located right off Arapahoe Road on Emporia Street, one mile east of I-25. It was open Monday through Friday till eight, Saturday an Sunday till five. That was my song, I said the words and then played some random notes on the recorder, I think my napkin that had my notes on it read something like: 4/4 A# B# C D E# F G# this is stupid.

            I passed the class, in case anyone was wondering. I think I got an S.