Astrolinium - writer, roleplayer, generalite, musician. Bastion of humor, shortness, and music. Here's some of his music for your listening pleasure... music created by him. Musical music. Also, some other stuff. Crap d'Astrolinium. Astro's Crap: Music and Other Things.
Music
for Piano
- Eden
- First Suite for Piano
- Imps in the Snow
- Sonatina in C Major
- Allegro
- Andante
- Presto con Brio
- Band on Holiday - Various
- The 1812 Overture - P.I. Tchaikovsky
- First Suite in E-Flat - Gustav Holst
- Pax - Original
- Night on Bald Mountain - Modest Mussorgsky
- Lux Temporis - Original
- For You - Original with Spencer Lusignan
- Anthem of Glory
- King of the Arabs
- Rondo for Wind Band
- The Locomotive
- Symphony in A
- Allegro
- Rondo
- Scherzo
- Allegro
Et Cetera
Short Stories
Up A Tree
The menacing howls filled his waking existence; the smell of sheer terror was upon him as he ran. He was running with one goal in mind: escape. He poured his strength into moving quicker as the hot, stinking breath blew on his backside. Then, he saw it: A chink in the defenses surrounding the beast’s lair. Mustering all of his strength, he leapt upward. A split second later, the squirrel was through the fence and on the lush grass of the neighborhood park. The pitbull scrabbled at the fence, whining, before ambling off in defeat.
Feeling quite happy with himself, the squirrel scurried (as squirrels tend to do) up the smallish oak tree in the middle of the park, and began sizing up acorns as an Italian might size up wines. But just as he started on a particularly plump nut, he found himself compelled to stop. He had definitely felt something. Freezing, not daring to move a muscle, he scanned the landscape for movement. Not finding the source of this definite something, he carefully turned around to check there. His thoughts, roughly transcribed into English, were thus: ‘Holyshitholyshitholyshit.’ His heart skipped a beat as he saw not merely the pitbull but also its master. The squirrel knew the beast’s keeper as the vilest profusion of malevolence ever to walk the Earth, the most sinful harbinger of debauchery in all the circles of hell, a terror who made the likes of Cthulhu seem like Oscar the Grouch.
It was little Tommy Johnson from across the street.
The archfiend stroked his underling as a man would pet his dog; the squirrel shivered in horror. The squirrel could only imagine what profane horrors were in store, what devil the Beelzebub had set aside. His worst fears were confirmed when out of the boy’s pocket came the most terrifying implement of violence ever devised. No beast on land nor bird in air nor fish in the sea had ever matched the power of this weapon to end all weapons: the mighty rock and slingshot.
Emitting a shriek of primal terror, the squirrel fled upward. He chattered in distress as he ascended to the apex of the mighty oak. To his horror, could not get high enough. The tree, a mere ten feet tall, was a death trap. The squirrel curled into a protective ball as the deadly barrage began. Each sickening crack of stone on wood was louder, closer than the last. He knew the end was upon him and had resigned to his fate. His life flashed before his eyes. Surely, death couldn’t be that bad; he had seen his friends die every day trying to cross the great gray Sea of Death.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain of pebbles ceased.
Did he dare open his eyes? Did he dare look at what final torture would be used by Tommy the Terrible? He did. He opened his eyes, and the darkness was lit up by a candescent glimmer of hope. The boy had run out of ammunition. The squirrel knew, because Tommy was kneeling in the grass looking for more rocks with which to end the small sciurid. Seizing his chance, the squirrel bounded down the tree trunk, tearing across the ten yards of grass between himself and the tall pine. Had any Indy cars been in the vicinity, he knew their paint jobs would have become bright red with jealousy. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; his heart pounded in time with his feet. He was going to make it! He was going to make it!
He felt a sharp tug on his tail and hit the ground. Rolling over, he saw Murphy’s Law had violently asserted itself as his master. The stinking, slavering pitbull had him pinned by his tail. He could feel the dragon’s fetid breath on his fur as its head loomed in front of him. The leviathan’s ugly mug gave birth to a wet glob of saliva, which then proceeded to fall on the squirrel, covering him in drool. There was only one way out that he could see. Only one chance of escape.
In a flurry of desperation, the squirrel sprang upward and bit down with all his might. Letting out sharp yelps of pain, the dog shook him about. He rode the beast like an epic hero. He was hanging on for dear life to assert himself as master. A few yards away, Tommy stared in awe, or so the squirrel liked to think. Emboldened, he bit down harder, hoping to draw his quarry’s blood. The dog roared and shook, trying to force his prey-turned-attacker to dismount. The squirrel held on for all he was worth, but it was not enough. The pitbull threw him. He hit the pine tree – he had been so close to escaping up it, to getting out of range of those terrible stones! – with a thud. So this was it. He awaited death with a steely gaze forward.
The pitbull approached him once more with murderous intent. Malice aforethought was evident in the eyes of the demon. The squirrel heard, then, a strange, feminine voice. The dog looked away as a piercing whistle emanated from the same direction. What fresh hell was this? What creature was so formidable as to make even the mighty pitbull heed its words? Our hero dared to risk a glance at the one who had spoken.
The woman was about thirty and wore a pink dress with a tasteful floral pattern adorning the hem. A chain studded with pearls adorned the bulging isthmus of a neck from which her head sprouted. A mole was the prominent feature on her face. The squirrel assumed it served to draw the gaze away from those unfortunate hairs that sprouted out of her chin. The woman opened her mouth and roared in some devilish tongue at Tommy and the dog. The boy whined petulantly, but she had brought the big guns. She stamped her foot and pointed at the fence. Tommy made a dejected noise. He and the dog loped off in defeat towards their house. Not bothering to look back or even to count his blessings, the squirrel scampered up the tree and promptly forgot about the whole affair.
Feeling quite happy with himself, the squirrel scurried (as squirrels tend to do) up the smallish oak tree in the middle of the park, and began sizing up acorns as an Italian might size up wines. But just as he started on a particularly plump nut, he found himself compelled to stop. He had definitely felt something. Freezing, not daring to move a muscle, he scanned the landscape for movement. Not finding the source of this definite something, he carefully turned around to check there. His thoughts, roughly transcribed into English, were thus: ‘Holyshitholyshitholyshit.’ His heart skipped a beat as he saw not merely the pitbull but also its master. The squirrel knew the beast’s keeper as the vilest profusion of malevolence ever to walk the Earth, the most sinful harbinger of debauchery in all the circles of hell, a terror who made the likes of Cthulhu seem like Oscar the Grouch.
It was little Tommy Johnson from across the street.
The archfiend stroked his underling as a man would pet his dog; the squirrel shivered in horror. The squirrel could only imagine what profane horrors were in store, what devil the Beelzebub had set aside. His worst fears were confirmed when out of the boy’s pocket came the most terrifying implement of violence ever devised. No beast on land nor bird in air nor fish in the sea had ever matched the power of this weapon to end all weapons: the mighty rock and slingshot.
Emitting a shriek of primal terror, the squirrel fled upward. He chattered in distress as he ascended to the apex of the mighty oak. To his horror, could not get high enough. The tree, a mere ten feet tall, was a death trap. The squirrel curled into a protective ball as the deadly barrage began. Each sickening crack of stone on wood was louder, closer than the last. He knew the end was upon him and had resigned to his fate. His life flashed before his eyes. Surely, death couldn’t be that bad; he had seen his friends die every day trying to cross the great gray Sea of Death.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain of pebbles ceased.
Did he dare open his eyes? Did he dare look at what final torture would be used by Tommy the Terrible? He did. He opened his eyes, and the darkness was lit up by a candescent glimmer of hope. The boy had run out of ammunition. The squirrel knew, because Tommy was kneeling in the grass looking for more rocks with which to end the small sciurid. Seizing his chance, the squirrel bounded down the tree trunk, tearing across the ten yards of grass between himself and the tall pine. Had any Indy cars been in the vicinity, he knew their paint jobs would have become bright red with jealousy. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; his heart pounded in time with his feet. He was going to make it! He was going to make it!
He felt a sharp tug on his tail and hit the ground. Rolling over, he saw Murphy’s Law had violently asserted itself as his master. The stinking, slavering pitbull had him pinned by his tail. He could feel the dragon’s fetid breath on his fur as its head loomed in front of him. The leviathan’s ugly mug gave birth to a wet glob of saliva, which then proceeded to fall on the squirrel, covering him in drool. There was only one way out that he could see. Only one chance of escape.
In a flurry of desperation, the squirrel sprang upward and bit down with all his might. Letting out sharp yelps of pain, the dog shook him about. He rode the beast like an epic hero. He was hanging on for dear life to assert himself as master. A few yards away, Tommy stared in awe, or so the squirrel liked to think. Emboldened, he bit down harder, hoping to draw his quarry’s blood. The dog roared and shook, trying to force his prey-turned-attacker to dismount. The squirrel held on for all he was worth, but it was not enough. The pitbull threw him. He hit the pine tree – he had been so close to escaping up it, to getting out of range of those terrible stones! – with a thud. So this was it. He awaited death with a steely gaze forward.
The pitbull approached him once more with murderous intent. Malice aforethought was evident in the eyes of the demon. The squirrel heard, then, a strange, feminine voice. The dog looked away as a piercing whistle emanated from the same direction. What fresh hell was this? What creature was so formidable as to make even the mighty pitbull heed its words? Our hero dared to risk a glance at the one who had spoken.
The woman was about thirty and wore a pink dress with a tasteful floral pattern adorning the hem. A chain studded with pearls adorned the bulging isthmus of a neck from which her head sprouted. A mole was the prominent feature on her face. The squirrel assumed it served to draw the gaze away from those unfortunate hairs that sprouted out of her chin. The woman opened her mouth and roared in some devilish tongue at Tommy and the dog. The boy whined petulantly, but she had brought the big guns. She stamped her foot and pointed at the fence. Tommy made a dejected noise. He and the dog loped off in defeat towards their house. Not bothering to look back or even to count his blessings, the squirrel scampered up the tree and promptly forgot about the whole affair.
Poetry
I Love Stars
When I ask you to picture stars,
what do you see?
White pinpricks on an empty black field?
But stars are so much more.
Stars are beautiful, colorful things, burning impossibly bright.
Burning with the heat of creation.
Go out into a place with no street lights,
late at night and far from the city.
Look up in the sky and you'll see
a billion crystal droplets winking at you from a million light-years away.
Look to the stars and you'll find
that the space between is anything but an empty black field.
They fill space's furthest reaches with fiery yellows and reds and blues,
as they fuse hydrogen into helium.
Some travel alone, while some travel in pairs or even threes or fours.
They cluster into great milky galaxies: ellipticals, spirals, and rings.
There are big stars and small stars, bright stars and dim stars.
Stars that have just formed, stars that are incredibly ancient.
Some lucky few might even have satellites,
little planets that waltz with them through outer space.
There are rocky ones and gassy ones,
big ones and tiny ones.
Some have rings and some have moons.
Some have both.
And then there are a choice, choice few stars,
that have one perfect planet.
It's not too hot, and it's not too cold.
It's just right, like baby bear's porridge.
There's an abundance of water,
and the weather is mild (astronomically speaking).
Once in a while, you'll get a planet that orbits a star.
And that planet has life.
When I ask you to picture stars,
what do you see now?
Is it still white pinpricks on an empty black field,
or is it something more?
Are stars not beautiful?
I love stars.
what do you see?
White pinpricks on an empty black field?
But stars are so much more.
Stars are beautiful, colorful things, burning impossibly bright.
Burning with the heat of creation.
Go out into a place with no street lights,
late at night and far from the city.
Look up in the sky and you'll see
a billion crystal droplets winking at you from a million light-years away.
Look to the stars and you'll find
that the space between is anything but an empty black field.
They fill space's furthest reaches with fiery yellows and reds and blues,
as they fuse hydrogen into helium.
Some travel alone, while some travel in pairs or even threes or fours.
They cluster into great milky galaxies: ellipticals, spirals, and rings.
There are big stars and small stars, bright stars and dim stars.
Stars that have just formed, stars that are incredibly ancient.
Some lucky few might even have satellites,
little planets that waltz with them through outer space.
There are rocky ones and gassy ones,
big ones and tiny ones.
Some have rings and some have moons.
Some have both.
And then there are a choice, choice few stars,
that have one perfect planet.
It's not too hot, and it's not too cold.
It's just right, like baby bear's porridge.
There's an abundance of water,
and the weather is mild (astronomically speaking).
Once in a while, you'll get a planet that orbits a star.
And that planet has life.
When I ask you to picture stars,
what do you see now?
Is it still white pinpricks on an empty black field,
or is it something more?
Are stars not beautiful?
I love stars.
Drama
Coming Soon!
Astrolinium would be pleased vastly were you to comment on his Music and Other Things with your opinions.
