A/N: I don't own bassoons or saxes. I do own all the characters in the
story, except Destiny and a certain other deity that shows up in Chapter
Two. I also own the bizarre syntax herein.
Mitchell was a hardcore saxophonist. Great sax players are born as well as made through hours of practice, and Mitchell was born with a reed in his mouth and a neckstrap around his neck. Needless to say, his parents, a clerinetist and a tromboner, were aghast. "No son of MINE is gonna grow up to be an alto!" Anthony pronounced with a deep finality worthy of a director, and set out to spend the rest of his life making his son a very disgruntled bassoonist. And, as any band geek can tell you, disgruntled bassoonists are very dangerous people. Mitchell's first sign that he was not, after all, doomed to play fourth chair bassoon all his life came in sixth grade. One day when he stayed after to practice, he noticed Carter Jones's alto lying out on top of its case. The afternoon light shafted through the broken blinds and illuminated the keys in a way that made Mitchell's fingers ache. He advanced guiltily on the instrument as if Mr. Olson were about to explode from one of the soundproof rooms and begin berating him. But Mitchell had never been able to resist the voice of Destiny. He wore several scars, physical and otherwise, that attested to this fact. And at this particular moment, Destiny was screaming his name as the alto of doom drew him towards it. Nothing in Mitchell's short and angsty life prepared him for that moment. Not even the best chocolate cake his mother had ever created (his tenth birthday - he remembered it well) could begin to compare to the ecstasy he felt as he lifted the alto from its solemn resting place, put the reed between his lips, and with all his soul began to play the instrument he had been born to play. At first all that would come out was a squawk like that of a dying vacuum cleaner, and Mitchell trembled in fear that someone in the hall would hear. Worse, he imagined what would happen if it was Carter. But it was all worth it, as he reflected later, and he stepped quietly into one of the soundproof practice rooms, never taking his fingers from the keys as he shut the door behind him. Music flowed from Mitchell's soul and into the stale air of the closet. Song after song he had memorized as a child was magically transformed by this wondrous new instrument of expression. He stayed there for hours that night, romancing the saxophone until long after darkness had covered the land.
Mitchell was a hardcore saxophonist. Great sax players are born as well as made through hours of practice, and Mitchell was born with a reed in his mouth and a neckstrap around his neck. Needless to say, his parents, a clerinetist and a tromboner, were aghast. "No son of MINE is gonna grow up to be an alto!" Anthony pronounced with a deep finality worthy of a director, and set out to spend the rest of his life making his son a very disgruntled bassoonist. And, as any band geek can tell you, disgruntled bassoonists are very dangerous people. Mitchell's first sign that he was not, after all, doomed to play fourth chair bassoon all his life came in sixth grade. One day when he stayed after to practice, he noticed Carter Jones's alto lying out on top of its case. The afternoon light shafted through the broken blinds and illuminated the keys in a way that made Mitchell's fingers ache. He advanced guiltily on the instrument as if Mr. Olson were about to explode from one of the soundproof rooms and begin berating him. But Mitchell had never been able to resist the voice of Destiny. He wore several scars, physical and otherwise, that attested to this fact. And at this particular moment, Destiny was screaming his name as the alto of doom drew him towards it. Nothing in Mitchell's short and angsty life prepared him for that moment. Not even the best chocolate cake his mother had ever created (his tenth birthday - he remembered it well) could begin to compare to the ecstasy he felt as he lifted the alto from its solemn resting place, put the reed between his lips, and with all his soul began to play the instrument he had been born to play. At first all that would come out was a squawk like that of a dying vacuum cleaner, and Mitchell trembled in fear that someone in the hall would hear. Worse, he imagined what would happen if it was Carter. But it was all worth it, as he reflected later, and he stepped quietly into one of the soundproof practice rooms, never taking his fingers from the keys as he shut the door behind him. Music flowed from Mitchell's soul and into the stale air of the closet. Song after song he had memorized as a child was magically transformed by this wondrous new instrument of expression. He stayed there for hours that night, romancing the saxophone until long after darkness had covered the land.
