Strings Attatched

by Chickenscratch

Modulation

Before I knew it, I was caught up in a whole new world of music. There were so many things to hear, so many things to play. I had never been happier than I was then. My father supported me in the beginning. Of course he had been excited that his filly held talent in music. Although he didn’t show it, I knew he was happy. My mother was proud too. She told me over and over again how she had known from the beginning that I was going to be a musical mare.

My return to school was the biggest success for me. If I had been popular before because of my father’s status, I was even more so now that I had my cutie mark. Like the rest of the children, I got a chance to showcase my talents. My teacher, Mr. Huckleberry, told me at the end of the week I could do a special performance for everyone. It was my first concert. I’ll never forget the feeling I had that morning, lugging my music folders to school. I had arranged the order of the songs I wanted to play perfectly, and practiced them over and over through the week. When I sat down at the piano, I felt like I was going to pass out. It was an exhilarating feeling, and I was nervous even before my hooves touched the keys. However, this time I knew, everything would be perfect. Music was what I was meant to do. I played that first note, and from then after I was trapped in my own consciousness, pouring my heart and soul into the keys, wanting everyone I knew to hear how beautiful music could really be. And they did.

By the time I reached secondary school, I had begun to change. I still listened to classical music and the artists that my father loved, but I started to slowly immerse myself in more modern music. Rock and roll. Punk. I became fascinated with guitars and drums, and soon I began to save my money for more instruments. My first guitar was my prized possession in that time. It had taken months and months of saving and doing jobs for ponies around the neighborhood to pay for the instrument, and when it was finally mine I treated it like my own child. It was acoustic- the wood finish was beautiful, and it had small flowers with birds flittering about them painted across the bottom. I played that guitar like there was nothing else in the world that mattered, and there wasn’t. Music was a part of me now, and I would never let it go.

High school was a great turning point for me. Everypony finally knew who they were and what they were meant to be, and they wanted to showcase it to everyone they knew. I joined the school band as an auxiliary percussionist. I worked through the whole section, mastering every instrument I could. It was then that I got my hooves on my first drum set. Even though it belonged to the school, I loved that thing dearly. I started taking percussion lessons after school. I’ll never forget my teacher. She was a sort of middle aged unicorn, but she knew everything there was about music. Her name was Note Runner, though no pony dared call her anything besides Ms. Runner. She was strict and unforgiving, but it only made her a better teacher. Lots of the ponies in the band hated her, but to me she was one of the greatest mares I had ever known.
Note Runner helped me to learn the works of more instruments than I could even keep track of. To this day I’d still like to thank her for all she’s done for me, but she has long since disappeared.

Over the years, as I had become more and more immersed in modern music, my father slowly stopped supporting me. It was very clear that his interests lied in more classical types of music, while mine had extended to more modern terms. Electronic music was now settling in, and I was all about it. My father of course believed that music made with machines would never be as good as a pony playing. He would often remark on how it wasn’t ‘real music’ and things of the like. That was the point that I realized I had begun to rather dislike him. Soon I was itching to leave for college. I knew where I wanted to be: The Royal Canterlot School of Music. It was only the very best music school in all of Equestria, and I knew from the start that I needed to go. I did all I could in high school so that I could be accepted. When the time came to send the applications, I thought I would die from how anxious I was. Every day I spent pacing in the front room, peeping out the front window to see if the mail mare was here with the post. Every time she arrived I would burst out the door and take the mail from her hooves.

When the return letter finally arrived I couldn’t bring myself to open it. When I saw it in the pile of letters I remember dropping the whole stack right out on the front porch, my knees wobbling. The mail mare helped me pick up the letters clumsily, and she set them inside the doorway as I stood quivering, looking at the return address on the envelope.

“Something wrong?” she asked, landing on my porch.

“Can you…? Oh I couldn’t ask that of you!”

“Miss Scratch?” The peagsus was very polite for a mail mare.

“Could you read this letter for me?” My voice shook when I asked the question.

“Oh! Umm…sure.” The mare took the envelope in her hoof and gently tore the top open with her teeth.

“Be careful…don’t tear the letter! Oh I’m sorry, what does it say?” I had to sit down to hide my quivering. I think the mail mare could tell, and she patted my shoulder with her wing. She extracted the letter and read it. I think she read it over more than one time, because I grew so nervous that my teeth began to jitter, and I ended up chomping at my hoof.

“Miss Vinyl Scratch,” she said, looking up with a huge grin, “don’t you worry about a thing. You’re accepted to The Royal Canterlot School of Music.” I screamed like a little filly and threw my hooves around her in the heat of the moment. She hugged me back, a little awkwardly, but still shared my excitement.

“I’M ACCEPTED!” I screamed, causing the mail mare to cringe. She handed me the letter, and I read it over and over again. When my parents arrived home I sputtered and spewed the good news to them. Both of them were incredibly excited for me, and we had a party that night. I remember my mother sneaking me some alcohol while my father wasn’t looking. I was going to miss her when I left.

When I boarded the train for Canterlot, I remembered the first time I had been there, when I had gotten my cutie mark. I took care to sit by the window, and clutched my bags close as I watched the landscapes outside roll by. I finally knew what my father had meant when he said he was going on a journey. It was what he saw when he heard his music, and the places his mind took him as he played. I knew that now, and I slowly leaned my head on the glass and fell asleep.

Life at Canterlot Music School was everything I had imagined it to be. The campus was absolutely beautiful, and the buildings looked like they were something out of a fairy tale. All of the students were incredibly talented, and I valued my time with each and every one of them. The pony I shared my dorm with played mainly brass instruments; trumpets, trombones, tubas, the whole works. Her name was Golden Glissando. Golden Glissando and I became very close, and she attempted to teach me the euphonium, at which I failed miserably, much to her entertainment. However, the day that changed everything was brought exclusively by her, when she invited me to a performance at the Royal Canterlot Orchestra.

It was a late spring day, and class was letting out. I stumbled from music theory, weary eyed. We had gone over the modes again in class, and I was still struggling to understand.

“How did it go again?” I asked Golden Glissando, tapping my head. “Ionian…phrygian-”

“Dorian comes after Ionian, Vinyl,” she interrupted, showing me her notes page. “I don’t know why you’re having such a difficult time remembering these.”

“They’re all weird I guess,” I muttered, scanning her notes with a sigh.

“Yeah. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she started, sliding her notes into her saddle bag, “I’ve got tickets to the Royal Orchestra, do you want to come?” My heart skipped.

“Did you even need to ask?” I replied excitedly. “Of course I do! How did you even get them?”

“A friend,” she replied simply. “It’s not important. The concert is this evening at seven. Meet me outside the hall at six thirty?”

“I’ll be there!”

“Alright, see you then. I’ve got lessons in a few, catch you later!” With that, Golden Glissando galloped off to the dorms to fetch her instruments. Before I knew it, the clock stuck six, and I was still trying to finish the last of my homework for the day. It would take me a good deal of time to get to the hall, and I’d be late if I didn’t leave soon. After brushing my unkempt mane as best I could and managing to put on a collar and tie I was out the door and into the streets.

Canterlot on a weekday evening was busy, and the streets were congested with ponies returning home from work. I fought through the crowds to make my way towards the concert hall, which was on the other side of town from the university. I heard the bell ringing for the half hour mark and began to panic. I was going to be late! I pushed my way into a back alley, which I skidded through and emerged on a different street, galloping between carts and taxis in the roadway. When I finally reached the hall it was ten till seven, and Golden Glissando was still standing on the stairs, tapping a hoof impatiently.

“Sorry,” I started as I approached her, panting. “Traffic.”

“I figured that would happen,” she said, giggling. I cocked my head, confused. Why was she laughing? We would miss the concert if we didn’t hurry.

“Come on then, let’s get inside before it starts,” I said anxiously, trotting up the stairwell.

“Oh, about that.” I twirled around, looking at my friend, who was still giggling. “It actually starts at seven thirty. I knew you would be late somehow or other, so I gave you an earlier time.”

“You what?” I asked, a little angry. “I could have finished my homework!”

“And missed the concert?” I blushed, looking away. Golden Glissando smiled, trotting up to me. “I know how you are. Besides, you got here at exactly the right time.” The bells began to ring overhead, and I counted the gongs. It was seven.

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Glissy.”

“Any time, Vinyl.”

We entered the grand hall and gaped in awe. The entire place was full of dressed up ponies, but more impressive than that was the building itself. The intricate patterns on the red carpeting continued up the carved marble pillars and onto the ceiling, where magnificent chandeliers hung, lit in dazzling light. The staircases were gigantic, and there were ushers on every corner. Golden Glissando showed our tickets to one of them, and we were shown to the hall. In the concert hall were row upon row of red velveted chairs with beautiful wood finish on the arm rests and backings. I eagerly chose a seat in the front, much to my friend’s discontent. We settled in quickly before the entire hall was fit to burst. I watched all the musicians make their way onto the stage and begin warming up their instruments. Golden Glissando made a remark on how small the trombone section was while I gawked at the five bassoon players that had seated themselves towards the back.

“That’s more bassoons than I’ve seen in my entire life,” I told her.

“More bassoons than trombones,” was her disgruntled reply. The conductor appeared on the stage, and there was great applause. He did not speak, only bowed, and took his place on the stand. Using his magic, he raised the baton. The instruments were raised, and upon the downbeat the hall was filled with incredible music, the likes of which I had never heard. My jaw dropped and I looked to Golden Glissando, who looked about to cry.

“Can you hear that french horn line?” she whispered to me. “I didn’t even know they could reach that high of an octave.”

“Me neither.” I knew nothing about french horns, but went along with it anyways. Slowly my eyes closed, and I felt myself slipping off into a dreamlike state as I listened to the incredible music being produced from the orchestra. My mind wandered, and I began to go on a journey, like my father had. The pathways in my mind twisted and turned, and when the music was over I opened my eyes with more reluctance than I did in the mornings when I woke up.

“Did you fall asleep?” I heard Golden Glissando ask over the thundering applause.

“I was thinking,” came my reply. The conductor turned, and raised his hoof for the attention of the audience.

“For this next piece, I’d like you to welcome a special guest to the hall tonight; the winner of our strings soloist contest, miss Octavia Strings!” There was loud applause as a creamy gray earth pony appeared on the stage, clutching a cello tightly to her side. I watched her approach the conductor and shake hooves with him, then turn to the audience and take a bow. She said nothing, but took her seat beside the conductor’s stand and set up her cello, exhaling deeply. I watched her, completely entranced. She was the most beautiful mare I had ever seen.

“Wow,” I muttered, “she’s incredible.”

“She hasn’t even played anything yet,” my friend whispered.

“Mhmm.” I leaned onto my hooves, watching her intently. The conductor raised his baton, looking over at Octavia. The earth pony nodded to him, and raised her bow to the strings of her instrument. The sound that came afterwards was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, and I knew from that moment that she was something special.