If I knew then, what I know nowI’d like to think I’d choose a different way to goBut, my mistakes have paved the wayDown this dark and lonely, dead-end road
Poised on a stool in a corner of yet another bar, in front of a crowd of maybe fifty, the harmonies he played reached out to those around him. The rhythms in his head stirred his heart. For a man of magic, a sorcerer with powers he had never asked for, his musical talents were sung spells. They were his weapon of defense against loneliness, bringing people to him like a siren’s song. Yet, for the most part, he let his music haunt the deeper needs of those who listened—letting musical phrasings stir wants unnamed or purposely forgotten. Although he felt but a living and breathing jukebox, these strangers who came to see him play were the only lives he could touch. He reached out to them with his songs.
That is until one night one of Adam’s songs lures him back toward his hometown, and he calls out for Stacey, the one he was forced to leave behind all those years ago. Only this time she wants answers as to why he left, and maybe a bit of revenge for the heart he destroyed.
NOTE:I wrote The Sorcerer’s Songs using my husband's song lyrics to create the plot. It was a lot of fun to write, and a great writing exercise! I think I was so inspired by his music that the story practically wrote itself. The Senior Editor who accepted the story wrote these wonderful words about it... "I also want to note that you write about magick with a heart and understanding that's pretty rare. There's a ritual feel to the music performance in your story." Go To http://www.broadjam.com/player/player.php?play_file=23955_260044to listen to the song that inspired the story called "The Road" from Steven's "Weathervanes" CD. I am just so excited, and so grateful to my husband, Steven Howell, for letting me use his music!
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Kiki gives an overview of the book:
If I knew then, what I know nowI’d like to think I’d choose a different way to goBut, my mistakes have paved the wayDown this dark and lonely, dead-end roadPoised on a stool in a corner of yet another bar, in front of a crowd of maybe fifty, the harmonies he played reached out to those around him. The rhythms in his head stirred his heart. For a man of magic, a sorcerer with powers he had never asked for, his musical talents were sung spells. They were his weapon of defense against loneliness, bringing people to him like a siren’s song. Yet, for the most part, he let his music haunt the deeper needs of those who listened—letting musical phrasings stir wants unnamed or purposely forgotten. Although he felt but a living and breathing jukebox, these strangers who came to see him play were the only lives he could touch. He reached out to them with his songs.That is...
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There’s a weathervane, on the barn, on the farm, that I grew up onAnd its frozen, stuck in time, just like the lines of the corn and siloI don’t know how I got so far from there, ain’t it just my wayI put my trust in rusted weathervanes The words poured out of him, his mind stuck on home all of the sudden, a place he had day to day, year after year consciously put from his mind. He had always refused to broad over it. That was not his way. But, this time, the song was writing itself, despite his feeble protests. While his fingers flew over the strings, his melody was like a gust of wind carrying his mind home. He plucked at the chords letting them vibrate through him awakening a new measure of feelings. As the image of the rolling green hill with a worn white-washed house sitting on top of it gave way to the valley where the barn set protectively nestled, his notes slide down the octave like the last bellows of a dying breeze. There’s a woman, on my mind, from time to time, and I rememberWhen she told me in the moonlight, we’d be alright, and I believed herI don’t know how we got so far from there, when we let love lead the wayLike so many rusted weathervanes Each intonation was leading him back to a place he knew he was better off staying away from. However, by the end of the first cadence, Stacey’s memory coaxed him to remember everything about her. Her smell struck a high pitch, her kiss a deeper one, until he thought he had conjured up the smell of her, all sweet vanilla and hay, laying beside him in the barn with her hand in his. His hands plowed through the strings giving each weighted tone a fevered sound to resonate from it.Back then, with his invincible sight of youth, he had seen them as a perfect match of two ready to conquer their part of the world together. He had imagined her to one day be his first, although it was never to be. Maybe its true, only Heaven knows whatever way the wind is going to blowThere’s a stranger, in my mirror, its becoming clearer as I approach himAnd there’s wonder in his eyes, I recognize, though I’d forgottenI don’t know how I got so far awayThere’s no denying day turns to dayIn spite of those rusted weathervanes
About Kiki
Ever since she was young, Kiki Howell loved to listen to a well-woven tale with real characters, inspired plots, and delightful resolutions. Kiki could spend hours lost in a book, and soon she knew that creating lives, loves, and losses with just words had to...
Published Reviews
Feb.25.2009
Author Kiki Howell provides four steamy short stories with a particular central focal point – the magic of stones.
This anthology displays a nice array of settings and the heroines and heroes bring...
Feb.25.2009
Kiki Howell wove a story of magic that drew me in on the first page. I was impressed with Samantha and how well she knows herself and her craft. Kiki’s use of words and descriptions is indescribable and...
Note from the author coming soon...