Quent Cordair
Short Stories
For the Woman Who Has Everything
Sarah woke to silence. Thin lines of moonlight lay in diagonals across the floor and rose in needles up the walls. She listened for awhile. The only sound was the soft crush of her hair against the pillow.
She slipped her legs from beneath the layers of blankets and let her feet touch the chill of the hardwood floor. As she stood and walked, a line of moonlight slipped around one ankle, then the other, ascending deliberately, scanning and measuring her body in strict undulations. At the west window the moon caught her fully, a slender white animal beneath the new winter's sky. [Read more...]The Whistler
In the middle of the plain, as though hewn from a mountain of crystalline quartz, rose sun-dazzled facets of towering glass. From the top of the tallest came a sound, a sparkling cascade of notes. The window washers were preparing their scaffolding for the day's descent. One was whistling a symphony. The other two engaged in conversation.
"First day, huh, kid? What's your name?"
"Bobby. And yours?"
"Walt. So what did you do to deserve this? Parents finally kick you out of the house?"
"No, I'm saving money for school next fall. And besides, I like the view."
"School? Hmmf. I've got a degree in psychology, and look where it got me."
"Who's the guy on the other end?" Bobby asked.
"You don't recognize that face? Well, it's been a while, I guess. See that gold-colored building over there?" Walt pointed to the city's second tallest. "He used to sit in a plush office on the top floor. That man was the president of his own bank—and now he's washing the windows on one. He's the biggest failure this side of the Mississippi." [Read more...]The Seduction of Santi Banesh
His leg was smooth and hard, the skin deeply tanned. Her finger moved along the armrest of her seat, unconsciously following the groove between the muscles, from beneath the tennis shorts, down the length of the thigh, rising gently to the knee, cutting in again down the calf to the ankle. Below the short sleeve of the shirt a matching, well-defined arm flowed to long, strong fingers, which held her ankles as the lips touched the back of her thigh, just above the knee—
Her hand whipped from the armrest to clutch at the amulet hanging between her breasts. The graying man in the business suit across the plane's aisle had stopped staring at her some hours ago, his head now buried in a slick-covered paperback. The god in tennis shorts was in the row ahead of him and, from the more forward position, wouldn't have seen her looking. Her parents still sat in front of her, and her little brother, bless his heart, had his face plastered to the window, watching the sea below. Through her robe she held the amulet tightly and closed her eyes. She hadn't eaten in three days, and there were still five days to go. She tried not to think of it. One day at a time, she reminded herself. One hour at a time. She had to compose herself, to be strong, to fight her body. And how was it that men were looking more and more like food? [Read more...]April's Justice
The point of focus was four-and-a-half feet above the ground, forty yards away, centered between the deep wagon ruts of the frozen dirt drive where it crested the hill. There was nothing at that point, nothing but the chill gray December air. The air was held steadily on the tip of a thin metal blade, which was couched snugly in a square "U" notch—the rear sight of a 1903 Springfield 30-06. The little lead ball inside was waiting to spin madly out of the rifle's biting, spiraling grooves and, in a twentieth of a second, hiss across the short distance. Should a man happen to be walking up from the main road, it would be his misfortune to cross the path of the metal ball, with his chest.
The thought gave her satisfaction, but she didn't smile. Her cheek was pressed hard against the varnished walnut stock. The occasional snowflake that landed on her face melted there, unnoticed. The cold well-oiled barrel lay steadied across the top of a neat stack of firewood. Since summer, she had bruised her shoulder again and again as from varying distances she had blasted jars and tins to smithereens. The bruises were yellow now, and the powerful rifle had become familiar, a constant companion, like the quilted blanket she had carried with her everywhere as a child. [Read more...]A Prelude to Pleasure
Garrett Brace was soaring seven miles above the earth, flying faster than sound. When the snowcapped Rockies came sharply into focus, he pulled the wheel back with one finger, pushed the throttle in with another and sent his plane climbing toward a wall of dark thunderclouds. The white machine sliced neatly through them and shot out into an empty blue sky, where below there was only a carpet of cottony clouds, stretching away to the distant horizon.
"Okay, Pete, she's yours," he said to the pilot beside him. "According to the weather reports, it should be smooth sailing from here to New York." But he sat for a moment longer, letting his hands rest on the controls until he felt the cool metal warm to the heat of his touch. He smiled: it was a fine plane, the best that money could buy.
Pete had been watching him. "Garrett, you should have been a pilot yourself—but back during World War I. I keep seeing you in goggles, scarf and leather jacket."
Garrett chuckled softly. He was a deep, quiet man with dark wavy hair; his eyes were always thinking, often laughing.
"Okay, Pete, she's yours," he said. [Read more...]Excerpts from 101 Ways to Foil a Terrorist—The Manual.
#37.
Explain to hijackers that the word "jihad" was miscopied from the ancient texts. The original word was actually "jihat," meaning "return to your caves immediately, to be gloriously buried alive by the infidels' bombs." [Read more...]
The Sculpture that Won the War
Once upon a time, in the early weeks and months of a war in defense of a country, there lived a sculptor who had only the face to finish of a most magnificent sculpture. The country was in greater need than ever of Art's fuel and inspiration, to survive, defend, conquer, reconfirm, rebuild, and thrive once again as America. The sculptor, with renewed vigor and determination, threw his efforts into what he did best: sculpt. Days, nights, coffee, curses, dejection, perseverance, satisfaction....Within a few weeks of the enemy's first strike, the sculptor had sent his clay to the foundry, and shortly thereafter was able to deliver the masterpiece to his gallery's client who had commissioned it. [Read more...]