Author: Quent Cordair

The Federal Death Agency

This one is for Andrew and Olivia. Having lost two dear ones to cancer over the past two days—a good friend on Sunday, a treasured performing artist yesterday—I promised that today, in their honor, I would “rail against the ideas and premises that have kept cancer alive, and against those who support, defend, and further such ideas.” Here comes the railing:

The FDA is truly and accurately, without exaggeration, the “Federal Death Agency.”* It’s the Federal Death Agency, the Federal Suffering Agency, the Federal Life-Shortening Agency, the Federal Disease & Sickness Prolonging Agency, the Federal Shackling & Prohibition of Desperately Needed Medicines & Procedures Agency. The FDA, if there were full truth in advertising, would be flying the Skull & Crossbones over their headquarters daily. The incalculable measure of death, suffering, pain, illness, and misery inflicted by this one agency alone is staggering.

And yet the agency itself is not the real problem. The agency is but a predictable, inevitable, logical symptom of the underlying disease, and the cause of that disease is both wholly self-inflicted and wholly curable. The cause of the disease, of which the FDA is a symptom, is 100% man-made. That man-made cause could be cured and eradicated immediately, could be destroyed forever, today—but it won’t be, not today, not tomorrow, not for many years to come, because the majority of men and women are so addicted to the cause, so vested in the cause and dependent on it, they would rather suffer and die themselves than face the responsibility for supporting and defending it. They would watch their own loved ones suffer and die before they would question, examine, reject, and replace the cause of that suffering and death with the only viable alternative—an alternative which already exists. Yes, the cure for the disease, of which the FDA and its horrific effects are but a symptom, already exists.

No one and no agency has the moral right to stand between an individual and his choice of any and every medical option available to him, especially when his life and health are at stake. No one and no agency has the moral right to stand between the inventors, producers, and providers of medicines, medical equipment, and medical procedures, and the patients who desperately want and need those products, procedures, and services, those who are willing, by their own judgment and moral right, to risk trying whatever available option in the face of the alternatives.

Those who believe and hold otherwise, that humans are by nature incapable of making their own healthcare choices, or shouldn’t be allowed to, for altruistic reasons, are operating on the very premises that caused the creation of that murderous entity which is the FDA. Those who hold that the individual’s own healthcare choices should and must be subordinated to the “greater good,” that the good of the individual should be sacrificed to the good of the less intelligent, the less educated, the “less fortunate,” are operating on the very premise that results in the unnecessary suffering and premature death of thousands, indeed millions, including the unnecessary suffering and death of those nearest and dearest to them.

Yes, if not for the philosophical premises of altruism that support the FDA, premises held by most Americans left and right, cancer, along with so many other diseases, would already be well behind us. Andrew Bergman, Olivia Newton-John, and countless others would still be with us today, happily living their lives. For those fortunate enough not yet to have succumbed to Andrew and Olivia’s fate, those who might still believe that the existence of the FDA is in your best interest—please do yourself a favor: think again. Or as Ayn Rand would say, check your premises. Discover the rational, life-saving alternative.

FDA delenda est.

***

*Credit to Harry Binswanger for the accurate epithet. See the article “The FDA is the Federal Death Agency” for further consideration. For the proper, principled approach to defending private medicine, see https://ari.aynrand.org/issues/government-and-business/health-care/ .

In light of Roe v. Wade

FeaturedIn light of Roe v. Wade

In light of SCOTUS overturning Roe v. Wade, I offer the following from A New Eden, Part II of Idolatry:

*****

Sophia’s white-gloved hands were lying in her lap, holding the Easter lilies she had taken from the arrangement next to where the casket had been.

“Keep driving please, Sam.”

Sam kept driving, passing the turnoff to the garage, continuing at a measured pace down the narrow lane, over the rolling grassy hills and through the shaded woody vales, all the way to the back of the estate, to where on the crest of the last hill stood the majestic red oak, where from the oak’s high branch hung the swing.

Sophia could still hear the squeals of delight as Roger or Aaron would push Julie. “Higher! Higher!” Julie would demand, her bare legs and feet reaching for the sky, her head thrown back in abandon as she arced out and up, over the falling slope beyond, over the easterly flatland, finding weightlessness in the open sky.

“Momma, I’m flying. . . .”

As had become their custom, Sam stopped the car fifty yards short. Sophia walked alone the rest of the way. She stood now before the swing, staring blankly at the empty wooden seat as it creaked and rocked gently in a passing lullaby of a breeze. Standing here, she would always be able to hear her daughter’s floating, soaring laughter. The memory, a mother’s sacred blessing, was now her burden forever to bear. Next to the swing was the granite stone, flush in the ground. On the stone’s polished face, unmossed and unweathered, the engraved letters and dates were too fresh, too young, too new. They always would be.

Almost from the moment Julie became a teenager, the laughing had ceased and the struggle had begun. Her driving desire for independence pushed against all restraints—reason and sensibility be damned. Missed curfews, angry arguments, stony silences, hurled accusations, slammed doors. Sophia wasn’t terribly surprised—her daughter had always been willful and independent, as Hales tended to be—yet she was disappointed. She had hoped to be spared. Aaron, through his teens, had never caused the slightest problem or concern. Julie lashing out was wounding, to be sure, but Sophia endured, knowing they would get through it somehow, as countless mothers and daughters through the ages had gotten through such phases. With all the sympathy and empathy she could muster, she kept the relationship tacked and pinned and stitched together through the strains, impasses, bitterness and tears, knowing that the two of them would survive and overcome, eventually. They were strong. They loved. They trusted each other. They were honest. Sophia would be there, waiting on the other side for her healthy, happy daughter to re-emerge. It would only be a matter of time, of perseverance. . . . But it required more patience than Sophia ever imagined she would have to find.

Then, in the middle of Julie’s fifteenth year—sooner than Sophia had hoped or expected—Julie’s demeanor changed. Indeed, her entire personality changed, practically overnight.

She had met a boy from the Church who convinced her to attend a youth service with him. Within a week, she declared herself a Christian, a redeemed Lamb of the Flock—saved. At meals she effused about Jesus’ fathomless love and God’s grace, which was not only her own personal salvation but the salvation of the whole world. Her black jeans, her formless, dark sweatshirts and her ragged sneakers were replaced by conservative knee-length dresses and low-heeled shoes and sandals. Her black hair with the rebellious red streak was dyed back to the original brunette. Her pixie cut was left to grow back out. Her makeup and jewelry were discarded—Sophia quietly rescued a set of diamond studs and a string of pearls from the garbage.

Her mother had welcomed the change with only minimal unease. At the dinner table, Sophia preferred the exhortations and enthusiasm for all things Flock to the seething and heavy silences punctuated with spewed anger. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that her daughter had jumped out of the frying pan and into—not the fire, but a vat of warm, sugary, liquid gelatin. The overt kindnesses and effervescent expressions of love for everyone and everything seemed to Sophia little more genuine or justified than the anger and venom. How long would this new spiritual high last? How long would the new medium buoy Julie up? How long before the gelatin would begin to solidify around her? How long before the spell broke?

Less than six months, as it turned out. In the middle of the school year, Julie insisted on transferring from her private school to the Flock’s academy. Roger had refused initially, but with Sophia’s patient persistence and urging, he finally acquiesced.

At the beginning of the summer break, Julie had travelled with a busload of Flock youth to a Church retreat at a campground in southern Idaho. When she returned, the effervescence and effusiveness had vanished. She wouldn’t talk, she wouldn’t open up, no matter what Sophia or Roger or Aaron tried. Once again, she shut everyone out. Through the locked bedroom door, her pillow-muffled, retching sobs could be heard late into the night. Surely, Sophia guessed, the problem was now a boy, perhaps even a girl—but she could get nothing out of her daughter.

After a few days, Julie pulled herself together enough to continue attending church services and activities. She donned a brave smile but remained subdued. A few weeks later, Sophia came home at midday to meet with the electrician about the pool heater. Julie’s book-bag and purse were on her bed. Julie herself was nowhere to be found. On a mother’s hunch, Sophia drove to the back of the property.

Julie was there on her swing, rocking herself gently, head leaning against one of the ropes. After a forlorn search of her mother’s eyes, the dam finally broke and the despair poured out. Julie was pregnant, of course. It had been a Flock boy, of course. She wouldn’t say which. She had gone to a church counselor that morning. He had informed her in gentle but firm terms that her only option was to have the baby—unless she wanted to lose her soul and go to hell for the murder of one of God’s children. Still hardly more than a child herself, Julie was distraught, devastated.

Sophia was heartbroken for her daughter—and furious, not at Julie’s actions, but at the Church’s response. She pried the name of the counselor out of Julie and arranged a meeting. The counselor was polite and empathetic, but he wouldn’t back down. He insisted he would have told the same to his youngest daughter, a year younger than Julie: murder was murder. There was now a child of God in Julie’s womb, and Julie’s duty was to carry her God-given burden, to give birth, and to raise the child to adulthood. Julie’s life was no longer her own. Other young mothers had managed it—Julie would manage it as well. Fortunately she had Sophia to help her. God didn’t promise that our lives would be easy, only that it was our duty to carry whatever cross he gave us to bear on this earth, for which we would be rewarded in heaven.

Sophia next stormed the parish, but Reverend Lundquist was away on a tour of the Flock’s missions in Central America. He couldn’t be reached, or so his secretary insisted. Sophia’s daily messages went unanswered.

For two more agonizing weeks, Julie struggled. She struggled with her conscience and with her hopes for her future, with her hopes for her life and for her soul. When Julie allowed it, her mother was at her side. In the end, with her mother’s approval and escort, she made an appointment at the clinic and had the abortion.

The drive home had been in a thick silence. Sophia reached out to hold her daughter’s hand. Julie pulled away, clasping her own hands in her lap, staring out of the window.

She stopped going to church. Sliding back into her darkness, she began palliating her shame and grief with food—any and all food she could get her hands on, any she could keep down. After gaining thirty pounds, she suddenly stopped eating and lost all the weight—and then more weight. She returned to church and went to a different Flock counselor, this time a woman, who told her that God would forgive her, but only if she were truly and genuinely remorseful and ashamed for her grievous sins, for having sex out of wedlock and for murdering her unborn child. Given the severity of the transgressions, the counselor prescribed a six-month regimen of weekly personal and group counseling and prayer, supplemented by five hundred hours of voluntary duty in the orphanage, taking care of the babies that other young mothers, following God’s will, had given birth to. Julie asked her mother later what had happened to all the mothers of those babies. Sophia could only guess. A couple of them, she knew, had worked at the resort, but they had long since disappeared from the community.

Long talks between mother and daughter and longer silences followed. Julie regretted having slept with the boy, or more accurately, having done so without protection, but she couldn’t bring herself, as hard as she tried, to feel wrong for having done so. She was chagrined at having made what she considered to be a serious mistake, but she simply was not ashamed of it, and she couldn’t make herself feel an emotion she didn’t feel. The act of lovemaking, she told her mother, had seemed neither wrong nor unnatural. She had been following a desire that God surely had given her for a reason. She had felt terrible about the abortion but she couldn’t bring herself to feel genuinely guilty for that either, given the alternative, which was simply unthinkable to her—and she was too honest to fake a remorse that didn’t and couldn’t exist.

She attended another few church services. Of course they knew. Everyone knew. One of the girls working at the clinic probably had a friend of a friend who was a Flocker. The only secrets in Aurum Valley were the ones nobody cared about. As she told her mother afterwards, she felt as if the whole congregation were watching her. Many had gone out of their way to express sympathy and understanding, seeming almost grateful for something they wouldn’t come out and name, as though they were somehow relieved at what she had done—that she, Julie Hale, was a sinner—that she, of all the girls in the valley, had sinned.

Sophia accompanied Julie to church the next Sunday, and she experienced it too. She was approached and greeted eagerly with a fresh, enthusiastic acceptance, as though the Flock members were appreciative that Sophia and her family had been brought down to a status as low—perhaps even lower—than their own. God had revealed that the Hales, too, were subject to human fallibilities and carnal hungers; their weakness and true nature had finally been revealed; they had been brought down to a position from which only God could raise them up again, up to the more humble plane of the Flock.

Julie lost another twenty pounds she couldn’t afford to lose before waking in the hospital with an IV in her arm, having fainted in her room while the rest of the family ate dinner. As her daughter was being released, three days later, Sophia had choked back tears on catching a glimpse of Julie’s back when she was changing into her street clothes. She looked like a concentration-camp victim, all skin and bones. It was less than a month later, on another spring day as faultless and beautiful as this Easter afternoon, that the housekeeper found Julie hanging in her bedroom closet, the belt from her Procession robe around her neck.

Julie had never had a chance to wear the robe. She had been so pleased and excited when she bought it, months ahead of time. She was so looking forward to her first Procession. Sophia had left the robe hanging in the closet.

*****

Quent Cordair, A New Eden, Part II of Idolatry, 2016
https://www.amazon.com/New-Eden-Idolatry-Book-ebook/dp/B01J2KPSNW

Afghanistan

FeaturedAfghanistan

Again comes the cry, again comes the mourn,
Clutched fingers in hair over flowers forlorn;
Candles all lit till the night wetly glows,
Coffins wrapped neatly in black satin bows.

Shadows beg mercy where mercy’s unknown,
Prayers and peace offerings all fruitlessly sown,
The desperate prostrations all fail to suffice
For those taking no less than blood sacrifice.

There’s left but one answer to those who love death,
Whose sword demands kneeling until the last breath,
Those blinded to reason, faith shrouding their eyes
Till torn from their skulls as their creed’s final prize.

There’s left but one choice, for those who love life,
In answer to those sworn to murder and strife:
When faith-deafened minds every argument shun,
When no word can turn what no logic has won,
When pleas have been met every time with a gun—
Swift granting of death is the deed sooner done.

~ Quent Cordair

image: The Monteverde Angel, Giulio Monteverde

Steam

FeaturedSteam

The increasingly desperate fervency, the unshakable commitment and loyalty, the blind doubling down of souls answering the call of their chosen savior – there it is again, the pre-rational, primordial stew out of which so many religions were born. Where there is faith, there are those ready to follow; out of the churning, simmering pools of hopeful followers, leaders will rise. Muhammad, Jesus, Moses, Joseph Smith — how much was forgiven of them, how many sins and improprieties excused, overlooked, explained and polished away by those who told and sold their stories, all for the promise of salvation? The price of a savior — the ready offering of the mind, the sacrifice of the independent individual to the safety of the collective. All now to the temple in obedient lines, none minding the shackles tightening around their ankles, none suspecting that it is their own warm blood to be spilled, the steam rising and curling from the altar in the gray morning chill.

*****

“Steam” was published in 2019 in My Kingdom, my latest collection of poetry, short fiction, and short plays for stage and screen, now available in paperback  and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

ScreenShot_20200617184223

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, with galleries in Napa, California, and Jackson, Wyoming, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~

 

Out of the Old

Out of the Old

This poem was penned seven years ago, with someone wheelchair-bound in mind, as she faces the approach of another year, a new year. With so many having been housebound and restricted this past year, with so many still being so, may “Out of the Old” lift and inspire. From the My Kingdom collection, 2019. ~

Out of the Old

Yet another year, she thought,
Sitting in her chair, she thought.
Still she might, she thought,
Still she would, she thought,
Till she did, she thought —
Her soul, willed and willing,
Rose and waltzed more lightly even
Than her body ever had,
Out of the old, into the new.

~ Quent Cordair

My Kingdom, my latest collection of poetry, short fiction, and short plays for stage and screen, is now available in paperback  and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

ScreenShot_20200617184223

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, with galleries in Napa, California, and Jackson, Wyoming, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~

In Earthly Peace

FeaturedIn Earthly Peace

“In Earthly Peace” is my blessing of, and reverence for, a silent night, a holy night, a sacred night ~ an earthly night. The lyrics are mine. The warm and lovely voice is Tori Anna’s. I hope you enjoy the song. Please feel free to share. I’ve included the lyrics the below. Merry Christmas, all. ~

*****

In Earthly Peace

Silent night, holy night,
Lovers lie in starlight bright,
Lips cross lips for untold things,
Limbs cross limbs for forming wings,
Rise in flight through snowfall,
Rise in flight above all.

Silent night, holy night,
Souls betwine in sacred rite,
Mind turns mind in woven dance,
Heart turns heart in spun romance,
Bodies yearn to be one,
Bodies burn to be one.

Silent night, holy night,
Break away to renew sight,
Circle out to circle in,
Parting touch to touch again,
Tears anoint veils of white,
World in waiting veiled white.

Silent night, holy night,
Love’s firstborn will see first light,
Swaddled gift on giving breast,
Cradled close in castle’s nest,
Sleep in earthly peace,
Sleep in earthly peace.

~ Quent Cordair
Copyright 2020. All rights reserved.

*****
Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

ScreenShot_20200617184223

*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, with galleries in Napa, California, and Jackson, Wyoming, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~

April’s Justice

FeaturedApril’s Justice

The point of focus was sixty yards away, four-and-a-half feet above the ground, centered over the wheel ruts of the frozen dirt drive where the drive 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 bladed front sight. The blade was couched snugly in a tight “U” notch—the rear sight of a 1903 Springfield .30-06. Inside the rifle’s chamber, a small lead ball waited impatiently for a slight contraction of the muscles of the finger on the trigger. On command, the ball would spin madly out of the barrel’s biting, spiraling grooves and, within a fifteenth of a second, hiss across the short distance. Should a man happen to be walking up the drive from the road at that moment, it would be his misfortune to cross the path of the ball—with his chest.

The thought gave her satisfaction, but she didn’t smile. Her cheek was pressed hard against the rifle’s walnut stock, the occasional snowflake that landed on her face melting there, unnoticed. The cold, oil-cleaned barrel lay steadied across the top of a neat stack of firewood. Over the summer, she had bruised her shoulder again and again as from varying distances she blasted jars and tins to smithereens. The bruises were yellow now; the weapon had become familiar, a constant companion, like the quilted blanket she had carried with her everywhere as a child.

Moments earlier, she had been putting the animals away when she heard an approaching motorcar on the main road. The sound itself would have been acceptable except for its sudden cessation: the farm was the only one along the desolate nine-mile stretch of winding West Virginia road, and no one stopped here, not anymore. She waited behind the firewood, unmoving, watching the tip of the rifle’s sight for something to step into the condemned space above the crest of the drive. From the barn behind her one of the horses snorted restlessly. With her thumb she slipped off the rifle’s safety.

A hat appeared, then a head beneath it. Her pulse jumped, and she worked to slow her breathing, to steady her hands, adjusting her aim. She was unprepared for the other two hats, one rising on each side of the drive, outside the ruts. Okay, first the middle one, then the left, then the right. The magazine held five rounds—she could afford to miss only twice. She practiced the move, sliding the sight a fraction of an inch each way. No, it’s better just to go straight across—left, middle, right. She practiced the revised move twice and held her aim on the place where the chest of the man on the left would appear above the rise within two seconds, and then within one—

A shimmer of silver flashed from the middle man’s chest. She recognized the sheriff. The man on the left was Caleb, one of his deputies. She didn’t recognize the man on the right, but judging by the hat and badge, he too was a deputy. She practiced the move again—left, middle, right.

“April?” the sheriff called out. “April?” he called again, warily.

The trio slowed as they neared. They hadn’t spotted her yet. Caleb and the other deputy looked as though they expected ghosts to fly out of the cabin. Twenty yards out the men stopped, the sheriff observing the wisps of blue smoke rising from the chimney.

“April, this is Sheriff Holsapple. Come on out—I need to talk with you for a minute.”

She had never liked the way Deputy Caleb watched her body when she was in town, with that lewd twist sneaking up at the corner of his mouth. She sighted in on the spot and wondered what his face would look like without it. The trigger pressed invitingly against her finger. With the rifle trained on him, she stepped out from behind the woodpile. The blood drained from the deputies’ faces. The three men stood as frozen as the pines behind them.

The sheriff’s lips pursed wearily. His shoulders had dropped, his hands hung loose and quiet by his sides, except for the faint tracing of his right thumb which seemed to have a mind of its own. If she were going to shoot Caleb first, he might have a chance to draw. She could tell that he wasn’t sure if he would or could, that he was thinking that they really shouldn’t have come up here, that they should have just left her alone. He was right in thinking that. In the thick stillness, they all knew it.

“Come on now, April,” the sheriff ventured. “I’m only here to help.”

“I don’t need your help, Sheriff.”

He sighed. “This is important, April. Look, at least lower the gun. It’s too damned cold out here for us all to be sweatin’ like this. We’ll just stand right here, and you can stand right there, and I’ll say my piece and we’ll leave, okay?”

She lowered the muzzle of the rifle but kept her eye on Caleb as she turned towards the cabin.

“Please come in, Sheriff,” she said. “You must be thirsty.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Caleb exhaled, arching his eyebrows at the other deputy as if to say, “See, I told you she’s nuts!” Hesitantly, the two followed the sheriff up the steps of the porch.

Once inside, April leaned the gun against the hearth and, from the kettle on the stove, portioned what remained of the hot apple cider into three cups. The men removed their hats and sat at the sturdy oak table. She served them silently before backing away to the wall, within reach of the gun.

“April, I believe you know Caleb, and this is Tommy Shifflett, my new deputy. Tommy just moved up from Tennessee a few months ago.”

Tommy was a handsome, green-eyed young man not much older than April herself. She granted him a curt nod. Caleb received no acknowledgement. 

“What’s your business, Sheriff?” she asked.

The sheriff set his cup on the table and considered his words carefully.

“Yesterday afternoon, about five miles north of here, a man got away from a Mercer County deputy who was taking him up to the Charleston prison. A posse with dogs searched the hills all night, and today we expanded the search, but he must have holed up somewhere. Now, I doubt you’ve heard, but there’s a blizzard blowing in—“

“I know.”

“Well, I expect you would, but anyway, this fella is wearing just regular clothes—no coat, hat or boots—and we figure if he wants to live through the night, he’ll likely have to come down out of the storm and find shelter.”

“And you think he’ll come here?”

“Not necessarily, but here’s as good a place as any.”

“What did he do, Sheriff?”

He glanced uncomfortably at the deputies. “The man hasn’t been convicted yet, but if the charges are serious enough to take him up to Charleston rather than risk the locals lynching him before he can be given a proper trial, then it might be prudent to—“

“Sheriff, what did he do?”

The sheriff sighed, “It doesn’t really matter, April—“

“It was murder, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes. Yes, it was murder. . . .”

“And what else?”

He looked around the cabin as though searching for a way out, his eyes pausing momentarily on the closed door to the cabin’s only other room. When he looked her in the eye again he grimaced apologetically.

April turned away. Through the window, the snowflakes were bigger now and beginning to fall more thickly. The fire in the fireplace had died down. She laid a handful of kindling on the glowing embers and watched as a small flame leapt to life.

Shoot him, April. Shoot him now!

Caleb chuckled. “The fella’s swearing they’ve got the wrong man, but don’t they all say that? Why, just last month over in Fayetteville, the uncle of that girl who disappeared was claiming that he had only been—“

The sheriff silenced him with a swift, hard look.

April retrieved the rifle.

“Will that be all, Sheriff?”

“Yes, April, that’s all. I apologize for the interruption. Thank you for your hospitality. Come on, boys, let’s get back to town before the roads get too bad.”

The deputies filed out, the sheriff hanging back.

“You know, I’ve got a daughter your age still at home. I’m sure she would love some company. You’re more than welcome to come spend a few days. . . .” He studied her face. “Well, you know where we live if you change your mind. You take care now, April.”

Caleb chimed in from the porch. “Miss April, I’d be more than happy to stick around and keep an eye on things for you tonight—“

“—said the fox to the hen,” muttered Tommy.

Caleb punched him hard on the shoulder.

“Shut up and walk, both of you,” barked the sheriff.

April watched from the porch as the men crossed the yard.

“What’s he look like, Sheriff?”

He turned and regarded her, the undersized girl in the oversized coat with the rifle made for war.

“He’s a tall fellow with dark hair and light blue eyes. They say you can’t forget his eyes. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and brown trousers, unless he’s stolen some other clothes, and he’s got some kind of bird tattooed on his left forearm.”

The deputies’ hats disappeared first over the crest of the drive, followed by the sheriff’s. The car’s engine started and faded away into the distance.

The low clouds were coming in dark and fast from the north. The storm was going to be a bad one. The horses had sensed it. Dancer had almost thrown her that morning. She slipped the gun’s safety on and went to the barn to put out extra hay and water for the horses and cows, enough to last. In her grandfather’s day there had been a blizzard that drifted the snow so deep it had taken him three days to dig from the house to the barn. The new roof she had put on the chicken coop had yet to be tested by the weight of a winter snow: for good measure, she hauled a fence post from behind the barn and wedged it beneath the coop’s center beam. After putting out more feed and water for the chickens and pigs, she tied a burlap bag over the well’s hand pump and closed up the barn and the sheds. As she was latching the door to the chicken coop, the hens raised such a frantic cackling a person would think they were being buried alive.

There was little to be done for the cabin itself except to secure the shutters. Its sealed logs and thick planks of pine were impregnable to the harsh mountain winters. The doors and windows were tight—there wasn’t a single draft. As a child, April had felt completely safe in this house, tucked away in her bed high in the loft, though the storms had howled only a few feet above. She still slept there, on the mattress on the loft’s floor, above the bedroom now seldom entered, no longer used, its featherbed shrouded beneath the embroidered white spread, the brush and comb on the vanity untouched, lying where they had been laid.

From the porch she stood and looked beyond the yard, searching the shifting shadows of the dark and scraggly woods. Dead brown needles carpeted the stands of pine, while those yet on the trees absorbed what winter light they could, their hue a fading memory. The scattered hardwoods stood bare, each lonely and silent amidst its neighbors, limbs naked to the chilling breezes that portended the slashing winds to come.

There was a sharp crack—a branch tumbled from somewhere above, slapping and twisting across the lower limbs until it hit the ground, shattering its brittle fingers.

She reached out to find the porch post, hefting the rifle in her other hand. Let the storm come. Let the man come. She was ready. She went into the house and lowered the iron bar across the door.

* * *

After preparing and eating her dinner of squirrel stew, spoon bread and baked apples, she worked on her mending until her fingers tired, then settled into the rocker by the fire to read.

Somewhere in the English countryside, beneath a cascading willow in a flowering spring meadow, a pair of young lovers sat on a blanket plotting their elopement, but it was next to impossible for her to eavesdrop on them for more than a few sentences as the winds had begun to tear at the cabin’s eaves and to test the shutters’ latches. She laid the book aside, pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped herself in the quilt her grandmother had made. As the minutes and hours ticked away on the clock on the mantel, she rocked, watching the fire.

The wood seemed to be burning more drily and quickly than usual. At this rate, the provision next to the hearth would be depleted by sometime the next morning, and there was less than a quarter of a cord remaining on the porch. After watching the fire awhile longer, she reluctantly extricated herself from her cocoon, donned her coat and boots, lit the lantern, and lifted the bar from the door.

The wind ripped the door from her hand and slammed it against the wall as a sheet of stinging snow whipped around her and into the house. Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she pushed her way out, succeeding in pulling the door shut only when the wind slackened momentarily.

There was over a foot of snow on the ground already, and it had drifted twice as high against the side of the cabin. Leaning into the gale, she waded out across the yard, the driving whiteness within the sphere of her lantern’s light stinging her eyes. She brushed the accumulation from the top of the wood stack with her coat sleeve, chiding herself for not having thought to move more wood to the porch earlier in the day. One couldn’t afford to make such mistakes, living alone in the country. As she struggled to carry a dozen high armloads back to the porch, she found herself angry with the sheriff for having distracted her from her preparations, angry that he had brought Caleb along, angry with Caleb for existing—and for being possum-ugly to boot—angry with herself for allowing herself to be distracted, angry with herself for being angry. From the improved supply on the porch, she replenished the stock by the hearth and, using what strength was left in her legs, forced the door closed again. Sinking back against it, she shuddered, thoroughly soaked and chilled to the bone.

Once she had recovered sufficiently to strip out of her wet clothes and hang them from the mantle to dry, she bundled herself in the quilt and brewed a cup of sassafras tea. With the rocking chair pulled as close to the fire as she could bear, her hair dried quickly, but even after her body was warmed through, the rim of the teacup chattered against her teeth. She picked up her sewing, but her fingers wouldn’t hold steady. The wind wailed against the shutters, pressing, tugging, probing unrelentingly. She tried her book again but found her eyes drifting over and over to the beginning of the same paragraph.

There was a thudding bang from somewhere outside—from the direction of the barn perhaps. It could have been anything, a falling branch hitting the chicken coop roof or one of the horses kicking something over. She thought she had heard a whinny. Hopefully, the animals were okay, but she wasn’t going back outside, not tonight. It helped to watch the shifting patterns in the coals. The lick of the yellow and orange flames helped warm her soul as the tea warmed her bones. She needed a dog. Maybe in the springtime she could find a puppy. It would need to be a large breed, a good farm dog, maybe a shepherd or a retriever or a hound. A big cuddly mongrel would be fine.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The tea spilled over her lap and the cup burst into pieces, scattering across the stone hearth. She froze. She couldn’t move.

Oh, my God, I have to move. I must move—now!

She stood, grabbed the rifle and swung it around to the door. She struggled momentarily to keep the quilt from falling away and exposing her body, but the priority for her hands was elsewhere. Raising the rifle to her shoulder, she clicked off the safety as the quilt dropped to the floor.

Good. That’s good, April.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

Her heart plunged—impossibly, the iron bar was leaning against the wall. She had forgotten to put it back after bringing in the wood. There was no other lock on the door. None had ever have been necessary.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The shuttered windows precluded anyone from seeing in, but she couldn’t see out either. If she ran to bar the door, it would take both of her hands to lift and move the bar—she would have to set the rifle aside. She wasn’t going to do that. There was nothing left but for the doorknob to turn.

Shoot him, April. Shoot him now!

The fear coiled around her vision and tightened until all she could see was the doorknob, with blackness and the cursed memories closing in around it.

It had been a beautiful summer evening in the mountains, the kind of evening that made a person never want to leave. Mama had fixed a scrumptious-smelling venison roast for supper, with fresh vegetables from the garden, and Papa had just come in from his field work. The two were already seated at the table when April dashed in from a swim in the creek. She went straight to the stove and was about to serve herself a plateful of the roast when the man stepped in through the open doorway.

Strangers stopping by wasn’t a rare thing that summer. The paper said the country was in a depression, and there were plenty of men out of work. Many of them passed along the road on their way to look for a job in the mines or on their way back from learning that there weren’t any jobs to be had. Mama had fed many a hungry man in exchange for his mucking out the stalls, slopping the hogs or some other such chore. Papa wouldn’t have minded so much except that Mama never turned away anyone, regardless of any suspected or evident deficiency of character. She didn’t check after the men on their assigned work, and not a few had weaseled a meal without lifting a finger. Mama would only shrug and say, “Judge not that ye be not judged.”

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The knocking was more urgent now, the door vibrating with each sound. There was a scratch in the right edge of the doorknob’s brass. April watched the scratch intently, waiting for it to move, up or down.

The man who had walked into their house that day had looked about like any other to April, except for the scar through his eyebrow, but her father had seen something more. Unfortunately, her father was seated at the far end of the table, against the wall, in the wrong part of the room to do anything but hope that his daughter would listen to him.

“Get the rifle, April,” he had told her, quietly but firmly.

She had reached above the hearth and had taken the rifle from its place. The big bolt-action weapon was the same model her father had carried in the war. He had taught her how it operated, and she had even fired it once, though the recoil had knocked her on her back and she hadn’t touched it since. She knew enough to slide the bolt rearward and forward again to chamber a round.

“Shoot him, April. Shoot him now!”her father said.

Her mother was beyond shock. “Put that gun down, April Anne! God forgive us! Please don’t mind my husband, sir—he was in the war and sometimes—”

The man was walking towards April, watching her intently. She glanced down to make sure the safety was off.

“Shoot him, April,” her father ordered. “You have to do it now!”

She looked at her mother, then at the approaching man. She raised the rifle and pointed it. Her finger trembled but wouldn’t pull the trigger. She started crying. “Papa, I can’t!”

The man grabbed the rifle from her hands and chuckled. “Should have listened to your old man, young lady.” He swept the gun around and shot her father through the chest. “And a woman as saintly and charitable as your dear mother here must be looking forward to meeting her maker too.” He shot her and watched her crumple to the floor before turning to April.

“Now, don’t you worry, angel—” he took her chin in his hand—“I’m going to take you on a little trip to heaven too, and if you behave yourself, you’re gonna live to remember it for a long, long time. I think I’d like that.”

She refused to remember the rest.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

I’m ready this time, Papa. Oh yes, I’m ready.

She was glad she had left the bar off the door. She wanted to shoot him. She needed it. Her mouth was dry. Why hadn’t the scratch moved? How long had he been knocking? She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after eleven. All you’ve got to do is turn the knob, bastard.

The gun was heavy, her arms were tiring. Without taking her eye or aim off of the door, she pulled the rocking chair around, rested her foot on the seat and supported her elbow on her knee.

A posse had caught up with the man with the scarred eyebrow three days later. They hung him on the spot and left him swinging. When April found out, she rode the twenty miles to the place alone and shot five holes through the body. It hadn’t helped.

The townspeople attended the burial of her parents beneath the oak in the south meadow. She hadn’t told anyone what the man had done to her, but they all knew. She saw it in their eyes and heard it in their voices whenever she had to go into town. The young men were the worst, the way they watched her body, imagining themselves in the man’s place.

It was twenty-five after the hour. There had been no knocking in the last ten minutes. Had he gone to the barn to look for a weapon? He could be returning to the cabin with the ax by now. Maybe it wasn’t the murderer. But no one in his right mind, probably not even Caleb, would be out in this storm. She dried her palms on her bare leg and waited.

Five minutes more and she could stand it no longer. She dared to lean the rifle against the rocker for just long enough to slip back into her clothes, which were still damp.

“Who is it?” she called, approaching the door.

There was no answer.

“Who’s there?”

Only the wind answered. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the doorknob and, in a single swift motion, turned it, pulled, and leapt back to aim.

The only thing at the door was the storm. She peered out. The snow was freshly scuffled on the porch. Someone had been there, but she could see nothing more through the blowing curtain of white. Hurriedly she slipped on her coat and lit the lantern. He wasn’t going to get away this easily, not this time. He was too close to get away. She ventured out into the night, lantern held high, the rifle tucked under her arm.

Though the wind was drifting the snow too fiercely for anything like footprints to survive for long, there remained a faint trail, a shallow trench leading away into the blackness beyond the lantern’s light. She followed it in the direction of the barn for several yards and looked behind her. The house was already lost in the darkness and her own steps were quickly being covered. She squinted, blinking against the crystals forming on her eyelashes, already regretting not having changed into thoroughly dry clothes. She had to hurry. A few years ago there was a man in the valley who, in a blizzard not unlike this one, had wandered in circles for hours before dying only twenty feet from his own door. She couldn’t see more than two or three feet in front of her or behind.

The tracks veered to the left and seemed to miss the barn altogether, if her sense of direction and distance still served her, but the shallow impressions were becoming indistinguishable in the blowing drifts. She was thinking that she was heading down the hill in the direction of the creek when she tripped over something and fell headlong, dropping the rifle and the lantern as she went down. She knew what the thing was before she hit the ground. Mercifully, the lantern landed relatively upright in a snowbank and stayed lit. She scrambled for the rifle, digging it out of the snow and turning it on the object.

The thing was indeed the body of a man. He was lying face down. The snow had drifted up over his windward side. She poked at his ribs with the rifle. He didn’t move. With the rifle’s muzzle, she scraped away some of the snow from his back. He wore no coat. His shirt was white, his trousers brown. She scraped the snow from his left arm and, still employing only the muzzle, pushed up the shirt sleeve. The skin, blanched of most of its color, provided a stark field of contrast to the small, stylishly crafted tattoo of a falcon.

Shoot him, April. Shoot him now!

“Yes, Papa….”

She lowered the muzzle into the curls of dark hair on the back of the man’s head. A thought tried to cross her mind, but she forced it away. Laughing aloud, she said to the night—

“This is for Papa, and for Mama, and for me.”

The frozen trigger felt blood-warm against her finger. The nightmare would now be over. She felt the mechanism’s resistance and the familiar give. The same thought tried to surface again but it was easier to ignore the second time.

But there was a different fear now, a tiny thing struggling to be heard, like the faint cracking in a mine before its collapse. The warning was of something worse than what the other man had done to her, worse than what any man could do—and she was doing it to herself. She sensed the danger, the imminent shredding, crushing and burying of the innermost workings of her mind, a crippling such that it would never work the same for her once the damage had been done. With the pull of the trigger, a part of her soul would die, and she would never be the kind of woman she had always aspired to be. She couldn’t escape it, she couldn’t deny it: if she killed the thought with the man, she might as well then turn the gun on herself. She considered it. 

She hated to do it—hated it so much that it made her scream aloud—but with the scream she willed the thought to mind:

He hadn’t turned the doorknob.

Not having her consent, this accused murderer and rapist had refused to attempt to enter her home, even though the alternative meant his possibly freezing to death. He hadn’t even turned the doorknob. He hadn’t turned the knob. . . .

She leaned down and brushed the snow from his face. His eyebrows and eyelashes were encrusted with ice. His cheeks and lips were colorless. She knelt and put her ear to his back. His heart was still beating.

She laid the gun aside and set the lantern in the snow.

* * *

It was another late evening on another winter day, and April was sitting in the rocking chair by the fire, doing her sewing. Over the years, eight additional rooms had been built around the cabin’s original two, but it was the same rocking chair and the same fire. Her granddaughter, Cindy, sat on the sofa next to the rocker, sipping sassafras tea and staring moodily into the embers. Cindy was seventeen now, the second daughter of April’s third son.

“What’s the matter, honey?” April ventured.

“Nothing, Grandma.”

“I’m thinking it’s probably something.”

Cindy only sighed.

“Boy trouble again?”

Cindy frowned into her tea. “Grandma, there just aren’t any good men left out there. Every time I think I’ve got the right one, he turns out to be something different altogether. If he’s not lying to you outright or trying to take advantage of you, he’s putting on some kind of a front. You just can’t trust them. I hate men.”

April smiled to herself. She had been a year younger than Cindy that fateful night, thinner and shorter too. It had taken her over an hour to carry, roll and drag the man to the porch, up the steps and into the house, where she had stripped off his clothes and thawed him by the fire. To stay awake, she had spent the hours until dawn guessing at what his name might be, imagining nearly every one but the right one, as it turned out. It wasn’t until early afternoon of the next day that he finally began to stir. As she waited for him to open his eyes, she was holding the blade of the kitchen knife against his throat, just in case. In her other hand was a cup of hot broth.  

“Would you like to hear a story, Cindy?”

Cindy perked up. “Sure, Grandma!”

“Shhh, we must keep our voices down or we’ll—”

But it was too late. Grandpa had been snoring softly in his recliner, an open book lying on his chest. His chin had nodded at the sound of their voices. He opened his eyes. Seeing the way his wife was looking at him, he smiled and dozed off again. She had hidden him away for two months, until the crime was confessed by a former farmhand of the victims. And every time he opened those eyes, April fell in love with her Justice all over again.

“Cindy,” she asked softly, “have I ever told you the story of how I met your grandpa?”

*          *          *

*

“April’s Justice” is from my Lunch Break collection of poems and short stories, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

“Well worth the price. If you haven’t read any of Quent’s stories yet, I almost envy you. I’m waiting eagerly for more.” – Dianne Durante, author of the *Forgotten Delights* series

“Could you read these during your lunch break? Yes. Will you want to? No. You won’t want to rush yourself. You’ll want to pour yourself a glass of wine, snuggle into your favorite chair, turn off your phone, and spend every luxurious minute that you can immersing yourself in these stories.” – Elizabeth O’Brien, author of *English Grammar Revolution*

“…it is fuel for the spirit; it is an affirmation of life and what is good. That he writes beautifully and imaginatively adds to the reading pleasure.” – Michael Wilkinson, Sculptor

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

ScreenShot_20200617184223

*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, with galleries in Napa, California, and Jackson, Wyoming, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~

Nice

Nice

Nice
#Nice #nicefrance

Again comes the cry, again comes the mourn,
Clutched fingers in hair over flowers forlorn;
Candles all lit till the night wetly glows,
Coffins wrapped neatly in black satin bows.

Shadows beg mercy where mercy’s unknown,
Prayers and peace offerings, fruitlessly sown,
The desperately hoping more love will suffice
For those taking no less than blood sacrifice.

There’s left but one answer to those who love death,
Whose sword demands kneeling until the last breath,
Those blinded to reason, faith shrouding their eyes
Till blackened beaks probe, their creed’s final prize.

There’s left but one choice, for those who love life,
In answer to those sworn to murder and strife:
When faith-deafened minds every argument shun,
When no word can turn what no logic has won,
When pleas cannot stay the raised knife or drawn gun,
Swift granting of death is the deed sooner done.

~ Quent Cordair

Holding Your Hand

Holding Your Hand

“Holding Your Hand” is from my Lunch Break collection of poems and short stories, available in paperback and Kindle editions.

“…well worth the price. If you haven’t read any of Quent’s stories yet, I almost envy you. I’m waiting eagerly for more.” – Dianne Durante, author of the *Forgotten Delights* series

“Could you read these during your lunch break? Yes. Will you want to? No. You won’t want to rush yourself. You’ll want to pour yourself a glass of wine, snuggle into your favorite chair, turn off your phone, and spend every luxurious minute that you can immersing yourself in these stories.” – Elizabeth O’Brien, author of *English Grammar Revolution*

“…it is fuel for the spirit; it is an affirmation of life and what is good. That he writes beautifully and imaginatively adds to the reading pleasure.” – Michael Wilkinson, Sculptor

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

ScreenShot_20200617184223

*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, located in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~


 

Apart

Apart

The walls of space surrounding,
The veiling masks between,
The eyes distrustful, scanning,
The hopeful go unseen.

The months of days unending,
The stifled, muffled tones,
The pit in every stomach,
The gnawing in the bones.

The hunching weight of worry,
The longing for some end,
The hunger for the smiling,
The need to see a friend.

The screen a glassy bandage,
The call through window barred,
The distance deeply graving,
The voices worn and hard.

The breathing through the breaking,
The winter borne till spring,
The deadened hours till dawning,
The finally taking wing.

The flight to heart’s belonging,
The hurried path and then—
The crush of need embracing,
The touch to touch again.

The having of the holding,
The granted through the years,
The simple thing of closeness,
The treasure held in tears.

~ Quent Cordair

2020

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

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If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

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“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

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Quent Cordair Fine Art, located in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~