Amused Authors

A Sharpest Wife, Episode 11: Poetry by Grayson Cole
February 1, 2009, 3:28 pm
Filed under: A Sharpest Wife, fiction, romance

sharpest-bladeGood morning, dear readers! Hope you are having a fine Sunday!

When last we connected, Clayan was still hanging on the wall and Ananda had shared her peculiar predicament with Mari. To war or not to war, that is the question!

As always, you may catch up on all episodes at

Ananda rose from the bed. On silent feet, she padded forward to stand just inches from Clayan. She brought her face close to his. Mari imagined the trapped man could feel her mistresses breath on his jaw.

“What say you, Clayan?”

The tendons in his neck strained but his head was still pressed to the wall and he apparently could not speak.

“Nothing, then? No comment about this impossible situation in which we find ourselves, my love?” Ananda gazed back at Mari over her shoulder. “A long time ago—nearly three thousand years ago here beyond the Film—a poet wrote of our war Mari. I am not certain how he knew of it. Perhaps he was the first to abandon his wife for life beyond the film. Now the men worship him in secret. Clayan, recite the poetry of Hesiod.”

Suddenly free to move his head, Clayan’s eyes were surprisingly cool as they captured Ananda’s face. He didn’t start to speak immediately, instead he licked his lips and smiled at Ananda. The smile was subtle. His eyes were somewhat hooded. All of their men were beautiful but Clayan’s beauty mixed with something sexual and predatory.

Mari clasped her arms around her waist. Afraid to move, afraid to watch, afraid of what Ananda might do if she didn’t watch, she waited.

“Kiss me, wife.”

In a move that startled Mari, Ananda reached a hand up to stroke Clayan’s cheek beneath his waving black locks. She leaned forward and opened her mouth on his. Mari blushed and looked away. She returned her gaze when she heard poetry recited, first in Greek, then in English:

“’From her is the race of women and female kind:
of her is the deadly race and tribe of women who
live amongst mortal men to their great trouble,
no helpmeets in hateful poverty, but only in wealth.’

“From Theogony. Hesiod was quite the poet.”

“Come down Clayan.”

Clayan dropped from the wall with grace. He stood. Pristine white shirt still open and baring his chest. Loose pants the color of fertile soil. Curling black hair mussed a long, but unable to mute the intensity from his eyes. He moved forward quickly with a growl and grabbed the front of Ananda’s gown in one hand. He lifted her with ease and tossed her hard onto the bed.

“Out Mari,” he snarled.

“Out Mari,” Ananda ordered though her tone was light and she seemed to be smiling.


Outside, Mari stood confused and shaking beside the door unsure what she was supposed to do. Standing by the door she heard sounds that made her body go tight all over.

None of it made any sense. War, blood, lover spliced with enemy.

And what was her part? Ananda had never invited her into so much as a personal discussion and yet this day…

Mari heard a loud thud and the door seemed to shake at her back.

She put a hand to her chest, but then heard something she had never heard before, Ananda was laughing. Then, so was Clayan.

Grayson Reyes-Cole
Author of Bright Star out in print April 2009


2 Comments so far
Leave a comment

Very, VERY nice… and you always leave us wanting more. 🙂

Comment by Rita Vetere

Thank you! I’m getting a big kick out of this story, too!

Comment by graysonreyescole

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