WWPH WRITES ISSUE 93

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WWPH WRITES Poetry

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When You Stopped Posting Wordle and Started Posting Strands

What made you want to swim out of your own sea?  What made you believe you could even breathe the air—with your feathery gills, the unique sequence of your DNA? Our bloodline tethered like strung beads, released only if the entire strand breaks.

In our family, we played cards, word games. Our parents played to win, even at first. We learned the Q-without-U words, the odds against an inside straight, the penalty for a misdeal. Sink or self-rescue.

With the rest of our kin we paddle single-file into the tidal inlet, where saltwater mixes with fresh, to see the dolphins feed, to witness these playful creatures as predators. The pod surges a wave toward the bank, traps mackerel and herring against the sandy slope. Strand feeding. In swift pairs, the dolphins scoop up the stunned fish. Who would see this coming, this sudden warp of water, of all a creature has ever known?

A strand once devoured you, now it calls you back. To know yourself, you must go.

©Kristin W. Davis 2025

WWPH WRITES a Novel Excerpt

COMMANDER SPEAKS

About the novel: Commander Speaks stars an opinionated show horse imported to the US from Germany. His new owner, a successful mystery writer, hires an animal communicator to find out why her new $250,000 horse won’t stop biting her. That’s an easy fix. Not so easy to fix are the crimes Commander is witnessing at his barn that he insists be stopped immediately. This unlikely trio — the horse, the animal communicator, and the mystery writer — sets out to solve the murder of one of America’s most despicable horse trainers and save a groom wrongly accused of drugging a horse. — Jody Jaffee

“Move over, Mr. Ed! Commander Speaks is a delightful mix: murder mystery, romance, and an insightful and authoritative portrayal of the cutthroat world of Virginia horse shows. At the center of it all is a talking horse whose talents extend from equestrian to eavesdropping. Commander (or Dante to his friends) is loyal, finicky, and endlessly analytical as he tries to make sense of the humans surrounding him. With her engaging style and large dollops of humor, Jaffe gives her readers a ride they won’t forget. Len Kruger, author of Bad Questions, winner of the 2023 Washington Writers’ Publishing House fiction award

Izzie loved living just outside Lexington, in Rockbridge County, Virginia. As the daughter of two Washington and Lee University professors, she’d grown up in the town of Lexington. After college, she’d worked in DC, but the pull of the Blue Ridge Mountains was too strong, and she returned home. She used part of the inheritance from her grandfather to secure a mortgage and bought 25 of what she considered some of the most glorious acres in the United States. A panoramic view of the Blue Ridge Mountains stretched edge to edge of everything she could see on her farm’s eastern horizon. At the base of the mountains flowed the Maury River.

            On chilly mornings, Izzie could see undulating bands of fog, like ghostly silhouettes, track the river and separate the dark blue peaks of the Blue Ridge from the bright green fields of the Shenandoah Valley. That blue, she learned, was a hydrocarbon called isoprene, a shield emitted by oak and poplar trees to protect them when it got too hot. It was one more reason to love the Shenandoah Valley — smart trees. There were so many reasons, though. Like after the sun rose on dewy mornings, a million spider webs connected the blades of all the different grasses, turning her pastures into mini galaxies of shimmering stars. On such mornings like this one, when a breeze kicked up, it sent all those grasses and stars rippling into a kaleidoscopic spectacle. How could Izzie not stop and be awed again and again?

            Meandering through that kaleidoscopic landscape were her horses, the reason she’d gone into debt. Her generous parents had bought her first pony when she was six, a demonic little shit named Ginger Snap, and then when she was 11, an angelic Thoroughbred mare named Cassie. Since Izzie and her parents lived in town, the demon and the angel lived at a boarding barn 10 miles south of Lexington. Izzie always dreamed of looking out her window at her horses. This farm made that dream come true. She could see all of them while sitting on her couch: Rio, Cassie, Katie, Dino, Annie, and Jules. Six horses, each with such distinct personalities and peculiarities that some days she wished she couldn’t hear what they had to say.

            However, her horses were easy to deal with compared to some of her neighbors, generational residents of what had been solely an agricultural county. They blamed the influx of horse people for higher property taxes and everything else, from removing the Confederate flags in downtown Lexington to renaming the R.E. Lee Memorial Episcopal Church to Grace Episcopal Church. In other words, for moving into the 21st century. Now that the rock star Dave Grohl had bought the old Montafon farm around the corner, this would only incite the locals more, at least the two or three who knew who Dave Grohl was.

            When she thought about moving to a more politically aligned place — she was a self-described snowflake who was at war with the adjoining farmers for their rampant use of Roundup — she’d dream that night of the move to California or New York and then wake up in a sweaty panic thinking she’d made the worse mistake of her life.      

            The truth is, she could never let go of those mountains. She’d tried it once and failed. And her horses had made it clear they lived in horse heaven and would make her life miserable if she moved them. So, she vowed to keep her mouth shut about the Roundup. No luck with that so far.

            Izzie couldn’t wait to meet Dante. She’d seen pictures of him. In those, he was gorgeous. But as far as Izzie was concerned, every horse had his or her own kind of beauty — and no photo could capture the addictive magnificence of an equine.

            Izzie had been bitten by the horse bug before she even had words, and the fever still raged some 35 years later. Her mother says she’d find her baby girl hugging pictures of horses she found in magazines or kids’ books. And yes, “horse” had been her first word.

            Before Izzie left to meet Dante, she attended to Katie’s latest complaint. Katie was the boss mare and mother of Jules and Annie. Her salt block was about to run out, she reminded Izzie, and a handful of grain would be nice, too.

            “Fine,” Izzie said to Katie. “Just hold your horses.” And they both laughed. Izzie had discovered early on that most horses, like the Brits, loved silly humor.

    *

.           “Dante, do you know what barn you’re in?” Izzie had been chatting with him during her drive there. He was in a jolly mood; he’d gotten to ride next to Penny in the trailer on the way down, giving him three hours of talk time with her. Dante had a crush on the bright chestnut mare, though he labeled it a different way:

            “She has an excellent sense of humor,” Dante said. “That is what appeals to me in a companion.”

            It probably didn’t hurt that all the mares were coming into season, and their pheromones stirred even the geldings into moony-eyed ardor.

            Dante didn’t know the barn number, but his description was good enough for Izzie to find him.

            And there he was.

            Izzie was stunned by his beauty. The photos hadn’t captured the richness of his coat, a deep liver chestnut with undertones of purple. He was the color of Mexican chocolate dipping sauce, with four high whites and a big blaze. About the blingy-est horse she’d ever seen. His head, with its finely cut jaw that narrowed slightly into his velvet muzzle, was as delicate as a china teacup compared to most European Warmbloods. But it was his eye — it was always a horse’s eye that made Izzie fall in love with horses again and again and again. His was big, soft, and kind.

            If she’d had a spare quarter million dollars, she’d have laid down that much for him. All horses were beautiful to Izzie, but there was something about this one that literally took her breath away.

            Dante heard her gasp.

            “Are you well?” he asked.

            “To be frank, Dante, you’re more beautiful than I’d even imagined. And I have a very good imagination.” 

            “I will accept that compliment and thank you for it,” Dante said. “But it remains peculiar to me what and why humans find beauty in. For instance, would you be regarded as beautiful?’

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WWPH NEWS

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