A.K. Frailey's Blog, page 2
July 18, 2025
A. K. Frailey Books’ Future
A. K. Frailey Books’ Future has never been brighter. 2025 offers new distribution channels, creative marketing opportunities, a new series, and Reading Guides. New publications are scheduled in the coming year. The excitement is building! New readers, kind reviewers, and shaping relationships through sincere, personal conversations make all the difference. Writing isn’t an isolated act. Each book is written anew in the mind of the reader. Read on!
New Distribution ChannelsEarlier this year, I moved six of my eBooks to Publish Drive, allowing them to enter streams that they hadn’t been able to reach in my KDP exclusive relationship with Amazon. Now, these books are reaching across the globe in new ways.
Promotions on KOBO, Apple Books, and OverDrive are connecting my books to interested readers.
In addition, the hardcover versions of my books have been moved over to Ingram Spark to reach out to bookstores and libraries on a whole new level. I have written to over one hundred libraries across the nation to personally introduce myself and my work. One thing I noticed right away was their preference for Ingram Spark hardcovers over Amazon hardcovers. I do not know why that bias exists, but I have tried to be accommodating to their needs by offering all my books as Ingram Spark hardcovers.
All my fiction work has already migrated with Encounter and OldEarth Mechior going live on August 1st and August 6th, respectively.
My nonfiction work: The Road Goes Ever On: A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings, My Road Goes Ever On: Spiritual Being, Human Journey, and My Road Goes Ever On: A Timeless Journey will join their hardcover cousins in late August.
In addition to my usual monthly blogs, newsletters, and social media announcements, I have started theme boards on A. K. Frailey Pinterest, which will envision the worlds my characters live in, their conflicts, and the inspiration we all need to keep going when challenges beset our minds and weigh down our souls.
A New SeriesMy newest series, OLDTOWN, just launched its first book into the readership world: OLDTOWN Fly, Sparrow, Fly. So far, it has received fantastic reviews that make the challenges of wrangling my characters onto the page worth the effort.
“A.K. Frailey’s Fly, Sparrow, Fly is a beautifully written story that takes readers on an emotional journey with a message both timely and timeless. Like in prior books, Frailey writes in a voice that feels both intimate and urgent as the book explores courage, loss, belonging, and quiet resilience through the eyes of a young girl navigating a world full of uncertainty and unexpected kindness. The crisp, lyrical writing delivers characters that are deeply human and stay with you long after you finish the final page. Both heartbreaking and uplifting, this is a story that reminds us of the power of connection and the quiet strength that can rise from even the darkest moments. A must-read for readers of all ages who believe in the redemptive power of story.” ~Craig Scalise
OLDTOWN Fly, Sparrow, Fly Amazon Link
Reading GuidesI am in the process of writing Reading Guides for each of my books on the appropriate Elementary, Secondary, and Adult levels, with the addition of Personal Journal Reflection questions for those who want to take their reading experience to a whole new level. Here are a few samples of what is coming. Two Reading Guides will be published on the 4th Friday of each month starting in September. Free PDFs of the Reading Guides and respective coloring sheets of the book covers are available on the blog.
Reading GuidesThe Adventures of Tally-Ho
Elementary
Who is your favorite character? Why? What makes him or her so great?
Does anyone do something you would like to try doing?
Secondary
If you were reading the story to a child, which character would you narrate most true to life? Why so?
Newearth Justine Awakens
Love relationships abound throughout Newearth Justine Awakens. What are a few that resonated with you? Why did they stand out? Were they reflecting relationships in real life or dreams of a particular kind of love relationship?
Paperbacks as Journal Reflections
Why did I have to read particular sections over again?
Are they poorly written? Beautifully written?
Are they telling me something I need to hear? Or reminding me of something I’ve forgotten?
Are they frightening me? Why?
Like a dream, stories highlight our unconscious hidden selves and allow us to face our inner complexities.
New Publications ScheduleDecember 1, 2025
(End of the Sci-Fi Newearth Series)
Newearth Progeny
Newearth Relevance
March 3, 2026
(Children’s Book)
Wise Home
July 1, 2026
(Short Story Collection)
Spice of Life and Other Stories
October 6, 2026
(Collection of Personal Reflections)
My Road Goes Ever On: Rise Again
December 1, 2026
(Second Book In the OLDTOWN Series)
OLDTOWN Brothers Born
March 3, 2027
(Children’s Book)
Wise Home on Lily Pad Pond
I am looking forward to our future together as we experience life through the lens of fiction and nonfiction.
The most powerful part of reading a good book is not meeting great characters but discovering a new facet of our true selves. A. K. Frailey’s Books Page A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books A. K Frailey’s Amazon Author PagePhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/books-library-interior-bookshelf-8351938/
The post A. K. Frailey Books’ Future first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
June 25, 2025
New Contemporary Family Drama
THE WRITINGS OF A. K. FRAILEY
Books for the Mind and Spirit
Historical Science Fiction Novels
OldEarth ARAM Encounter
OldEarth Ishtar Encounter
OldEarth Neb Encounter
OldEarth Georgios Encounter
OldEarth Melchior Encounter
Science Fiction Novels
Homestead
Last of Her Kind
Newearth Justine Awakens
Newearth: A Hero’s Crime
Short Stories
It Might Have Been—And Other Short Stories 2nd Edition
One Day at a Time and Other Stories
Encounter Science Fiction Short Stories & Novella 2nd Edition
Inspirational Non-Fiction
My Road Goes Ever On—Spiritual Being, Human Journey 2nd Edition
My Road Goes Ever On—A Timeless Journey
The Road Goes Ever On—A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings
Children’s Book
The Adventures of Tally-Ho
Poetry
Hope’s Embrace & Other Poems 2nd Edition
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, links, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/photos/coffee-book-flowers-setting-2390136/
The post New Contemporary Family Drama first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
May 16, 2025
Mystery to Herself
Mystery to Herself, A Short Story, reveals the hidden trials of Evelyn Song, a main character in the new novel OldTown Brothers Born. While deciding what to do about an unexpected job offer, Evelyn is confronted with another woman’s crisis. Her response reveals the answer she was looking for.
Few people understood Evelyn Song. In some ways, she was a mystery to herself. But that thought wouldn’t solve today’s problem. She sat at her desk at the back of The Children’s Garden Daycare Center, long after the last child had left. The owner, Mrs. Dana Dillane, had retreated with the reminder to “Just think about it.” Thinking about her boss’s offer was all Evelyn had been doing for the last two hours.
A crimson sun hovered just above the horizon, painting the front room in a rosy glow. Bright yellow walls, decorated with a mural depicting a garden filled with fruit trees, charming animals, and smiling children playing on a green lawn dotted with flowers, wrapped around the front picture window.,
On the south end, miniature bookshelves were packed with illustrated story books, activity books, colorful counting and alphabet books, song books, and so much more that the overflow had been stacked on top in neat piles. Dolls and trucks, blocks and Legos, bouncy balls and foam balls, play pens, a changing station, colorful little tables with matching plastic chairs, and three soft toy boxes stood in readiness at their proper places for the next day’s invasion.
Evelyn tapped a nearly empty disinfectant bottle on her desk, while germ-ridden paper towels were stuffed in a disposable bag by her feet. The final cleanup was always a chore, but not a hard one. She had grown to enjoy it—working in peace and quiet, setting everything just right, imagining how tomorrow’s children would make happy memories here. A safe, welcoming home-away-from-home. Cleaning each evening and occasionally helping out during the day was the reason she had been hired in the first place.
Her elder sister’s pale pink face flashed in her mind. Susan had started working here shortly after college and loved it. Her plans to one day take over the center changed drastically when a certain Mr. Martin from Texas came along and swept her into his oversized heart. Covering for her sister was a long-standing habit, and since she had just graduated from college with an English major and no immediate plans, filling in as a “helper” until Mrs. Dillane could find a replacement wasn’t much of a challenge.
Nine years ago!
The fact that she had just been offered the position her sister had always dreamed about shouldn’t have upset her. But she realized with a bit of chagrin that she had just cleaned every toy within an inch of its life, taken every book off the shelves, and then lined them up from shortest to tallest, knowing full well that size didn’t matter to the pint-sized people who grabbed them by the armful and dropped most of them as they toddled across the room. Why didn’t she just go home and make dinner?
Alone? No Martin to carry me off…
Susan had moved to Texas, and their mother had passed away seven years ago. Her dad lived in a nursing facility paid for by a generous retirement from Boeing. His engineering talents were long gone, as was most of his memory. She visited him every Saturday morning, often bringing a book and reading aloud, while he dozed fitfully and asked her the same question repeatedly. “When’s Carol coming?”
Evelyn didn’t answer that his wife was long dead. It only made him sad. She doubted he knew who she was anymore. He certainly looked bewildered whenever she mentioned her sister Susan.
A knock on the window startled her. The spray bottle flew from her hand, and she tripped over the bag of spent towels.
A face pressed against the window, peering in. The knock repeated, louder this time.
Gathering her courage and whatever self-respect she had left, Evelyn darted to the door and, after unlocking it, swung it open. Her tone wasn’t friendly but that couldn’t be helped. “Yes? What do you want?”
“Oh, Evelyn! Thank goodness. I was so afraid everyone was gone, but I had to try.”
At barely five feet, Sandy Rodriguez was one of the most petite people Evelyn had ever known. But the woman’s spirit made up for what she lacked in physical presence. Her little boy, Juan, inherited her mother’s sweet nature and his father’s daredevil attitude. She shook her head, trying to convince her heart that there was no reason to overreact when a parent showed up so late at the center.
“Is everything okay?” A sweep of her hand clarified that her world consisted of a clean and perfectly arranged room. “I was just about to leave.”
Sandy practically forced herself inside, flapping her hands like a distressed bird. “Juan’s stuffed tiger—the one his dad gave him for his birthday, have you seen it?”
Daylight faded into twilight, and Evelyn blinked, trying to recall where she had last seen it and wondering why it mattered now. “Oh, yes, it was stuffed in with the books. I put it…” Where? She looked at the woman who was acting as if a silly toy meant the difference between life and death. She sighed. Some parents do go a little overboard. “Well, no worries; Juan can get it in the—”
“He was hit by a car.”
Evelyn froze.
Sandy reached out and grabbed Evelyn’s arm, her whole body shaking. “He’s going to be okay. Just a side swipe that knocked him down, but he has a broken arm. Jessie is with him now. But he kept crying for his bear, and I figured you might not remember Jessie, so I came instead.” She wiped tears from her cheeks and struggled to catch her breath. “You know how hard we work, and you never get mad when I’m late. This place means the world to us…that Juan has a safe place when we can’t be with him.” She wiped her face with her hands. “Sorry! I’ve just been so tense and scared since it happened.”
Evelyn didn’t think through her next actions, but she knew to the core of her being that they were the right ones. She enveloped the tiny lady in her arms and rocked her as she would have rocked one of the little ones that cried for comfort.
Her body shaking with each heart-wrenching sob, bottled up fear and grief poured from the exhausted mother.
After Sandy took a cleansing breath, Evelyn led the woman to the back toy box where a brown bear wearing a bright red shirt and blue jeans perched contentedly on the back of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Sandy laughed as she snatched up the bear. Then she hugged it. Then she hugged Evelyn. “Thank you!”
As they walked to the door, Evelyn heard herself speaking words that she hadn’t realized she could say. “Mrs. Dillane plans to retire next year, and she offered to sell this place to me. I’m thinking of accepting.”
Sandy hugged her again. After hurrying out the door with the bear clutched to her chest, the little woman who loved her son with every fiber of her being disappeared from view.
Evelyn gathered up the bottle and paper towels, put everything in its proper place, walked out the door, and locked the door for the night. As she strolled under the night sky, she hummed to herself.
As long as she loved the people in her life, she was never alone.
One mystery was solved.
On a special note, this will be the last short story until autumn. This spring and summer, I will be writing my newest novel, OldTown Brothers Born, and working on a new children’s book, the sequel to Wise Home. I am also expanding my reach by connecting with more bookstores and libraries, human-to-human.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. Novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational reflections are available as eBooks, paperbacks, hardcover, and as audible books. https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
“One of the strengths of the collection is the author’s ability to create an entire world in just a few pages, leaving the reader wanting more. The stories are compact and move at a brisk pace, yet are filled with drama and excitement.” ~Gina Mitchell
“Many of the stories are very moving. Some are humorous. And they are all well written.” ~McEvoy
“The collection features imaginative science fiction stories from the OldEarth and Newearth worlds that reflect on humanity’s path while shining a light on opportunities and dangers. The stories vary in tone and theme to explore different aspects of the human experience.” ~Amazon
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, links, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books https://www.amazon.com/A.-K.-Frailey/e/B006WQTQCEPhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-playroom-mother-infant-8446727/
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May 2, 2025
Literary Genres
Literary Genres offer many beautiful lenses through which to view the human experience. Crossing genres and blending them is not a failing but an asset.
A writer either sets trends or follows them. Or ignores them completely. There is one advantage to ignorance – the freedom to live outside a box. Google lists fifty-one writing genres. Some I’ve never even heard of. Many literary professionals insist that it is best to discover your box, snuggle down, and stay put. That philosophy never worked for me. Ignoring statistical information may not be smart, but it might be wise, allowing an author to follow an inner voice rather than chasing an outside stamp of approval.
Writing in several genres at once was never my plan. It just happens to be my style. I never set out to write in a particular genre. I write a story, a novel, a poem, a reflection, and then try to squeeze it into a genre. The goal for me is to release something from the inside. How it looks to the world outside is for readers to decide.
My first project, The Road Goes Ever On, A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings, fell onto the page fairly smoothly. Defining it has been a bumpy process. Is Amazon right categorizing it as Science Fiction & Fantasy Criticism, History Criticism, and Literary Criticism? Or is it a personal reflection and Christian contemplation? Or some mixed version of all of that?
Ironically, several reviewers did not review the book that I actually wrote but the book as they think it should have been written. In other words, they didn’t like my genre confusion. I may not appreciate their tangents, but I sympathize with their confusion. It’s not an easy book to categorize. Hopefully, readers will discover value in it anyway.
I wrote my first fiction series as historical fiction. Simple. Easy to understand. But then, as I tried to promote it, I discovered that it didn’t settle into the historical fiction box as neatly as I hoped. It really belonged in an ancient historical fiction box. Since it brought up spiritual crisis points, readers began to review it in terms of faith. Then, I mixed things up when I rewrote the entire series within a sci-fi universe. ACX miscategorized the first novel, OldEarth Aram Encounter, as “post-apocalyptic,” which, as an ancient historical fiction/sci-fi blend, it certainly is not. What a muddle!
Despite the confusion in selling points and my sorrow in leading readers astray, (I’m sorry that someone looking for a post-apocalyptic story went to OE Aram Encounter when they would have been more comfortable with Newearth Justine Awakens.) I have never regretted following the story rather than a genre.
Last of Her Kind does fall neatly into the first contact sci-fi genre, but since it brings up huge cultural issues centering on bio-ethics AND faith and religion, it’s another blend, which might be covered under the term “literary.”
The Newearth series and Homestead are basic science fiction with elements of mystery and romance embedded within them. Amazon and Audible weren’t confused with multiple genre types, so their categories fit the books fairly well.
So why didn’t I stick within my already wide boundaries? Weren’t historical fiction, sci-fi, and literary fiction genres enough to keep my writing soul happy?
Short stories demand concise, efficient writing. A novel experience lives a lifetime in a few pages. I love that. In the same way that doing laundry allows me a break from balancing the checkbook and weeding the garden frees my spirit from educational pursuits, so short stories breathe new energy into my literary endeavors. Poetry and children’s books do much the same. I work different artistic muscles, toning my entire literary corpus. My fiction writing has been crafted by approaching it from various perspectives. That may not be great marketing, but it can enlarge the soul.
My nonfiction works are informal reflections on my chosen lifestyle, covering topics as wide-ranging as rural living, small-town experiences, homeschooling, mothering a large family, and stewardship of a small menagerie. Not easily categorized, but they are as honest as I can make them. Another soul-enriching experience.
Though following a trend may make life easier and promote better sales, I am grateful for a wide range of genre experiences. Some authors travel far and wide for rich life experiences to craft something worth reading. Home is where the heart is, and where I find the richest soil for planting meaning through words. Various genres help us see the bouquet of life through a new lens. They bring vibrant life into focus.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“The history is fascinating, the characters are uniquely intriguing, the plot is very rich, and the events are fascinating.” ~OnlineBookClub
“One of the best books I have read.” ~Glenda
“Many of the stories are very moving. Some are humorous. And they are all well written.” ~McEvoy
“so much truth and wisdom in this poem” ~Mystic Rose
“This was a wholesome book, with nice illustrations, taking kids through the lives of rural living and sharing the simple things in life.” ~Erika
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/books-library-bookshelf-scene-8351946/
The post Literary Genres first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
April 25, 2025
We Need Friends
We Need Friends illuminates the bond between human beings who endure personal struggles. In OldTown, strangers offer friendship in times of trial.
Rhona cupped a mug of hot coffee between her hands, her elbows resting on the polished oak table in her kitchen, and pondered the twenty-something young man who sat slump-shouldered on the chair at her left. The look of defeat in Kai’s eyes didn’t fit the rest of his strong features—wavy black hair, high cheekbones, green eyes, and a well-defined jaw. She knew from his short family history recitation that he’d known sorrow and joys aplenty. But as she’d learned after long association with her husband, Dermid—a staunch Scotsman if ever there was one—men do not like to be told what to do, much less what to think.
Does anyone?
Grandma Hazel’s piercing black eyes in her childlike face filled Rhona’s mind. Now there was a woman who passionately responded to the undercurrents of her heart despite what anyone might think.
Lincoln logs clattered across the wooden table as her niece, Syn, eighteen, and the young man’s nephew, Tam, age four, conspired to construct a tower worth knocking down with a homemade catapult.
Rhona shook her head as she swung her gaze back to the man. So young to be saddled with the weight of a troubled brother and a nephew who clearly needed help… She frowned. Something about the child was off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. With an intake of breath, she focused on Kai.
“Mind if I tell you a story? It’s about my grandmother; something about your situation puts me in mind of her.”
Kai shrugged and reached for another muffin from the dwindling mound set on a plate at the center of the table.
The coffee had cooled; Rhona no longer felt the warmth she craved on autumn mornings, but a different strength seeped into her bones as she allowed old memories to surface—long-guarded treasures that few ever knew about. Odd how strangers usually inherited the preserved contents of attics and dark closets, and even family photos, which should have been valued forever but tainted with mixed emotions, were often thrown away like yesterday’s garbage. Never a hoarder, Rhona rarely kept useless things. But she retained these memories… Maybe for just such a moment as this.
“My grandma Hazel was a wonderful woman. She was strong in the manner of a load-bearing beam hidden in the ceiling of a house, you understand?”
A smile hovered on Kia’s lips, a knowing look in his eyes.
“Yes, well, she had a baby face. Always did. You could look at photos of her as a kid, a teen, a young woman, and even an elderly lady, and recognize her on the spot. Her eyes remained ageless, no matter what happened to her skin.”
Though the building project on the far end of the table continued, Syn’s chattering had dwindled. Rhona could practically feel the girl’s ears rise like aerial antennas.
“Well, Grandma had this Chevy, a pretty, full-figured car that ran quite well, so long as you didn’t take it through ditches or across creeks. Something Grandma Hazel might do if the exploration mood hit. She was unpredictable like that. Her husband, Mac, had given her the car as a fiftieth birthday gift and even had it painted in her favorite shade of dark blue. After he died, she seemed a bit untethered and would roam all over the county in that automobile. She never told anyone where she was going, and frequently, not terribly unexpected in those days, she’d show up as a surprise guest at someone’s farmhouse. She pretty much always brought a treat, so the welcome was genuine, though as she sped away afterward, dirt flying from her back wheels, so was the concern that she might never make it home.”
Rhona pointed to the muffin plate, a silent question in her arched brows.
Shaking his head ruefully, Kai rubbed his lean stomach as if it had never been so full before. Not a word to interrupt her flow.
In her implacable manner, Rhona carried on. “So, the whole town got to the point where unusual Grandma Hazel sightings were reported morning, noon, and night. No cell phones needed. Phone lines, café gatherings, and even weekly meetings at the Quilt and Sew Shop started with new accounts of Grandma’s adventures. The more absurd reports were usually treated with the same skepticism as a Big Foot sighting, but it became a thing! Bets were made.”
Kia’s eyes twinkled with delight.
Syn had abandoned the building project and now leaned on one arm, her eyes wide with wonder.
Only little Tam stayed faithful to his work, balancing logs on a square frame, slowly building upwards.
“Then there came a day when grandma didn’t make it home by dark. Her eldest son, Kal, went out to look for her, and sure enough, she was stuck midway across a flooded stream. She’d attempted to race across, as she had done many times before, but this time, it didn’t work, and she got stuck fast.”
The kitchen door swung open, and a heavy-set, broad-shouldered man with a noticeable belly, brown eyes, and gray streaks running through black hair stepped into the room. Undeterred by the sight of a strange young man and an unknown boy in his kitchen, he tromped to the sink and began to wash his hands.
Rhona rose and grabbed a brown mug from the cabinet. “I’ve got fresh coffee. And the muffins are still fairly warm.” Then she gestured to the table. “This is Kai, the young man Ada told us about. And that cherub building a tower is his nephew, Tam.” She met Kai’s gaze. “My husband, Dermid.”
Kai started to rise, but Dermid waved him back to his seat. “Don’t get up. I just want to settle down and let my old bones remember what rest feels like.” He smiled as he scooted onto the bench across from Tam and scrutinized the building project with all the seriousness of a construction foreman.
After setting a mug of coffee in front of her husband and nudging the muffin plate within easy reach, Rhona leaned on the back of her chair. “Well, a long story not so short, my grandma learned a hard lesson. Her beloved Chevy was never quite the same after that ramble. Her spirit may have been made to soar, but automobiles have limitations. As do we all.”
Kai’s smile faded as his gaze turned inward. Then he looked up, a question in his eyes darting from Rhona to Dermid. “Whatever happened to it? The car, I mean?”
Derm laughed, and a few crumbs tumbled down the front of his shirt. “We had to hide it eventually. It wasn’t going anywhere, but the old gal, well into her nineties, would dress up, get behind the wheel, and try to go for a drive. We hated to see the disappointment in her eyes every time she realized that it wasn’t able to take her anywhere.” Derm pointed to the wood line across from their farmhouse. “On winter evenings when the trees are bare, you can just see its outline, snug in the woods.” His smile warmed. “It’s happy there, having served grandma well. But as Rhona said, it wasn’t made to fly. That’s another road altogether.”
A crash, and all heads swiveled to Tam, who stood before the ruin of his tower, his bottom lip quivering.
Syn jumped to her feet and attempted to contain the logs before they rolled to the floor, murmuring comfort as she did so, “It’s okay, little guy. We’ll build again, and I bet we can make it even higher next time.”
Tears flooding his eyes, Tam stood shakily on his chair, barely keeping his balance over the wreck of his short-lived dreams.
Kai rushed over and scooped the boy into his arms. “That’s okay, Tam. We’ve got to get going anyway. It’s been great visiting.”
Tam dropped his head onto his uncle’s shoulder and heaved a world-weary sigh.
Rhona walked Kai and Tam to the door. “I’m glad you came, Kai. We love visitors.” She tilted her head toward the table where Syn and Dermid dropped the Lincoln logs into the canister. “Syn is always open to babysitting if you need someone. Though I might recommend the Children’s Garden if you need something regular.”
Kai grabbed the doorknob and nodded. “Yeah. Someone recommended them to me. I’m planning on going out there and meeting the manager.” He shrugged. “Just to see. I’ve got to work, and Wiley should find a job soon…”
Dermid padded up from behind, his gravelly voice set on low. “If you’re thinking about daycare, you might want to take the little man to the doctor for a checkup first.” He rubbed his chin casually. “Doctor Omar Fadel at Family Practice over in Hillsborough is good with kids, I hear. Tam will need his vaccinations in any case.”
Kai’s penetrating stare suggested that he wanted to ask more, but a quick glance at Tam deterred his intention. He merely smiled and thrust out his hand.
Rhona clasped his hand in hers. “We’re here, Kai. Any time you need us. Remember that.”
Seconding his wife’s words, Derm nodded, his gaze direct and unwavering.
A grateful smile, and Kai carried his nephew out the door and bounded down the steps.
Rhona shut the door against a rising wind and turned and faced her husband.
Derm grinned at her. “Why Grandma Hazel’s Chevy?”
Rhona shrugged as she gathered up the cups and the plate of muffins. “It’s a great story. And besides, it’s good to remember—we all have limitations. That’s why we need friends.”
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8.
Make the most of life’s journey.
For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out
https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
“As usual, Ann Frailey doesn’t disappoint. Her heartfelt, down-to-earth stories are filled with real-life experiences and emotions that you can almost feel like you are experiencing them as well as you read. She’s one of the best authors I’ve ever read.” ~Ron
“The collection creates an evocative set of life scenarios that explore good intentions, real-world situations, and acts of quiet love, desperation, and redemption.” ~California Bookwatch
“The collection features imaginative science fiction stories that reflect on humanity’s path. Based on this, the stories in this collection may be suitable for science fiction newcomers as they seem to explore universal themes related to humanity.” ~Amazon
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/photos/vintage-1950s-pretty-woman-887272/
The post We Need Friends first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
April 4, 2025
Natural Good and Evil
Natural Good and Evil reflect a supernatural order beyond my understanding. Paying attention means I glimpse an unseen world that profoundly affects my own.
Long ago, in the dark ages of my personal timeline, I arrived on the rural shore of country living and immediately fell in love. My heart had always yearned for nature the way a woman stranded on a desert island longs for home.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what nature, rural homesteading, or country living meant beyond dreamy images patched together from glossy magazines, television shows, and movies. I honestly believed that all God’s creatures were innocent. Like babies of the world, they meant no harm. As that may be true on a philosophical level, I learned, painfully, that harm is done, naturally, all the time. Reconciling myself to a living world not made in the image of human fantasy has been a profound journey. One I have come to love far more than a glossy picture.
I start my day with quiet time in contemplation, following chosen prayers, offering gratitude, asking intercession for those in need, and allowing my mind to muddle about any troubling worries, laying them where they belong, into God’s hands. Yesterday was no exception, though things took a weird turn almost immediately.
No sooner had I set my worries aside than I heard a squawk and a thump. My heart knew the sound of trouble, so I rushed onto the porch and found my beautiful, long-furred, white cat with a dying sparrow in its mouth. Lest you think that Everin, my handsome feline, just needed a little snack to fill in the empty spaces, consider the neat, well-filled dishes placed all over two porches just for my multitudinous kitties’ delight. Not cheap either, considering the price of pet food these days.
No, there was no way out of it. Everin was a villain, killing an innocent sparrow with no desperate motive to justify his actions. It is his nature, you say? Yes. And isn’t that rather interesting? An innocent villain gave me a reason to pause.
But life duties called. I didn’t let Everin eat the poor dead bird, no rewards for murder no matter how instinctually done. After I tucked the limp corpse into a deep niche in tall bushes where it was hidden and safe for a bit, I went on to my next task. I started to fill the bird feeders. Something flew into my hair and buzzed, interrupting my plans. Once I brushed it out, I—rather brazenly—headed back to the feed sack. And got stung. Not once, but twice.
It took a moment for my brain to process the fact that I was under attack. A glance around and I spotted my assailants. A nest of wasps had invaded a birdhouse directly overhead. They were gunning for me, and I had to run for cover or face getting stung again.
I skedaddled right into the house and into the kitchen, where I grabbed a can of wasp spray. No St. Francis moment for me. The stings throbbed, and I wasn’t going to let a horde of nasties chase me out of my own backyard. After all, I paid the taxes on the property! Heck, I had bought the birdhouse they had hijacked.
Grumbling justifications to myself, I marched out and exterminated the lot of them. I have no problem with wasps; in fact, their associates have built nests all over the eaves of my house, and we have lived in harmony for years. But this was a dedicated attack. They came after me when I merely walked by, several feet away. So, I ended their line.
Old Testament demands of generational vengeance battled pacific dedication to New Testament commands “Forgive your enemies.” Well, I forgave them right after I killed them off. It was certainly easier that way. Theoretically, I could have stopped and forgiven them before I sprayed their nest, but the fact was, pain motivated me to do the dreadful deed, or I would never have done it.
Years ago, when my husband was alive and well, he managed several beehives and collected honey in late summer. It was a wonderful enterprise, one the whole family appreciated. He was a sensitive and caring beekeeper who always kept the welfare of his bees in mind. Until one year when he was asked to collect a wild hive, which he did. He brought it home and set it up in a new home. Immediately after, that insane hive began attacking everyone. Even the chickens got stung. The dogs and cats couldn’t figure out what was happening. It was terrible. I couldn’t let the kids outside; those bees were vicious.
I remember going outside a few mornings later, and John had a big fire blazing. Confused, I asked him what he was doing with a fire so early in the morning. He just looked at me, sad-eyed, and said something to the effect, “It was us or them. They weren’t going to change.” Then I saw the empty beehive set off to the side.
A damning judgment if ever there was one. That image ran through my head when I sprayed the wasps. They weren’t going to change. They couldn’t. I would not have them stinging my family and me. I could not judge their existence, but I had to deal with their actions.
Everin does hunt sparrows. Though he doesn’t need to and I cannot justify his behavior, he reclines on my back porch as beautifully feline as ever. If the sparrows could, perhaps they would do away with him. But I won’t.
Nature reflects ingrained instinct, remaining innocent of evil intent. But harm still happens. The human journey surpasses natural instinct into the realm of chosen acts. Intent matters as much as effect. Our judicial system is dedicated to teasing out such issues for critical judgment. I cannot claim insight or wisdom in judging hearts, minds, or souls. I leave that in more capable hands. But if I can save a sparrow, I will. And wasps better keep their stingers to themselves.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of eight. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I loved reading Ann’s wise, hope-giving thoughts about life and love. Truly, life is the art of overcoming obstacles and becoming stronger to live a fuller life. Beautiful work!” ~Ksenia
“Sometimes I feel sad about things, personal and…the world, and find inspiration in your stories.” ~Edith Fréccia
“The collection creates an evocative set of life scenarios that explore good intentions, real-world situations, and acts of quiet love, desperation, and redemption.” ~California Bookwatch
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/photos/insect-wasps-hornets-hornets-nest-3270233/
The post Natural Good and Evil first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
March 28, 2025
Humans for Humanity Support
Humans for Humanity Support makes the world a better place. Despite societal divides, I have found common ground with people who focus on what is good in life. In the spirit of building up rather than tearing down, an attitude of gratitude nurtures the best in the human race. There are always faults, failings, and weaknesses to address, true. But hurt and hate don’t heal. To grow anything good and glorious, we must nurture the seeds of hope and beauty.
With that intention, I want to offer my sincere thanks to the folks who have written thoughtful reviews of my work through the years. If I left anyone off or misspelled anyone’s name, I apologize. I mined both Amazon and Goodreads for the names of genuine reviewers and supporters. I appreciate your generous kindness in taking the time and effort to write a review.
I will add names as new reviews come in.
Let’s grow together.A. Culver
Abel Tutagalevao
Alan
Alisha Torres
Amanda M.
Amys Bookshelf Reviews
An Open Book Family
Andrew B
Andy Rose
Angel Dunworth
Anmol Pandey
Ann
Ann B. Rhodes, Ed.D.
Anne Simenc
Anthony Delauney
Ariana Rosenberg
Arthur Powers
AVC
azlaydey
Barbara Ann
Barbara J Wicks
Barbara Mojica
Bautem
Bethany L Cass
Bonnie
Brandon Vogt
Brent King
Brian Mccoppin
Caribbean Didi
Carla A. Warren
Carolyn
Charlene Sánchez
Charlotte Ostermann
Chris Roy
Christina
Christine Calabrese, Indie Author
Clare Pillarkins
Cleo
Cookie
Cynthia Finefrock
Cynthia T.
d1x1lady
DAB
Danna Rose
Deacon Phillip Uro
Debbie L. Hepner
Donna Stompf
Dr. Eileen Quinn Knight
Edith Karras
Edith Marie Karras
Ellen Fisher
Ellen Hrkach Gable
Emma O.
EMuss22
Felicia Patterson
Gail
Gina Rae Mitchell
Giving_Gal
Glenda Dykstra
GoodBookEnergy
Guddi
Hagop Kane Boughazian
Hanna Gonzalez
Hans Rigelman
Holly DiBella-McCarthy
HopeintheLord
Isabelle Parenti Teacher, Author
J Richard Katch
Jaime R. Riggs
Jan Caracter
Jean S.
Jean Stillman
Jen
JennB
Jennifer Ann
Jennifer C.
JenniferAnne
Jess C
Jim S
JJ
Joan L. Kelly
John
Joseph W. Clouser
Josh Beckman
Jude Griffin
K.A. Mulenga
Karen Henton
Katherine Rose—Edwardsville Public Library
Kaye O’Donoghue
Kaye Park Hinckley
Kellman
Kevin Fan
Kika
Kim
Kimberly Clay
Kletheby
Kristina Andrews
Kristina Knode
Kristina Sheldon
Ksenia
Kumby
Laura O
Lauren Reichenbach
Lee
Liane
Liane Joly
Lily L.
Linda
linda updyke
Lindens
Lisa
M Khan
Mandy
Margaret
Marie Wilfong
martha martel
MD
Michaela Atkins
Mike Carrozzo
Millie Donofrio
Mr.Moose
Mrs. D.
Ms. Kimms
My Book Addiction and More MBA
Myra Johnson
Naiomi—Champaign Public Library
Nigel Tetley
Nikki Davidson
Nina Maxim
Nora Dimitrova
Pat
Pauline Atilite
Rickie Allen Higgins
Robert Swegart
ronnie glaze
Pierzchala Williams
Sandra Megyesi-hallas
Sandra M-H
Sarah Yasin
Scott
Shana Dobbins
Sharon White
Shelly
Siobhan D
Space Cowgirl
Stephanie R.
Steven Joseph
Steven R. McEvoy
Tanequa
Tanya R.
TheNickofTime
Theresa Linden
Tmarieg
Trese Glorio
Tsamb
UM Cameron
Vin
Virginia Finnie
Vivian Cameron-Gallo
Walter Graff
Yolisa
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. Novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational reflections are available as eBooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, and as audible books. https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
Photo https://pixabay.com/photos/hands-cohesion-together-people-2888625/
The post Humans for Humanity Support first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
March 21, 2025
What Should Be
What Should Be peers into a woman’s soul on the anniversary of her lover’s death as she paints the cityscape before her. Only her son sees the deeper truth.
Elya sat precariously perched on a three-legged stool before an easel precariously perched on the slope of a hill and considered the cityscape before her. No emotion rose as she stared ahead, though childhood bafflement returned. What she saw with her eyes was only an illusion behind which something honest must exist if only she could see beyond the monumental structures.
Scruffy jeans, a warm sweater, and thick boots shielded her from the late winter chill. Normally, she’d never paint outside in February, but a surprise thaw had melted the vestiges of snow and warmed the air, offering a hint of spring. Leaving her seventeen-year-old son, Kai, to struggle through math homework that she couldn’t possibly understand, she had gathered her easel, art paper, paint boxes, and the fold-up stool, packed them into her small gray car, and headed to this lonely spot overlooking the city.
She dipped her brush into a pale yellow concoction she had stirred to perfection and traced the skyline. The Capitol took prime position in the center, while the grand library with its sturdy pillars stood to the right. Other structures she couldn’t identify abutted against the sprawling university named after some explorer she had heard about but forgotten.
As her hand traced the straight lines of stone and steel, her mind wandered and a resounding tone filtered through unbidden. “Planned cities! That’s what we need.” It was Jano’s authoritative voice, always so certain of himself. Whenever he drove through the city, weaving around derelict buildings, closed shops, and homeless people huddling on street corners, he would repeat his diatribe. “Planned cities!” He had a plan for everything, Jano did. Except his sons, of course. He never not planned on them.
As if watching from a distance, an image filled her mind: herself and her boy standing before a gravesite, a fresh stone at the head etched with the words “Jano Malik Bortov – a Man with Grand Plans.” Yes, Jano always had grand ideas about everything. A shiver worked over Elya. Was that only two years ago?
She shook her head and refocused on the scene. The noon sun had abandoned its topmost position and started its descent. Hints of shadows altered the interplay of structures and streets. She squinted at the soft edges, blurring the distinction of where one ended and the other began.
Another gravesite image crawled into her mind, this one merely a cracked clay mound with nothing to mark the life of the woman who had lived and loved and bore Jano his second son—Wiley. Elya had not let Kai come to the cemetery. He had been so young when Karina died, and besides, he hardly knew her. He knew his half-brother, as children often do, through the simple games they played together as boys.
Suddenly, Elya couldn’t stand the sickly yellow paint. She squeezed other colors onto the tray mechanically, her hands working as if they had minds of their own.
There had been some fun times, as odd as that seemed in retrospect. How could she have gotten along so well with her lover’s other mistress? Yet she had. She and Karina bore sons, only a few years apart, and though she had raged at the man, his supreme confidence in her love, his need for her affection, always drained her fury to a muffled cry in his embrace.
Karina never complained. She had sat at Elya’s kitchen counter on countless afternoons, drinking strong cups of coffee, chain-smoking, and applying bright polish to her nails, insisting that polygamy was the nature of men, and they could not be expected to do anything beyond their nature. Bearing Jano a son was her one great achievement in life. That and chatting pleasantly with customers while working at the Fuel Stop.
The comforting cigarette smoke eventually morphed into a swirling demon and choked the life out of Karina’s lungs. She died when her boy, Wiley, was only six. A lump formed in Elya’s throat. She set her brush aside. Above the tray of bright colors, the sickly yellow skyline stretched from one end of the canvas to the other. She hated it.
Squeezing her eyes shut she tried to block the questions that always pounded on her brain when she thought of Wiley. What had happened to the boy? She had taken Kai with her, she would be late for work otherwise, when she dropped Karina’s son at the foster care house.
Kai had strained, leaning his full weight against her grip, one hand stretched out as if to grab his half-brother as she tugged him away. In the car, Kai had dropped his head onto his chest and would not look at her. She swallowed down the familiar nausea and heaved a deep breath. It wasn’t my choice. I couldn’t take him. I could hardly manage to feed myself and Kai.
“Planned cities! That’s what we need!” Jano’s shout echoed in Elya’s ears as her eyes popped open. She reached for the brush to steady her nerves. Jano is dead. Elya is dead. And only God knows where that boy ended up.
She dipped her brush again and started to move across the paper, dabbing here and there with indistinct strokes. A sound of crackling twigs caught her ear, but with long training, she forced herself to pretend indifference—a bomb could explode under her feet and she would not be the least disturbed.
The crackling steps stopped and a shadow leaned over her shoulder and broke across the easel. Her son’s voice rose behind her. “Thought I’d find you here.”
Elya nodded. How much her son understood, she could not say. His kind nature – patient and generous – so different from his father, always surprised her. It was as if he had been plucked from some other race of beings that had discarded human weakness, only acts of decency hinting at his larger humanity. She continued to paint, her hand working faster, mixing fresh paints, dabbing across the page at a spectacular rate.
A long-exhaled breath and Kai signaled his reluctance to speak. But then, as he often did, he forced out his words in a rush, a necessary job to be accomplished as quickly as possible. “I went to see him. Even offered a prayer for his soul.” A long pause. “Someone had left flowers.”
Jolted, Elya suppressed her reaction. She had not left flowers. Who on earth would? She had stopped visiting Jano’s gravesite when Kai learned to drive. He took himself there on every anniversary of his father’s death and rarely said a word about it. During that same time, she would gather her paints and try to keep memories from tearing her soul into bits. Her vision blurring, she couldn’t see the page before her, but her brush continued to progress, darting here and there, filling in the empty spots.
“I’ve forgiven him.”
Elya’s hand dropped onto her lap, her paintbrush leaving a green smear on her jeans. It took her a moment to lift her head and glance aside at the tall handsome man that was her son. Honesty was her only recourse. “Me, too.” She shrugged. “But love and forgiveness does not amend the wrong he did to you…and others.”
Kia seemed to ponder this as his gaze fixed on the distant city. Then a dip of his head accented to her truth. A snort, and he moved on. “Planned cities!” Kai’s tone lightened into almost laughter. “You remember how he talked about his grand plans? How he would arrange cities according to human needs—everything from collective daycares to old age homes?”
Bile rose; Elya swallowed it down and whispered, “Yes.” There was so much that could not be said, but they both knew. The irony was not merely bleak, it was tragic, awash with the flotsam of cruel insensitivity and clownish ignorance. A warm hand landed on Elya’s shoulder and pressed with familiar kindness.
Kai spoke softly, “I like your picture better.”
Confused, Elya peered into her son’s face as his gaze wandered across her painting. She looked at what her hand had wrought, and they joined in silent communion.
On the canvas, the city had dwindled within the embrace of a woodland and an open field filled with vibrant flowers. The buildings had diminished to a fraction of their former size, and even the grand dome huddled in obedience to a greater power. The hard-lined streets had thinned to wandering earthen paths. Two matriarchal oaks bordered the page, their life-bright foliage streaming down the sides, while squirrels scampered across the verdant grass.
Did I paint this? She looked up and saw the sharp-edged cityscape had melded with afternoon shadows where imaginative possibilities grew.
Kai’s voice, soft and unassuming, rose like a refreshing breeze. “You see what should be there.”
What should have been. Elya knew she could not go back in time and imbue Jano’s vision with honesty, alter Karina’s self-destructive trajectory, or save her son’s half-brother. But she could paint a better picture.
She gathered her paints, closed the lid, and handed the painting to her son. “Carry this for me?” Then she collapsed the easel and bundled her equipment into her arms.
With the folded stool tucked under one arm, Kai carefully clasped the painting and strolled beside his mother down the hill toward home.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
“According to customers, the stories cover a range of unexpected topics and journeys of the imagination. One review mentions the book can be emotionally resonant, noting nobility, bravery, decency, kindness, and mercy are themes that pierce through the darkness explored in the stories.” ~Amazon
“The narration brings the characters to life, adding depth and emotion to the already compelling stories.” ~Amazon
“Customers find the story builds suspense and tension effectively. According to reviews, the book is an addictive page-turner that keeps readers engaged by flipping typical post-apocalyptic survival tropes on their head.” ~Amazon
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/photos/painting-girl-brush-art-colors-4159435/
The post What Should Be first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
March 7, 2025
Good Books
Good books have shaped my thinking, clarified confusion, healed hurts, and encouraged me on my life journey. Honest authors have not worked in vain. My earliest book memory is centered in the kitchen where my mom was folding clothes. I sat at the table, a hardback spread open under my hands as I painstakingly sounded out each word. I distinctly remember deep frustration in my struggling efforts and my mom’s seeming indifference. Likely she was thinking about what to make for dinner and figured that I’d learn faster if I worked the words out for myself.
She was right. I moved on to the Bluebirds reading circle in first grade rather quickly, which surprised me. As far as I was concerned, deciphering the words well enough to get the meaning was all that mattered.
I have no memory of anyone reading books to me outside of school. In fifth grade, our classroom was so out of control that several teachers quit before Ms. Stern showed up and managed to wrestle enough quiet time to read aloud each afternoon. I can’t remember the book, but I do remember the quiet. The power of a good story to stem the hordes in their headlong destructive rush amazed me.
My mom loved to go to the library every few weeks, and I would often tag along. I don’t know what she was reading, other than they were thick hardbacks and usually had the word “saga” written somewhere on the cover. A woman who loved a tragic family lineage story! As I grew older, I understood her passion better.
My earliest picks started with comic books and after rereading a dozen favorites multiple times, I moved on to the safe and predictable world of Nancy Drew mysteries. I loved clear descriptions, good friendships, and the companionship of a story that I knew would turn out well.
My childhood world wasn’t turning out so great. My parent’s divorce, mom’s drinking, sibling drug abuse, and a host of destructive episodes taught me the value of a simple story to take me out of painful reality and into a world where fathers loved their daughters, problems were faced without swearing, and solutions were accepted with grace. Nancy Drew books weren’t mere entertainment, they imaged possibilities that I wanted to believe existed somewhere in the world.
All too soon, I moved on to the hard stuff. I got a taste for the classics. Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, George Orwell’s Animal Farm, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, and a host of others stretched my mind and my imagination. I’m pretty sure I didn’t understand half of what I read, but even half was enough to enlarge my small world.
Since my public school experience had slid over a cliff in sixth grade, I started to attend a private Catholic school, St. Roberts. I did not fit in. When I refused to wear the uniform skirt after one girl tried to hike it in front of the others, I was allowed to wear uniform pants, very thin and very “uncool.” I became set apart. The fact that I didn’t speak to anyone only heightened my strangeness, making me virtually invisible. Going from the top of my class to the bottom, since my educational achievements the previous few years had dropped to near zero, meant that I was a scholastic as well as a social outcast.
I attended extra classes, struggled to catch up to grade-level material, and continued to read every chance I got. My great escape. Books offered me perspective on my life, the world, and the human experience that nothing else could. I understood that hardship, pain, embarrassment, and the raw realities of living in our troubled world, with evil nipping the heels of every good moment, did not belong to me alone. Everyone suffers. Even the people who cause suffering.
At about this same time, my mom started renting rooms to foreign students, so my house was filled with the languages and living embodiment of history brought to the present moment. None of the guys who came to live with us had it easy. Except for one guy who lost his car in a snowstorm and then went out and bought another one. Strange man. Personified charming insensitivity in a way I had hardly imagined possible outside of a book.
Most of the men had endured struggles that put my hardships into a much broader perspective, teaching me that grand stories could be believed. Fairy tales reflected an honest truth. Tolstoy and other brave writers had something important to say to confused humanity.
The juxtaposition of great stories with foreign students striving to better themselves amid my family’s emotional meltdowns taught me to absorb the power of the written word in a way I never previously could. I accepted their medicinal healing without embarrassment. My comprehension has always been limited, my application of knowledge and skills rather weak, but having the heart to carry on when the human experience seemed tragic, I attribute to the grace of God through the mighty works of good writers.
I have had to stop reading a few particularly “gritty” books for the inverse reason. They depressed me and darkened my vision to dismal, hopeless despair. The world has plenty of that. I don’t choose to imbibe it in story form. I have misunderstood authors and had to go back and reconsider their work in light of new understanding, but the litmus test for me centers on the same core that Nancy Drew books offered. Hope. A vision that spoke of possibilities despite challenging realities.
Though many authors may never realize their personal worth, their books speak louder than their words and save the wounded from despair. As Emily Dickinson says in the first line of her poem, “Not in Vain,”
“If I can stop one heart from breaking. I shall not live in vain…”
Thank you, honest authors of good books. Indeed, you have not lived in vain.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of eight. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“Many of the stories are very moving. Some are humorous. And they are all well written.” ~McEvoy
“The vivid descriptions of different clans bring early humanity alive. While part of a series, Neb works well as a standalone” ~Rachel
“The storyline, thrill, and suspense were fascinating. With my job, I usually don’t get time to read, but I couldn’t stay away from this one. Well done, A.K. Frailey.” ~Jill
“A woman faces uncertainty as all technology crashes around her. For weeks, she waits for news of her family, trying her best to survive and keep her home running and ready for their return. A wonderful story, I really enjoyed the characters.” ~Jean S.
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-books-flowers-8633501/
The post Good Books first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
February 21, 2025
What Does It Mean?
What Does It Mean? imagines a woman who, despite painful ordeals, focuses on strangers’ kindness rather than predators’ sharp teeth.
Karina bolted to a sitting position, one hand clasped to her chest, the other clutching her blanket. With sobbing gasps, she tried to pull her mind from the swirling nightmare to the quiet of her dark bedroom.
“What does it mean?” Her words echoed against the wooden furniture. She reached for the lamp on the end table and switched on the light. Squinting, she tapped on her phone and tried to read the glowing numbers: 3:33 AM. A shudder worked over her body as she tugged the blanket tighter. With darting motions, she set her phone aside, switched off the light, and leaned against the headboard. Cold metal made her jump. She snatched the extra pillow from the empty side of the bed and plumped it behind her. Then she relaxed with a sigh.
Haunting images rose in her mind. The awful boat ride, her wet clothes clinging to her exhausted body as she wove through the crowded pier, trying to make sense of the foreign land. Though she had shivered under the brilliant sun, no thought or emotion stirred her senses. It was as if she moved by some compulsion beyond her chosen will. Something led her weary legs up the incline, across the boardwalk, into the bustling town, and right to the doorway of a café that would become her home for the next three years.
She had no idea why Mr. Gracia had given her a free dinner and then offered her a job that day. She had feared that he’d want something from her that she wasn’t willing to give.
Her anxiety evaporated when his wife, Josephina, a stout woman with streaks of gray hair springing like wildflowers from her head and a robust smile, grabbed her by the hand and rubbed her fingers, exclaiming, “So cold! Just came off the boat, eh? Well, bet you could do with something hot inside of you!” She had merely pointed to the counter. The tamales Mr. Jose placed in front of her were hot, but she still felt frozen. At least on the inside. Until she scarfed them down in a few bites.
When Josephina’s eyes rolled from the empty plate to her husband’s bemused face, the radiant smile that burst forth enveloped Karina. She thought she might die in its glow.
She didn’t die, but in the twisted whirl of her nightmare, she was spirited to another glow, a raging fire that consumed the Garcia’s diner and nearly took the life of the man who had done more for her in one morning than most people had in her entire lifetime.
The fire dwindled into tears that slipped down Josephina’s cheeks as she patted Karina’s face in farewell. The rough, hard-working hands clasped hers and then slowly slid away.
Suddenly, Karina was on the street again, but this time she was a small child running, pelting down the sidewalk as fast as her legs would carry her toward a fence, a safety zone, wild dogs nipping at her from either side. Her heart pounding, doom pending, she tried to spurt forward but slipped. As she went down, a wolfish face, a man’s, closed in, fangs barred. She awoke terrified, her mind racing, her legs aching to get over the fence.
One hand slid from her chest to her middle, and she knew she wasn’t afraid for herself. “Who are the wolves?” her whispered question hung like a vaporous thread wending its way through the room. A smile ghosted over her, a familiar quirk when she had to laugh at herself. “There are so many.”
A burst of January wind slashed the window, sending a fresh chill over Karina. She grabbed the blankets tighter and slid down into the enfolding warmth. Her mind filled with her first glimpse of a handsome face, bold black eyes dancing at her from across the playground where she worked as a teacher’s aide. A mere ten months ago. The sweet glow she had thought she’d lost forever had revived. “I’ve got Jano now. He’s the king of wolves and won’t let anyone get me.”
Rolling onto her side and caressing her round belly, she closed her eyes, ready to banish snapping teeth to the darkest corner of her mind. Horrors had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. But as long as Mr. Garcia, Josephina, and a man like Jano were in the world, her baby would find a way over the fence.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother.
Make the most of life’s journey.
For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out
https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
“According to customers, the stories cover a range of unexpected topics and journeys of the imagination. One review mentions the book can be emotionally resonant, noting nobility, bravery, decency, kindness, and mercy are themes that pierce through the darkness explored in the stories.” ~Amazon
“Customers found the book offered cultural insights. As one review notes, ‘The stories provide a window into diverse cultures, offering nuanced perspectives on family dynamics and human experiences.’” ~Amazon
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-girl-child-female-8845040/
The post What Does It Mean? first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
