A.K. Frailey's Blog, page 6
October 20, 2023
Science and Humanity Story
In this Science and Humanity Story, a scientist discovers meaning in strange words, which only a student’s human kindness can reveal.
Herman, wearing his rumpled lab coat, stared at the broken flask in his hand and cursed under his breath. Being a mild-mannered man, his “curse” involved nothing more than odd expressions he had picked up from his grandmother: Flying fish and howling hoots!
The fleeting image of his grandmother with wild gray hair sprouting from her head, hunched shoulders, and a wicked smile almost knocked his annoyance into oblivion. But no. He must deal with this incompetence.
Last year’s robotic assistant fiasco had left enough blush on the administration’s face to force them to hire real flesh and blood human beings in the laboratory. The fact that they were earnest first-year grad students, earning a mere pittance while laboring under bio-chemistry protocol, didn’t alter strict adherence to the rules. Flasks were expensive after all. The student who broke it must pay for it.
Standing before the laboratory workbench in the colorless room under glaring lights, Herman rolled his shoulders. The question was, who would pay for this one? He pictured the newest addition to his laboratory, young Charles. A quiet lad with deep pools of sincerity in his eyes. Yet the young man appeared to have a weak wrist. This was the third broken flask in as many weeks. What was a tenured professor with an eye for making history to do? He could hardly ask for another robot! Everyone knew how that had ended.
Checking the wall clock, Herman realized that doom would soon be upon him. Charles was due at any moment. Yet, he considered, he need not deal with it now. Once the whole class filed in, there would be little time for chit-chat. Or reprimands, for that matter. He could make a general statement about carelessness and the duty of each student to pay for broken materials. Charles was an honest man. He would own up to his responsibility and pay without a direct confrontation. Surely.
That matter settled; Herman’s heart rate steadied. He grabbed a cloth and swept the mess into the trash bin. Then he went to review the day’s notes.
It wasn’t until the next day, that Herman recalled the broken flask. Enough cash, in crumpled tens and twenties, to cover the cost of the broken materials lay clipped together on his desk. A stab of childlike grief pricked Herman as he considered the real cost of those bills. What had poor Charles had to do to earn the extra money? He tapped the worn threads of commerce. Were these the pitiful profits that Charles had slaved for as an overworked busboy or a housekeeping guy at the local hotel?
No matter. What was done was done. Herman gathered up the bills and stuffed them into his lab coat. He’d drop them at the proper finance cubical this afternoon. In the meantime—
The door opened, and Charles slipped into the room. He was wearing an immaculate lab coat, though his well-pressed dress shirt and pants were revealed as he stepped forward. He offered a friendly wave and went directly to his workbench.
Frowning, Herman tried to remember if he had arranged for a special meeting.
As if reading his thoughts, Charles smiled as he set up his materials with a slow and steady hand. “You suggested that we practice our lab setup before next class, remember?”
Enlightened, relief flooded through Herman. This wasn’t some penitent’s need to confess and plead for forgiveness. He returned the smile. “Class is not till Friday but as you please.”
Charles gathered his materials with precise motions. “I’ve a family funeral to attend tomorrow. Promised to play my uncle’s favorite violin piece. Thought I’d better get everything prepared here ahead of time.”
Startled, Herman stepped away from his desk and adjusted his bifocals to see the young man more clearly. “I had no idea that you played the violin.”
A shrug. “Mom paid for lessons after Dad died. A form of healing, she said. Life must go on with every blessing we can give it.”
Uneasy, Herman took a step back and reached for his cold but comforting laptop. “She’s a religious type, eh?”
Charles tightened a particularly tricky piece of tubing, his head at eye level with the tiny knob. “She goes to Mass every week, but for her, it’s more than a religion. She loves God. And He loves her back.” With a satisfied nod, Charles straightened. He looked up and met Hermana’s gaze. “My sister died young…of cancer. It was hard on us all. But Mom and Dad believed that she was not gone forever, that she lives on in a way we can’t understand. I learned to appreciate their faith. It’s what led me to science. And to your lab in particular.”
Fighting a nervous impulse to change the topic, Herman retreated behind his desk. He hated rudeness, but he was a washout when it came to faith topics. It was like trying to decipher one of his grandmother’s curses. They never made sense even though they filled a very real need.
“I ignore death. It’s not my concern. Once someone is gone, they are gone. Enough said.” Prickled by Charles’ last words, he found himself asking a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. “Why my lab?”
Setting tubes in a holding rack just so, Charles kept his gaze on his work, but his strong voice clarified his interest in the conversation. “You’re delving into one of the greatest mysteries and tragedies of human experience—the breakdown of the brain during old age. You see hope in what many throughout the ages have considered a hopeless situation. I find that visionary faith very productive.”
Nettled, Herman strode across the room and stood before his student’s perfectly arranged workbench. “Faith had nothing to do with it. I see that humanity needs help, and I try to solve problems through logical thinking and proven experimentation.”
A mischievous twinkle entered Charles’ eyes.
Alarm raced over Herman. Suddenly he had a hankering for a robot.
“Wasn’t Robot Chuck perfectly logical with all sorts of experiments to prove his worth? Yet you were one of the first to accept student assistants again.”
Feeling very much like his dog on bath day, Herman steeled himself. “How do you know about Chuck?”
“Lacy—the one who had altercations with Chuck—is my cousin. She described the whole adventure. That’s when I first took notice of you and your lab. Mom said it was providential.”
In momentary madness, Herman turned vicious. “Well, you haven’t been very providential to this lab, I must say. Three broken flasks, after all!”
A long appraising stare and Charles seemed to be making up his mind. He tapped the last tube into place and stepped away from the bench. Then he strode over to the materials shelving unit on the back wall. He beckoned his professor over.
Wanting very much to object but having not the least reason in the world to do so, Herman paced over and glared at the specially designed metal structure as if demanding that it explain matters.
“These flasks were put in the wrong place. See this narrow ledge doesn’t have enough of a base, but for some reason, someone kept putting the wide bottoms here. So, whenever a student went to pick out their supplies, inevitably one of the big flasks would fall and break. It happened to two people before I made the same mistake. I realized the cause and reorganized them after class yesterday.”
A leaden sensation worked its way over Herman. “It wasn’t your mistake, but you paid for them?”
The deep-seeing eyes met his gaze. “No one meant to break them. Human error. Just like the person who placed them on the wrong shelf. Since we’re all in this together, I figured I could do my part.”
And then some. Herman shook his head. “You know perfectly well that I arranged the materials shelf.”
“I also know that you are wearing new bifocals.” Charles grinned. “You tilt your head just like my mom did right after she got hers.”
A snort that was really a laugh brought his grandmother’s face to mind again. Herman could almost hear her cackle. “Doonish get too smart for your own good, boyo. My curses do not a bit of harm, but my blessings might do a rare spat of good. Just have faith in kindness even when you don’t understand.” He shook his head and returned Charles’ grin. “You believe in blessings and curses?”
Charles nodded slowly. “I believe in willful intention.”
Herman patted the crumpled bills in his pocket, and warmth filled him as if his grandmother were standing there with him, smiling the biggest smile of all.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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
A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
It Might Have Been and Other Stories
The stories are compact and move at a brisk pace, yet are filled with drama and excitement. The book can be read in a single sitting or enjoyed over time as individual stories.” ~Gina Mitchell
One Day at a Time and Other Stories
“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
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/pt/illustrations/ai-gerado-laborat%C3%B3rio-imagina%C3%A7%C3%A3o-8121297/
The post Science and Humanity Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
October 13, 2023
Friendship Poem
In this Friendship Poem, shared peace with an honest companion can stem the tide of ugly memories, offering true healing.
Swaying long-stemmed grasses
Dance with brown tassels.
Swooping white swan
Settles on the tufted island lawn.
Rippling waves, gentle breezes,
Burning sun, puffy cloud teases.
Tis summer now, autumn not yet…
Nothing stays the same,
An old refrain.
Untrue, my heart insists.
I’ve been here before, memories persist.
Sadness, old griefs,
Lonely ventures in dangerous reefs.
Today, my aloneness rectified,
With my daughter at my side.
We share a bench, solitude, peace.
Companion souls.
Unlike others, ugly wasteful trolls.
Chosen friend in harmonic silence.
No narcissistic deadly chatter.
Some take beauty and twist it,
Meaning—missed it.
Like shards of glass,
Their dark memories harass.
Ugly, foolish bits,
Reason rocky bottom hits.
Oh, God,
Save me from the unreasoning mob,
Of anger hate,
Endless debate.
I am right! See who’s wrong!
Look to good and glorious,
True companionship.
Daughter friend,
Not a familiar fiend.
Deceptions—a deadly net.
Minds grapple, yet must, let
Go.
Origen of beauty knows:
Praise, Thank, Ask—the spirit glows,
As it grows.
Fill the mind with images kind.
March forward, leave searing thoughts behind.
Before us, the rippling current of Glory—Be!
Healing ointment of true friendship—See!
Step aside from murky yesterdays,
Joy amid the sunbeams play.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I loved every word of this charming poem…You have created an enchanting landscape and your words have illustrated it expertly with panache…” ~Diana
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/background-sunset-lake-swans-6616007/
The post Friendship Poem first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
October 6, 2023
Medieval Novel Sci-Fi Twist
In this Medieval Novel Sci-Fi Twist excerpt from OldEarth Melchior Encounter, enjoy a family scenario of love, confusion, trial, and humor.
Melchior felt the sneeze pulsing through his head like liquid fire. Squeezed under his bed, arms lodged tightly against his body, he had no opportunity to stem the rushing tide. “Agh! If-only, Chloe-dusted, more-thoroughly! Slovenly house-maaaaaid! Achoo!”
The smarting pain to his head when he smacked his skull against the wooden frame definitely checked the relief of the explosion. Melchior grimaced. The real object of his interest lay just out of reach. He stretched as far as his short stature would allow, but the vellum roll merely sat there, completely indifferent to his struggle.
“Aw! Hairy hedgehogs! Why can’t I do this one thing? Why does everything have to be so damnably difficult?”
“Father! Faaaather!”
Melchior’s head smashed against the underside of his bed once again as he struggled to extricate himself before his daughter entered the room and found her noble father’s backside peeking out from under the bedstead. He had his reputation to protect…among other things. But Melchior’s respectability could hardly cloak his body at this crucial moment. Although he wiggled backwards as fast as he could, the sneezes grew in proportion to his anxiety. “Oh, Mother Most Holy, I’ll say my devotions more regularly if only—”
“Father…? Father! What in Wodin’s name are you doing down there?”
Melchior’s whole body slumped against the dusty floor. “One more incident like this,”—his eldest daughter had warned him just yesterday in her most despairing tone—“and I’ll have to send for Aunt Martha.”
Yes, yes! Roaring rabbits! He was getting old, and perhaps a tad bit forgetful, but that wasn’t what led him to squiggle under the bedstead. He had a perfectly good reason for getting down on all fours and lodging almost his entire body between his hard bed and the dusty floorboards. It was all because of that treacherous roll of vellum. He needed it. He must have it! Who cared for dignity when the whole world waited on the brink of despair for this one piece of momentous news?
Angels above be praised! He had discovered the most amazing thing. He, Melchior, son of Jeremiah and Freda, simple thane, wordsmith, and inventor had discovered—well, it had been revealed to him in a dream—the one unifying principle of reality! He knew it, and he knew he knew it. Or at least he had known it last night when he woke up in the pitch black with the vision still clear in his mind.
He had done what any intelligent, honest, decent man would do. He struck a flame to his candle, retrieved his quill, and, snatching his precious roll that contained all his inspirations, wrote down this most amazing bit of universal truth. Why, the world would never be the same once he shared what he had learned!
After having scribbled down the vision in its entirety, exhaustion overwhelmed him. He carefully rolled the vellum and placed it beside his bed. When he awoke this morning, he remembered his great good luck, but to his horror, he saw no sign of his treasure. He searched frantically all over the room, tearing it to pieces. Not that there was much to tear apart; his personal possessions consisted only of a bed, a desk with one leg slightly shorter than the others, and a single straight-backed chair. He had tossed his clothes upon the floor in his desperate search…or had they been there already? Never mind that!
Perhaps the roll had merely fallen and rolled under the bed? When he’d gotten down on all fours, which was no easy feat, he could see the edge of what looked very much like his precious document. Without premeditated thought, he began to squiggle…and thus…here he lay…bare legs sticking out from under his bed. What else might be laid bare, he shuddered to think.
“Father, are you ill? Having a fit of some kind
Melchior sighed.
“Oliver! Come here! I think Father has had a fit and died half under his bed! Hurry!”
“Hurry, Oliver!” mimicked Melchior under his breath. “Hurry and save your already dead father! Bah!”
Before either Oliver or his eldest daughter, Adele, could rescue him, Melchior managed to squiggle backwards the last bit and fully extricated himself from the humiliation into which he had plunged himself.
He sat there, his head propped on his arm, which was propped rather casually upon his knee. He stared at his two children, rather surprised that the whole brood hadn’t followed them up the stairs into his little sanctuary. After all, their house only had a few rooms, and every squirrel and bird knew exactly what went on inside each. He blinked like a cat as he waited for the inevitable.
“Father, what were you doing? You scared me half to death! I thought…well…I don’t know what I thought, but—”
Melchior raised his hand wearily. “Don’t say another word. I know what you imagined, and I must say, you’ve a deplorable lack of faith in your father. Do you think I’d die in such an unceremonious way? When I’m ready to depart for the next world, I’ll let you know.”
He looked at his son, whose mouth hung slightly open. Although Oliver possessed a kind and gentle soul, he was not the brightest candle on the lampstand. But he was strong, and that was worth something. “Help your father to his feet, Oliver.”
Oliver obliged.
Melchior surveyed his eldest daughter and then his son. His shoulders slumped. They were truly the kindest people he knew, but times were hard, and there was so much decency being lost from their everyday world that his heart nearly broke when he thought of it. He remembered the stories his father and grandfather used to tell of the Roman days and how things used to be. But now, all was rot and ruin. There was little of the old grandeur left.
If only his wife, Edwina, had not passed away, leaving him to manage everything. He still owned a small portion of his lands. As a full-fledged thane, he maintained five hides as the law demanded. And he possessed a name and reputation as an educated man. He was considered wise in a land of ignorant, inarticulate…. Oh, never mind! He must not think of it. If only Edwina had been able to pass along more of her own noble strength. But she had been so busy raising the babies and maintaining the household that she’d had little time to speak about the past and what they had known—their honorable name and inheritance stolen.
Melchior forced himself into the present. “Where are the others?”
Oliver stared, but Adele spoke up in her usual brisk fashion. “They’ve gone to the festival. Don’t you remember, Father? You gave permission last week. Lord Gerard is holding a feast in honor of his daughter’s betrothal to Lord Marlow, with games and races and food and drink. You promised everyone might attend.”
“At this hour? Why, the sun has just risen!”
Adele studied her father, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve been up half the night again, haven’t you? Oh, Father!”
Melchior grimaced at the reproach for he had been up half the night; undoubtedly the morning had flown by while he slumbered, but still… Melchior fell to his knees again.
Adele shrieked. “What now, Father?”
“My roll! My parchment fell on the floor—that’s why I was half-buried under the bed when you found me.” Melchior struggled to his feet and carefully appraised his two children, eyeing not only their size but also their agility and mental acuity. He pointed to his daughter. “Adele, get under there and retrieve my roll. It’s very important, and I must have it!”
Adele shook her head in silent reproach before she dropped to her knees, wiggled under the bed, and returned with the roll pinched daintily between two fingers. She held the dusty vellum out to her father. “What’s it this time?”
Melchior pursed his lips, although his eyebrows furrowed anxiously. What if he had imagined the whole thing? What if he had dreamed that he had discovered the one great unifying principle of the universe? Honesty battled with prudence. Prudence won. “I’ve discovered something very important, but I’m not ready to reveal it yet. The world, as it stands today, isn’t ready for what I have to offer. We live in a land of fools ruled by barbarians.”
“Father! Don’t speak so loudly! King Radburn is very powerful and has many spies. Besides, we owe him our allegiance.” Adele’s gaze dropped; her cheeks flushed.
Practically hissing, Melchior wagged a finger in admonishment. “Yes, they are rather treasonous words, but they have meaning—at least they should.” He’d had more intelligent conversations with merchants than with lords, and the Saxon king was the most loutish man he had ever met. King? Melchior could name three hunting dogs with more sense. But that was none of his business. All he had to do was manage his own estate, keep his children alive, and stay out of trouble.
He snatched the roll from his daughter’s outstretched hand. “Yes, well, this will help to keep my mind on better things.” A sudden frown crushed his heavy brows over his eyes. “Why, then, aren’t you two at the celebration?”
Adele ran her fingers through her hair, a sheepish grin spreading over her face. “We’re going, but I had things to attend to. You want something to eat? Some bread and meat?”
Melchior rubbed his lean belly. Yes, food would definitely help. Hot food and a mug of warm ale would go a long way toward improving his mood. Then he could read over his work in the quiet of an empty house. Peace and quiet? This would be a prize! A worrisome thought stopped him cold. “Is everyone going?”
“Not Selby. I’m leaving him behind to watch over things. In case you need something.”
Melchior put on his most benevolent face, a wide smile to match his wide, innocent eyes. “Ah, let the poor man go. Even if he can’t partake, he can watch, and you might slip him a little something.”
Adele pursed her lips, her scowl disagreeing. “I don’t know if Lord Gerard would like that. Slaves aren’t invited to such things. Father, what can you be thinking?”
Melchior could feel his opportunity slipping away. Selby had an uncanny ability of finding him alone when he least desired company. The old fool would sidle forward with a ridiculous complaint or some “momentous” news: the cow had calved, the oats were up, it looked like a storm was coming, and then the garrulous codger would start to chatter. He could chatter a man’s two good ears right off his head.
Melchior aimed his gaze and spoke so clearly that no one could mistake his meaning. “Adele, I order you to take Selby and the rest with you. Say that they’re to help with the children, the cooking, or the cleanup. Say whatever you wish but take them and stay a good long time!”
Adele sniffed. Clearly, she understood all too well. “Please, Father, don’t let your eccentricities cause trouble. Lord Gerard’s nephew Robert will be there today, and he might—”
Oliver cleared his throat, his gaze shifting from his father to his sister.
Adele took the hint. “As you say, Father. We’ll leave in a few moments. I just need to get my cloak.” Adele glanced at her brother. “Get Father’s food, will you, Oliver? See that Selby carries in the tray and a flask of ale.”
Obedient as always, Oliver turned away.
Melchior watched his son go with an ache of regret. There was so little to praise. Suddenly his heart smote him, and Melchior called out to his son’s retreating figure. “Have a good time, Oliver! Dance with one of the pretty maidens for me.”
Oliver turned and considered his father. His eyes mournful. Without a word, he continued on his way.
As soon as everyone was gone, Melchior picked up his scroll and carefully unrolled it by the window. He stared wide-eyed, anxious to uncover its marvelous contents. First, there was the part about the stars’ alignment, which he had begun to chart five years ago after he had seen a propitious sign leading him to believe that his future was exceedingly bright. After a bit, he had become frustrated with the clouds forever covering the night stars, so he began to record his family tree, and, although it wasn’t particularly detailed, it pleased him to have the whole family in one place. Then, of course, there was that bit about animal husbandry…but his interest had faded after a disease nearly carried off all the cows. In the margins, he printed quotes of learned men that he soon memorized. He used to recite them at gatherings to amaze his family and impress his friends.
Finally, here it was. Why? What’s happened? The first few words were clear, for he’d still had some ink on his pen; he must have wet it with his tongue as was his usual habit but… Oh, flummoxed foxes! He had forgotten to dip his pen in ink. All that remained of his vision were some scratches and stray marks where his fingers had smudged the material. Just a few faint words were all that bore testimony to his vision, his wonderful knowledge that would save the world from disgrace and utter ruin!
Melchior stepped away from the light and fell heavily onto his bed, his hands hanging at his sides. How could this have happened? How could he have both been given such a gift and then had it snatched away all in one pitiless day? Did God not care for him? Did the Heavenly Host laugh at his attempts to understand his mighty world? Or was this the work of the devil to send him straight into the arms of the mistress of despair? If so, Beelzebub almost won.
Sighing, Melchior rose from the bed and returned to the light streaming through the window. He noticed a few readable traces upon the parchment. Melchior considered throwing the whole document into the fire, but then he remembered the cost of vellum, and he would have nothing to write upon if he threw this away.
Bah! What does it matter? The greatest knowledge in the universe has just slipped through my fingers. I am not likely to have that vision twice! And I can’t even remember the first thing about it other than it was lovely, and I was happier thinking about it than I had ever been in my life. But it’s gone now. The treasure has been stolen not only from my grasp, but from my mind as well. Oh, Lovely Mother, have you no pity for your servant?
Melchior heard the song of a bird just outside his window. It was a perky sparrow bouncing about from branch to branch as if it had nothing better to do than dance away the day. But as Melchior stared, the light fell on the vellum in such a way that the first scratches were discernible, and Melchior bent in closer. “What’s this?”
“And he showed me a river of water of life, clear as crystal…”
Clenching the vellum in frustration, Melchior shouted, “What in eternity does that mean?” Yet his heart was lightened, for although his entire vision did not come back to him, he did sense the unspeakable joy he had known when he had first sat upon his chair in the blackness of night and wrote the message he was sure had come from God. Well, if God did not want him to know the whole message now, so be it. God was a mystery. He still had hidden within him this marvelous secret, and when God wished him to remember, he would recall the vision in full. And next time, he would dip his quill in ink!
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 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
“a complex tale of sorcery, slave raids, and heroic rescues – dramatic events that bring the ancient world to life.” ~David
“The vivid descriptions of different clans bring early humanity alive. While part of a series, Neb works well as a standalone” ~Rachel
“Well written, this story grabs your interest from the beginning and keeps it throughout.” ~Speer
“a remarkably effective mix of bittersweet romance and murder mystery—one that also examines the dynamics of politics and power as well as cultural conflicts via the personal perspectives of a family of intriguing, earnest characters.” ~Kirkus Review
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/pt/illustrations/ai-gerado-homem-viking-n%C3%B3rdica-8223891/
The post Medieval Novel Sci-Fi Twist first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 29, 2023
Multitasking Disorder
Multitasking Disorder is hardly a professional diagnosis but rather a personal observation that when doing too much, I miss the wonders of life.
A late summer evening is the perfect time to sit on the backswing and simply be with the natural world. Dinner accomplished, house clean-up complete, and my daily to-do list driven into submission, I finally have “free time” to relax in the serenity of my backyard.
I ignore the mosquitoes that have the temerity to attack, despite their seasonal end. Insects that fly in my face or land on my person remind me why the first frost won’t arrive soon enough.
The gray & white cat, (Cheddar) brother to the orange cat (Bradley)—who he attacks every chance he gets—is stretched out on the seat next to me, tidying up his curly coat. I’ve never understood sibling rivalry, so his extreme antagonism to his littermate bewilders me. But in a sincere effort to keep peace, Bradley luxuriates inside the house, (especially loving the kitchen) while Cheddar dominates the yard.
I remind myself that I am here to enjoy nature. Rest my mind. Take it easy. Stay out of trouble…
Dutch, our husky dog, trots over and begs for pets and pats. I do my best, though when I give a little, he tends to howl for more. A simple greeting suddenly becomes a wrestling match. I remind him that I am not here to play. I am enjoying nature! He proceeds to attack a pine cone and show off his fine motor skills. Clare, our collie, has no intention of being left out of the action. Thankfully, she is easily satisfied with a few head pats and strolls over to the back porch—where she is not allowed—and helps herself to the cat food leftovers.
I resist the teaching moment and remind myself that I am not going to get distracted. I am supposed to be relaxing…
I can hear my daughters chatting and laughing in the kitchen, so my sense of peace reasserts itself. All is well. There is nothing that I really must do at the moment.
Cricket calls, cicada melodies, frog croaks, the distant hum of a lawnmower, and birdsong fill the air like a nature orchestra, reminding me of the two springy crickets that jumped from my mop this afternoon. I managed to secure them in a glass jar and resituated them outside, hopefully in better pastures. The mystery of crickets’ long history of invading the basement has never been solved. I drop that conundrum in the, “I’ll never know” pile of life’s questions.
Memories of my attempts to stick to my daily-do list leave me humbled. One thing always leads to another. Pretty much everything takes more time than I imagined. I multi-task out of sheer desperation that I’ll never get everything done if I don’t combine my efforts. Unfortunately, attempts to talk on the phone and make dinner at the same time have resulted in some not-so-savory meals. Chatting on the phone and typing at the same time have created miscommunication on all levels. Editing does not go well with anything, except breathing.
And yet, as I relax in the harmonious (and sometimes disturbing) world of nature, I realize that multi-tasking is not a crime. It’s a part of our human existence. Breathing, eating, and conversing with family go well together at dinner time. Sitting under the canopy of swaying pine trees, patting dogs, resting companionably with cats, and listening to bird songs elicits a sense of well-being unmatched by anything on my usual “fun” list.
I suspect that, like everything in nature and reason, balance matters. Frenetic attempts to get “everything” done speak more to the “whips of Sauron” and priority confusion than the value of managing life in harmonic style.
Satisfied now, the dogs plunk down in contented peace, while the cat ambles off on his nightly prowl. The birds and insects have settled with only a few lightning bugs dodging about like carefree fairies. Even the wind seems to have taken the night off, and so, as coolness descends, I take myself off to bed and dreamland, where despite a to-do list on my desk, I discover peace in doing nothing.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
My Road Goes Ever On, Spiritual Being, Human Journey
“A collection of insightful and encouraging blog posts from the author. This book is a daily devotional style book, as the author blends articles that bring fresh inspiration for the day on life, love, and overcoming obstacles with faith.” ~CBM
My Road Goes Ever On A Timeless Journey
“Sometimes I feel sad about things, personal and…the world, and find inspiration in your stories.” ~Edith Fréccia
The Road Goes Ever On—A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings
“The author uses the virtues and vices of Tolkien’s creations to remind us that those same virtues and vices are present in modern days.” ~Joan
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/pt/illustrations/ai-gerado-lofi-casa-japonesa-anime-8205365/
The post Multitasking Disorder first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 22, 2023
Life Is Crazy Story
In this Life Is Crazy Story, Jack admits that he must be mad, only to discover the true definition of madness and the value of a simple life well lived.
Jack, tall, lean, wearing a grey t-shirt and a clean pair of jeans, leaned forward on the plush chair in the therapist’s office, nearly tipping it, and stared his doctor in the eyes. His words were as honest as they were incredible. “I believe I am going mad.”
Dr. Burns held back a sigh. Not of despair but rather of relief. If he had put a dollar in the bank every time a patient had insisted that he or she was not mad, he could’ve retired years ago. Keeping his face impassive, he merely nodded and asked the obvious question, “Why?”
Apparently flabbergasted by the direct response, Jack flopped back in the chair, his gaze rising to the ceiling.
Though the tiled ceiling told no tales, plenty of secrets had floated to its heights. What agonies of the soul would bounce against its solid surface today?
“Well, my wife—ex-wife, I mean—says that I was a lousy husband and an insensitive lover. I forgot to put the toilet seat down, I bought candy for her birthday when she was trying to lose weight, I liked sex too much, I didn’t hold her hand in public, I liked hanging out with my guy friends sometimes, and, because she was always tired from work, she needed me to take away her stress, but I never did that in the way she wanted.”
The good doctor refrained from a quip about humanity and original sin. Stay on target, he reminded himself. “So, that’s it? You think you’re mad because your ex-wife complains about you?”
Swooping arm flaps and Jack appeared much like a beached whale waving useless appendages. “Good Lord, no. I’ve been terrible all my life. I just didn’t realize it. You see, I must be crazy. I always thought I was a pretty good guy, but now I look back, and I see all these patterns…” Jack’s eyes glazed over. “A professor in my poly-sci class gave us a book to read, “The Evil Within,” and I get it now. I’m not just a crazy guy; I’m a bad crazy guy.”
A tinge of a headache sprouted from Dr. Burn’s temporal lobe. He tried to soothe it away with a gentle rub. Stay focused. “Tell me about these patterns.”
The chair was not a recliner but Jack leaned as far back as humanly possible, his long legs sprawled across the carpeted floor. “Well, when I was a kid, my parents fought a lot. Mom thought Dad was a selfish jerk obsessed with his university studies, so she drank a lot to cover her loneliness. Got a few warnings for driving under the influence, but see, that was kinda my fault. I was supposed to get her stuff, but I was obstinate and refused to go to the store.”
Warning bells rang in the doctor’s head. “Get her stuff?”
He shrugged. “Booze, cigarettes. Sometimes she’d want a deli sandwich. But I hated how everyone looked at me when I’d pass the note to the cashier with the money. Guess, they knew there was something wrong with me.”
His attention caught on the odd image; Dr. Burns sat up. “How old were you when you had to go to the store for her stuff?”
“Oh…gosh…” Jack squinted into dim memories. “Seven…eight…nine. By the time I was ten, I would hide, so she couldn’t make me go.” He dragged his body to a more upright position. “I really let her down. Poor dad couldn’t help. They just weren’t cut out for each other. He was one sober dude, literally. Professional and serious. Mom was totally different. Funny, liked to act things out, and could tell awesome stories. They were great people individually but not so happy together.” Jack looked up. “See? I could never make things work between them. No matter what, I reminded Mom of Dad and Dad of Mom. Brought out the worst of each.” He shrugged awkwardly. Life was an uncomfortable burden.
“So, when I read the book about the evil within, how we did terrible things to the native races and women never had a fair shot, it all started to make sense to me.”
We? Dr. Burns stiffened at the familiar, all-encompassing assault.
“Then, when my wife hit me with the divorce papers and said that I was a lousy husband, I had to face the truth. I am the bad guy.” Tears filled Jack’s eyes. “And you know, I’ve been lying to myself, crazy-like, because I honestly didn’t think I was so bad. Sure, I made mistakes. Messed up plenty! Should have seen my chemistry labs. How I didn’t blow up the whole school, I’ll never know.” Jack shook his head, misery in his dark brown eyes. “After I found my wife sleeping with my best friend—Roland” his gaze shifting as he muttered the profane name, “I ran off to the wilderness for a while.” A far-off expression was warmed by a gentle smile. “I managed to free this squawking blue jay from a twine that had got wrapped around its leg, and I helped a bickering couple keep from starving to death before their big family meet-up. And then, there was this old guy… Said that even if you can’t help yourself, you can always help someone. So, I went home again. Determined. I was going to be a better person. But…”
A buzz sounded from somewhere around Jack’s person. With an embarrassed grin, he slipped his phone from his back pocket. “Sorry, I promised…” He checked a message and tapped in a response, then he balanced the silent phone on his leg. A half-shrug. “There’s this kid at work…struggling a lot, so I meet him for coffee once a week in town. He wanted to move up the time, so I told him to meet me at four. I can make it easy if I leave directly from here.”
Dr. Burns’ ears perked up. “What do you do for this kid? You’re not a therapist on the side, are you?” He tried to soften the accusation with a non-accusatory grin.
Waving the phone like a flag in high wind, Jack pantomimed his denial. “Not at all. I’m just a guy who drinks coffee and listens to stories without saying too much. This kid is figuring things out for himself. He knows he needs to stay away from his druggie pals, but he gets lonely. And sometimes…”
Dr. Burns leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes focused on Jack, waiting.
“Well, see, he’s trying to get his GED, and sometimes he needs a little help with the math. I got a B- in Algebra, so I may not be the greatest, but I can help him figure out most of the practice problems.”
Leaning back, Dr. Burns reappraised the man in front of him. Bright shafts of light broke over the dim room. “Doesn’t sound like the work of a bad guy. Or a madman.”
“Oh, that. Well, no. Like my brother, Markie, used to say, even a busted clock can be right once a day.”
Dr. Burns nodded through an internal groan. “Tell me about your week. What do you do?”
“Oh, really? Uh, nothing much. I manage a small store in town, keep it stocked and the workers paid. That kind of stuff. Not hard. Mostly routine. Not a huge salary, but I always pay my bills on time. Before I met my wife, I’d go to Al-Alon meetings on Wednesday nights to listen to how other folks managed. It helped. But then I decided that I needed to do something more…you know. Something where I could help out a bit. So, I joined the church fix-it crew. Still do that sometimes. Saturdays mostly. My ex didn’t like it, so I had to quit for a while. But I help out again now that she doesn’t care. She’s moved on to another guy.”
“Your best friend?”
“Ah, no. That was only a fling. She’s got someone else now. Not sure who. I lost track a while back.”
Dr. Burn’s initial desire to know the ex-wife’s name dissolved into a cauldron of revolving relationships. He merely hummed an accepting hmmm. “You go to church on Sundays, then?”
“Saturday nights. Catholic. Sorry. Most people don’t understand how I can keep the Sabath by going to Mass on Saturday, but it’s all rather beyond me. I just go and pray and then go home again. I usually feel better. For a while.”
“And Sundays?”
“I head out to nature. A hiking trail or a lake. Stay by myself and rest up for the week. Might bring a book and read.”
As if creeping vines had wrapped him tight to the chair, Dr. Burns forced himself to stand up. He strode across the room to the solid oak coffee station and poured himself a cup. He looked over his shoulder. “You want some?”
Jack shook his head. “Better not. I’m meeting Cisco, and I’ll have coffee with him.”
After pouring a healthy dollop of creamer into the dark swirling brew, Dr. Burns returned to his chair, but he didn’t sit down. He sipped and peered at the bowed head of the young man in front of him. Dear God, what do I say?
No immediate revelation forthcoming, Dr. Burns returned to his seat. He set his mug aside and leaned forward. Their hour was coming to a close, and he wanted to make his point very clear.
“Jack, I just want to say a few things before we end for today. First of all, it has been a pleasure meeting you. Rarely do I get a chance to listen to a perfectly sane and wonderfully kind person describe his everyday life. Second, I want you to walk out of here with the understanding that though you are not perfect, you are not mad. No one is perfect, Jack. Few people are truly insane. Most of us muddle through as best we can.”
Jack shook his head, his hands up, warding off the dismantling of his poor self-esteem edifice. “But my parents…my ex-wife, my friend! Things went really bad, and I didn’t fix any of it.”
An image of a battlefield filled Dr. Burn’s mind. “Listen, Jack. You can’t fix other people’s lives.” A sigh erupted from his middle. “Honestly, you can’t even fix your own life. Hell happens. Whether it’s in the form of misunderstandings, blatant narcissism, drug abuse, cancer, broken homes, and wounded childhoods, all we can do is whatever good we can manage, as situations allow.” He scooted forward. “Listen, Jack, I’m not Catholic, but I do believe in something greater than myself. With most clients, I call it God, the mystical reality of our creation, life on earth, suffering, and death. There is more here than we see with our eyes and yet we must inevitably make decisions based on imperfect knowledge. We screw up. Kind of like your chem labs. But, if we are gentle with ourselves and others, we can learn. We can keep trying. Good things will happen some days, and we’ll make it through the bad days.”
“So, you’re saying that I’m not really crazy…but life is crazy hard?”
An explosion of joy filled Dr. Burns. “I’ve never heard it put so succinctly…but, yes, that is exactly what I mean.”
Jack tilted his head, listening, new thoughts rising in his mind. He flashed a glance at the good doctor. “There are crazy people, though, right?”
A cloud covered the afternoon sun and plunged the room into momentary gloom. “Yes. Sadly, and for a number of reasons, some people have lost the ability to choose healthy options in life. Their destructive actions hurt themselves and everyone around them.”
“So, the long and the short of it is that sometimes we do good and sometimes we do bad, but it’s when we can’t choose good anymore…that’s when we are really crazy.”
Dr. Burns nodded.
Jack rose to his feet, new resolutions taking shape on his face. “The old man was right.”
Dr. Burns stood and walked to the door. He opened it and smiled at Jack. “Feel free to make a follow-up appointment any time you want.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you are crazy, but if you need support, I’m always here.”
Grinning, Jack crossed over the threshold. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ll keep that in mind. We all need support, don’t we?”
As Dr. Burns watched Jack pace down the hall and turn the corner, he stood quietly, recognizing an old ache rise from his chest. Once in a blue moon, he realized afresh that he was not alone on this confusing human journey. He remembered his coffee and returned to his office. He stared at the cold cup—wishing that he could sit in a local diner, solving Algebra problems with a friend.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 A. K. Frailey Amazon Author Page
“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
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/pt/illustrations/silhueta-humor-homem-lua-cheia-7725971/
The post Life Is Crazy Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 15, 2023
Soul Poem
In this Soul Poem, daily plans may go awry when intent and outcome do not meet; we must follow along, plan our best, and sing life’s song.
Thinking, praying, pondering—wonder,
Watching, waiting, hoping—flounder.
Mind games and mental traps,
Creative plans, outlines, energy saps.
Snap free from invisible threads,
Clear the soul of dreadful dreads.
Knit a blanket and kneed some dough,
Pick up fallen branches, green grass to mow.
Launder clothes, wipe countertops,
Lighten steps, momentum hops,
From serious duty to menial tasks,
Mighty accomplishments, reality blasts.
From morning hopes to daily do,
A series of miracles the whole week through.
Collapse inevitable when limits reach,
We all need rest, the spiritual teach.
All in turn, in time, we find,
Racing faster, we’re further behind.
Mysterious God, Eternal out of Time
A Cosmic Wanderer, reason not the rhyme.
Human subjects we must follow along
Plan our best, sing life’s song.
When intent and outcome do not meet,
It’s best to accept and peacefully greet,
Imperfections, half-accomplished goals,
Hold us together, growing our souls.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page“A beautiful treatise to the ever-faithful rewards Nature provides. Thank you for posting. In this time of chaos and turmoil around the globe, spending time ruminating over words like these is a welcome healer.” ~Odin
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/pt/photos/garota-lago-rede-madeira-fantasia-5253622/
The post Soul Poem first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 8, 2023
Ancient World Novel
In this Ancient World Novel, planned deceptions don’t work out as planned. Expectations take a serious turn when Roman legions arrive on Celtic shores.
Seanan dreamed of revenge. Gutun must cower before him—with his hands clenched in a beseeching attitude, begging for forgiveness and the right to slink into obscurity. And if his wife regretted her injustice to him, so much the better.
He marched swiftly over the short grass, his leather sandals straining against weary muscles. With his bags slung over his shoulder, his arms moved rhythmically at his side. Small huffs of breath bloomed white in the morning chill. He flexed his arms and stretched his neck in the habit of a man who knows that he must be prepared for sudden action.
His long black hair ran down his neck, blowing in the breeze. He scratched his short beard. An irritating insect plunged its hapless body against his neck, and he swatted it with more force than necessary.
Tainair glanced over, eyebrows up.
Seanan frowned and tried to think of an appropriate curse for an insect.
A distant figure approached. A large, lanky man marched forward.
Seanan halted.
The stranger increased his speed. Connan, a clansman and friend, ran forward, gesturing toward a grove of trees.
Seanan relaxed.
Once hidden in the thick grove, everyone gathered around.
Connan knelt before Seanan. “We have waited long for your return, hoping that the gods would see fit to preserve your life and set us free from our oppressor.”
Seanan wrinkled his brow and tugged the man’s sleeve none too gently. “Get up, man! I am no god to worship.”
Connan rose to his feet, his gaze on the ground.
Exasperated, Seanan cajoled his friend in his best I- will-be-calm voice. “You got the message that I was returning. So, what has Gutun been up to? Is everyone sick of his tricks yet?”
Still frowning, Connan sighed and lifted his gaze, sparing Seanan a glance. “Worse than Gutun. Romans are coming! One of their greatest fighting men and several legions have been sent to conquer our island. Rome is never satisfied. She wants the whole world!”
Delighted, Seanan’s smile widened. “A Roman warrior, eh? With legions?” Seanan looked around at his men and lifted his hands in wonder. “This is better than I had hoped. I mentioned to a few people that a Roman was coming with plans to take a piece of our territory, and now a great Roman warrior is coming with legions. I feel as proud as a papa to see my humble little story grow to such mighty proportions!”
Connan considered Seanan through narrowed eyes. “They landed on our shore only yesterday. How could you have heard about it when you’ve been far from home? Have you been traveling with Romans?”
Undaunted, Seanan shook his head. “Oh, Connan, you never did get anything straight. I know about it because I invented the whole thing. I’ve been traveling with a Roman boy for months. We split up a short time ago. He won’t arrive for another day or so, and by then, I’ll have arranged passage aboard a ship. You’ll meet him and make sure that he gets on the right ship.” Seanan’s eyebrows rose in speculation. “So tell me, how far to shore? We’re tired and in need of rest.”
Connan jerked his thumb back. “The shore is about a half of a day’s march, and a ship is ready. Your message got through all right. Still, I don’t understand. How can a Roman youth leading a legion be both in front of me and behind you?”
Seanan swung his bags over his shoulder. “You’re just confused. Georgios—that’s the boy’s name—is behind us. I left him not long ago.” A new thought intervened. “Are there other ships arriving soon?”
“The port is always busy. Ships arrive every few days.”
“But will one sail to our island soon after the one we take?”
Connan shrugged. “I think so.”
“Good, that’s all I need to know. Normally, I wouldn’t split up, but this plan was too good to fail. Wait here and meet Georgios and the others and lead them home. We’ll go ahead and get everything ready.” A painful memory flashed through Seanan’s mind. “How are my sons?”
Connan’s face brightened. “Very well indeed. They’ve become mighty in the sight of the gods, and Gutun does not pursue them openly, though he’d like to. You’ll find a welcome surprise awaiting when you return.” His gaze turned inward, a worried frown building between his eyes. “If you get home. I hear the Roman warrior and his men are heading into the valley.”
Seanan shook his head. How can such a well-meaning fellow could be so obtuse? With hearty encouragement, he clapped his arm around Connan’s formidable shoulders. “I have a plan. Don’t I always have a plan? By the green grass of our ancestors’ graves, did you think I’d walk into a trap?”
Connan sighed, bewildered. “I don’t see how you can have men before and behind you at the same time.” He shrugged. “I’ll wait for Georgios and pray that he is as good a warrior as the ones landing on our shores.”
With a snort, Seanan gestured to the men behind him. “Didn’t I tell you that everything would work out? We’ll give Gutun the surprise of his life—and then I’ll say hello to my wife!” He patted his bulging pack and sighed, well satisfied. He might allow her a glimpse of the treasures he had acquired before leaving her for his new home—a green knoll set off by four great oak trees, a spot he had always loved. He would build a luxurious home, and Fiona could see him from a distance and know what she had rejected. He smiled dreamily as he continued his homeward march.
~~~
Connan sat down to wait for the Roman boy. How can a Roman warrior be both in front of and behind me? He lay down, resting his head on his arm, and watched the grass as it swayed in undulating waves. He let his mind wander, for it was not his place to question the clan leader. And, anyway, things usually work themselves out in the end. At least, that’s what I’ve always been told.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I enjoyed this book very much. It is an engaging, fun read, while at the same time explores the meaning of life through the various struggles of well-developed characters.” ~Simenc
“The story was wonderful and well written.” ~Culver
“A classic good vs evil scenario. Well written. Fast-paced and adventure-filled. Readers both young and old will enjoy.” ~My Book Addiction
“Adventure book interlaced with sacred moments.” ~Steven
“a remarkably effective mix of bittersweet romance and murder mystery—via the personal perspectives of a family of intriguing characters.” ~Kirkus Review
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 BooksPainting/Photo https://pixabay.com/pt/illustrations/castelo-fantasia-agua-idade-m%C3%A9dia-6224830/
The post Ancient World Novel first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 1, 2023
Life’s Rules
In Life’s Rules of the Road, I find it highly ironic that in a world where rules are bent and often held suspect, we rage against our broken isolation…
Outside my window, a light blue sky, broken by cloud puffs and framed by verdant trees swaying in a gentle breeze, hovers between summer and autumn. Recent days have been imbued with rainy coolness, but sizzling temps this coming week promise a late season last gasp. So, life goes, undulating between the luxury of woodland beauty to the discomfort of burning desert heat.
In late August, we transitioned from slow vacation days to busy school and work schedules. This year, my youngest two kids are taking driver’s ed, and I am grateful for past successes and peer ahead toward a new level of independence. The work involved in getting a young person from permit to license, from inexperienced to skilled driver, involves public school classes, a test, and lots of hours behind the wheel. But, in fact, more is being learned and wider life experiences are being imbibed than strict interpretation of the state requirements.
When I get behind the wheel and head into town, it becomes very apparent that daily drivers are as varied as their authentic learning experiences. Some people merely accept that there are rules of the road while others discover why there are rules of the road.
In other teaching avenues, I have been tutoring a couple of young people, helping them pass the needed tests so that they can earn their GEDs. It is not an easy process. The paths that led them to where they are in life are quite different, but the strict structure of state tests remains the same. Learning the book material, understanding the nature of test taking, and forging beyond past disappointments are key factors to future success, but once again, knowing why a GED is important personally is just as important as knowing what a GED means in a material world.
Since my family is spread far and wide these days, and I know a number of people who circulate in unique groups, representing vastly different life circumstances, I often ponder the roads people take in life—literally as well as figuratively—and why they are on them.
The biggest surprise that I constantly struggle to understand is the level of self-deception many people live with: Addictions that are explained away as necessary life support, unhealthy relationships that have more in common with addictions than anyone dares admit, compulsive complaining, narcissistic self-absorption, and the relentless ache of self-made isolation.
Rules of the literal road were not created to interfere with our enjoyment of life. Education centers were not intended as prisons where bullies rampage and kids get warped. Medical restrictions reflect more a cautionary tale than unbounded insensitivity.
Yet, the white lines that warn us of oncoming traffic and the yellow guidelines seem all but ignored in today’s I-will-drive-where-ever-I-please-world. Educational opportunities are missed or derailed in the scorching rays of emotional and physical tribulations. Who can learn textbook information when life itself makes little sense? And with so many societal disagreements, who defines factual knowledge these days?
I sometimes wonder if filling our days so completely, being furiously active, needing meds to put us to sleep and other meds to help us awake, data streams poured into our minds on a never-ending cycle, drives humanity insane.
In a world where we have access to so much that is potentially good, we seem bent on driving with wild abandon on the wrong side of the road to demand that the nearest store give us poison.
I find it highly ironic that in a world where rules are bent and often held suspect, we rage against our broken isolation…wrecks cast off to the side of life’s highway.
Today’s blue sky informs me that there will be no rain in the near future. Golden maple leaves hint at the changing season. Despite the vagaries of daily weather, I trust in the logic of seasons. Despite personal aspirations, I know I am growing older and must face predictable aches and pains, hopefully with humor rather than rage. There are rules to my life’s road, and I know why they are there—to keep me and others safe while I travel to my destination. Education is more than facts and book learning, though the facts and books do matter and should not be ignored. What I do with what I learn spells the difference between a piece of paper and a meaningful life.
What the natural world has to teach reminds me that not all learning is done in school and life has rules for a reason.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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
A. K. Frailey Amazon Author Page
My Road Goes Ever On, Spiritual Being, Human Journey
“A collection of insightful and encouraging blog posts from the author. This book is a daily devotional style book, as the author blends articles that bring fresh inspiration for the day on life, love, and overcoming obstacles with faith.” ~CBM
My Road Goes Ever On A Timeless Journey
“Sometimes I feel sad about things, personal and…the world, and find inspiration in your stories.” ~Edith Fréccia
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/pt/photos/estrada-fantasia-natureza-portas-6814065/
The post Life’s Rules first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
August 25, 2023
Spiritual Love Story
Characters from the stories Leopold and Unless You Give Up in the short story collection, It Might Have Been and Other Stories.
In this Spiritual Love Story, two strangers navigating life’s dilemmas discover that each has a gift the other needs to develop their lives more fully.
Leaning back on his rustic porch chair, Grant rested his hands over his son’s sketchbook and exhaled a slow breath. His gaze flowed across the meandering river twenty feet away to the rocky cliff on the opposite side. A pair of maple trees branched up from the hard surface, their roots intertwined, one curving over the river, the other stretched tall toward the mountainous clouds overhead.
The quiet cabin maintained a serene expression, its windows open to the late summer breeze. He patted the sketchbook. These are good…really good. His heart should have rejoiced in that knowledge, happy that his son, who had struggled for so long to find purpose in his life, had finally created something that revealed the immense value of the man hidden inside. But will anyone see it? Commercialize it, maybe…
A chill swept over Grant at the idea of Jon selling his artistic skills to an advertising agency. Still, he could make lots of money—become financially independent. Maybe find a wife…raise a family. The sudden cold hardened into deep frost. Repetitive years working at a job he barely tolerated, his own yearning poured out in stories that were only read by a small online following, set the stage for the image of his son’s imploring face, those deep-need brown eyes. No. He’ll find his own way. A better way…Please, God!
His inborn scream was choked off by an odd sight…a canoe zig-zagging down the middle of the river. A woman, her frazzled gray hair pulled into a haphazard bun, paddled with frantic strokes, trying to navigate the placid stream. He smiled. Shouldn’t be hard, but she’s struggling like a drunken sailor trying to walk a white line. Probably never rowed a canoe before…
Without thinking, he called out, startling a flock of blackbirds from surrounding woods, cawing as they rose into the sky. “You okay? I mean…do you want some help?”
Grant stepped over to the edge of the porch, no railing to hinder his view. His cozy vacation cabin—perched on the edge of the river with a rickety peer that staggered a few feet from the boulder-strewn shore—was his greatest concession in a life of dedicated hard work and few pleasures. If Judy was out there, struggling… He swallowed back ancient memories; his gaze darted to his boat tied to the pier.
“I’m fine.” The woman swung a wobbly smile at the cabin as if she couldn’t tear her eyes from the water long enough to fix on his form.
A nauseating sensation twirled like overcooked spaghetti in Grant’s stomach. “Better watch out for those sand—”
He hadn’t even seen the bleached-white log with a snarly branch, but he definitely heard the rough skidding as her canoe scraped the sandy hillock. The look of panic on her face as she dug her paddle deep into the sucking blackness, her entire world suddenly immobile, sent Grant into immediate action. He laid Jon’s sketchbook on the small end table, leaped forward, then ran down the short steps and made it to the peer before she even realized she was well and truly stuck.
With the expert finesse of a man who has spent every vacation either hiking the trails or out on the boat, he freed his craft and headed her way.
At his approach, her surprise spun from chagrin to gratitude in a matter of seconds. Whatever else, she was no fool.
~~~
“Thank you.” She accepted his offered glass of lemonade with the same quiet fortitude of someone long used to recovering from harrowing experiences.
Though it hadn’t been harrowing in the slightest. He had rowed over, maneuvered his boat just behind and to the side of hers, avoiding the sandbar and the ensnaring log, and then towed her canoe across the current to his rickety pier, where she disembarked as if his invitation had been voiced and her acceptance duly noted.
Somehow, the silent exchange made their communication all that more powerful. They had managed to converse on a level he had rarely experienced before. Not even with his long-dead wife.
Supernatural apparition? A story he had written several years ago flashed across his mind. Something about an angel coming to the aid of a dying child… Nothing like this. Besides, I’m the one giving aid, and I’m hardly an angel.
Once on the porch and perched on the edge an overturned barrel, he took a sip from his glass, condensation dribbling over his fingertips, splattering drops on his shorts.
She leaned back on the chair, much as he had done earlier, a sigh escaping her lips like a sparrow released from a snare. “I’m sorry to have bothered you like this.” She winced, squinting into a memory. “I used to be able to steer a canoe down this river without any help. And I knew full well to keep clear of sandbars and such.” She shook her head. Her gaze refocused, and she finally looked him full in the face. “But that was many years ago.”
He understood. Though the way she said it, she spoke of ages, not years. At sixty, he was near enough her age to comprehend the situation, but yet, she didn’t seem to make the connection. As if he was still a child in her eyes.
“There’s been an unusual amount of rain this summer, and autumn is closing in fast. The river rushes, like everything, these days.” He stopped talking and took another sip, panicked that he had suddenly lost the power to make coherent sense.
She eyed him, holding the wet glass in one hand, her thumb rubbing the side, almost a caress. “Not everyone.” She shrugged and set her glass on the side table. “Some of us have come to a full stop.” A wry smile. “Literally.”
No words. Sympathy, yes. But he couldn’t begin to explain.
Suddenly, her eyes widened and she leaned forward, wiped her wet fingers on her shorts, and then reached out. “Sorry. I never even told you my name. Miranda.”
He accepted her work-hardened hand, ignoring his surprise, and gave it a gentle shake. “Grant.” He looked around, not sure what came next. A comment about the weather? No, did that already. He glanced at her hand again. No ring. No husband? Family? Why in the world is she out here trying to manage a canoe all by herself?
As if she really did have supernatural powers, she answered his unasked question. “I’ve got family…down the river aways, just over the border in Montgomery County. Live with my niece and her family on a 20-acre place. Nice and all, but I thought I’d do something different. Get away and find my direction in life.” A twist to her smile, and a slight harumph. “I thought I knew how to paddle my own canoe.” Another head shake. “Guess, I’ll strike that off my list of accomplishments.”
Pity…or was it sympathy? filled Grant. “If I scratched all the things I can no longer do off my list of accomplishments, it would be mighty short, indeed. Don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work, you know.”
Miranda sat up, alert, a spark of hope in her troubled eyes.
A sudden wind streaked through, ruffling stray locks of her hair and rippling the pages of Jon’s sketchbook.
Fear shot through Grant. The damp glass was touching the fragile pages. With a quick, “Excuse me,” he shot over and retrieved his son’s work. He clasped the book to his chest, sat down, and then laid it on his lap, trying to cover his anxiety with absurd casualness.
Her eyes followed his every move. Interested. Or Intrigued?
Abashed, he smothered a bitter laugh. “Oh, it’s not mine. I can’t draw stick figures so as you could tell them from trees.” As if baring his soul, he lifted the sketchpad, exhibit one in his life story. “My son Jon draws. Really well, actually. But…well, he’s had a hard time finding his place. Didn’t do well in high school and wouldn’t go to college. He works construction during the day but draws at night. Just doesn’t know what to do with them.” Heat flushed his face. Why am I talking so much?
“May I?” Hesitant, apparently fearful of scaring his trust away, she held out her hand.
He passed the sketchbook over, uneasy qualms shaking his confidence. Would Jon mind? If he met her and she asked him like she did me?
She lifted the cover and stared at the first drawing, studying it, her eyes roaming over the page, taking in the details. Slowly, she passed onto the next page, her eyes widened, and her chest stilled as if she was too caught up to bother breathing. And on she went, page after nerve-wracking page, sometimes doubling back and reconsidering an earlier work.
Finally, after an eternity, the sketchbook still resting on her knees, clasped in both hands, she looked up and met Grant’s waiting gaze.
“You’re his father?”
Confused, Grant nodded. “Yes, Jon is my son.” He blinked, sensing something so powerful he wasn’t sure his heart could take it. “What? Why do you ask?”
She stared into his eyes and plunged into his soul. “You must be a wonderful father to have encouraged such sensitivity. I don’t believe anyone could have such skill without it being given to him from above.”
A relieved sob rose into his throat. “You really think so?” He wanted to hug this strange woman. “I mean, I’m no expert, but I thought they were good, too. It’s just that artists can’t make a living these days, and I wanted him to have an independent life, so I encouraged him to go into construction, work with his hands, do something useful…” He heard the defensiveness in his voice but couldn’t redirect the current of his words. “He gave me this before I took off for vacation, asked me what I thought. But I just can’t see him selling his skills to some commercial industry…like advertising. He’d be miserable. A sellout. That’d ruin everything for him.”
Her gaze fixed on Grant’s face. “And for you?”
His mind blanked. “I’ll get refills.” He jumped to his feet, held out his hand for the sketchbook and then tucked it under one arm, then he snatched the two glasses and rushed through the open doorway into the living room. He placed his son’s treasure on the table by the couch, safely away from dribbles and other dangers.
Speedy refills, a calming breath, though his mind remained blank, he returned to the porch.
The sun had sunk halfway to the horizon. Evening would fall quickly this late in the season.
Miranda stood, waiting, ready to leave. “I really should not have kept you this long. First you rescue me, then you serve me refreshing drinks, and I reward you with interrogations.”
Unaccountably, his heart plunged into an abyss. “No. Nothing like that.” He gazed over the placid water and the hidden sandbar, the grasping branches of fallen trees, and faced himself. “I didn’t mean to rush off like that. It’s just that I should have asked Jon if I could show his pictures.”
A smile of understanding and she stepped to the edge of the porch.
He shuffled after her, right to the top step. Then it hit him. She couldn’t row herself home. Not safely. Not in the dark. “I’ll row you back home. Your niece can come pick up the canoe anytime.”
He could almost hear her thinking, I got this far safely, and a twitch in her eyes spoke of rebellion, but then her gaze met his, and she relented with a humble nod.
As the sun settled behind the hills, warm beams of light crawled up the tops of the trees, enflaming their leaves.
Once she was seated comfortably in his boat, his muscles relaxed into the calming pattern of even strokes as he paddled the light craft. Peace enveloped him and words unfolded in the soft light. “You really think Jon has talent?”
Sitting primly on the hard seat, her hands clasped on her lap and her legs folded to the side in an almost girlish fashion, she smiled. “Yes. He does. What is your hidden talent, may I ask?”
Amazed, Grant cleared his throat from sudden dryness. “Well, no one would call it a talent, but I like to write stories. I put them online and sometimes people read them. Don’t make any money, though. Just a hobby.”
“I’d like to read them.” Her eyes pondered his face, searching, perhaps waiting.
“And you? What do you like to do?”
She shook her head—perplexed or amused—he could not tell. “I used to love being a nurse and a wife…till my husband got sick, and I helped him through his last years. I loved being a mom, but my son moved with his wife to the other side of the world, so I hardly ever see them now. I enjoy being with my niece and her family—wonderful husband, dear kids.” A wistful expression filled her eyes.
A vice gripped his heart. “I asked what you like to do…but you still didn’t tell me.”
She met his gaze directly. “I think I did.”
He swallowed hard and braved his way forward, his paddle barely stirring the calm water. “You could meet my son and tell him why you like his work.”
Evening light added sparkle to her eyes. “I could.” She stared over the glinting water. “I know a company that commissions art for hospitals, nursing homes, educational settings…Lovely paintings that encourage weary souls. He could send in some of his work. I bet they’d love it.”
As he passed between the brilliant maple trees lining the shore, refreshing strength filled Grant. He considered the woman who he had never, in his wildest stories, ever imagined, and rejoiced in his son’s talent, which he could never emulate. For once in his life, he flowed peacefully with the current that took him, he knew not where, nourishing his spirit as it went.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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
A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
It Might Have Been and Other Stories
“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. The book can be read in a single sitting or enjoyed over time as individual stories.” ~Gina Mitchell
One Day at a Time and Other Stories
“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
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/pt/photos/mulher-modelo-lago-barco-p%C3%A1ssaros-6567217/
The post Spiritual Love Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
August 18, 2023
Poetry of Nature
Poetry of Nature speaks to the glorious relationship between humanity and our created world. Balance and beauty, despite storms, offer peace like no other.
Hurrying winds of coming storm,
Warn…
But not yet.
Mid-day glories, see and set,
In mind, soul, heart,
Please, God, never to part.
Giant sunflowers rollick on breezy waves,
Singing silent songs of summer days.
Heavily laden apple trees drop their cargo to crushed sweetness
Bees, buzz ’round in happiness.
Butterflies float by,
Their passage haunts—a deep and yearning sigh.
Spiders unseen, their webs strung from the highest branches,
To the lowest stems, glorious creation dances,
Brilliant in highlighted streamers when the sunlight
Is just right.
Incandescent hummingbirds hover from bloom to bloom,
While sparrows flutter amidst tall pines, their nests they groom.
Banner flags flutter and twirl,
Across the green grass, falling leaves swirl.
White kitties curl up at my side
Dogs recline in peace abide.
The first drop falls
Tea kettle calls.
Great outdoors, I must leave.
Welcome indoor safe reprieve.
Patter the heavy rains.
Glory sustains.
In mind, soul, heart,
Please, God, never to part.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 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 outA. K. Frailey Amazon Author Page
“This is a wonderful collection and I know I will return to it again for a spiritual pick me up or encouragement. Or even just to put a smile on my face.” ~McEvoy
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-vegetable-garden-8031183/
The post Poetry of Nature first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
