The Prince of Peace

Do we not yet know what will calm the waves--
What will make the wind's howling cease?
His head is on a pillow in the bow of the boat,
Or He may be approaching,
Through the whitecaps walking;
And He calls for courage as He wakes, as He walks,
Courage given by the Prince of Peace.

Do we yet ask 'why?' when the storms are fierce,
Even longing for death's release?
Our Master weathered tempests mightier than hell,
Thorns of man enduring,
Demons' dance defying;
And He shows His wounds ever open, never healed,
Wounds of mercy in the Prince of Peace.

Do we cry 'how long?' when the wars rage on,
Ever hungering for victory's feast?
Our Victor sits enthroned far above any strife,
And He left His promise
He will soon come for us
With all those who died dressed in white by His side,
Bright companions of the Prince of Peace.


4.29.14
MNA

Flash Fiction (stories of exactly 25 words)

Love Larceny  by Mark Aikins

I only found Camille’s headstone,
having tracked the little thief to Athens
--not for my wallet...for my heart.
Another lover had found her first.





Day of Vengeance  by Mark Aikins

Hovering spectres crowded Cutter’s Glen,
gleeful over the blood-soaked ground.
Lightning, not tomahawks, had ended
the hundredth anniversary picnic of
the Indian War Victory Society.





Shore Leave Interruptus  by Mark Aikins

Communicator now slick as his palm,
“Enterprise!” he shouted, “report!!”
“Klingons disabled,” Chekov panted.
“Thirty casualties...torpedoes depleted...shields open.”
“Beam me aboard,” Kirk whispered.

At Long Last - short fiction

Dreams are funny things, he thought. Dreams are funny, tantalizing, tragic, magical, maddening things. They’d kept him going for a long time--longer than he cared to remember. Dreams of other places, of moving out, up and away. Dreams of doing more, better, greater. Dreams of being someone other than ordinary.

He looked down at Mary’s sweet, sleeping face, wisps of dark honey hair veiling one prettily lashed eyelid. Through the curtained full-length windows of their suite he could make out the muted, unending thunder of the Falls. Finally they’d made it to one of the picture postcard places he’d been reading about all his life. Finally he’d lassoed a honeymoon.

Oh, not all by himself, he’d have to admit. And that in and of itself roped one of his dreams and dragged it down to earth. Always the fierce advocate for neighbors helping neighbors, at least when it came to the calamities others were facing, when it came to his own crises, accepting outside help had always seemed an admission of defeat. Until that crazy Christmas Eve when the unimaginable had happened.

Harry’s medal ... the whole county decked out and poised to honor the Bailey name ... Uncle Billy’s memory lapse ... the missing money ... the bank examiner ... the frantic search ... the meltdown at home ... the fear in the faces of the ones he loved ... the insurance policy ... the river...

Help was certainly there when he needed it that night. The night he ceased to exist and his whole world changed.

“‘Morning, George.” The music of Mary’s voice drifted to him on the fog of memory and stirred a warm pool at the base of George’s spine, sending misty rivulets throughout his lanky frame.

During the last six months he’d spent more time with his wife than usual, watching her work, learning her ways, her habits, her likes and dislikes--studying her closely. She’d asked him why all the fuss once or twice, eventually getting used to his hovering around her.

“‘Morning, Mary.” He joined her on the bed already in his corduroys, sport shirt and tennis shoes, reached over and gently smoothed back the stray locks of hair out of her eyes, eliciting a contented “mmm” sound. “This place has a coffee pot in the corner nook; I made you some.”

“You can make coffee?” she teased. He rubbed her shoulder and she began stretching out her limbs under the covers.

“Yes, and you missed that feat of culinary prowess by sleeping half the day away.”

“Oh come on, when do I ever get to sleep in at home?”

George chuckled. “Never. You stay right where you are and I’ll bring you a cup.”

“Nonsense. I’m wide awake now. Hand me my robe--”

When she said that, a funny recollection struck both of them simultaneously. Their eyes met and the unspoken joke about locker room clothes, broken glass wishes and hydrangea bushes rushed up to their faces in wide mirrored grins.

“I should’ve grabbed you then and there and kissed the daylights out of you.”

“Would it really have put hair on that poor man’s head?”

George laughed explosively. “Ha! Maybe so...he certainly was askin’ for it!”

Their mirth settled like dream-dust around them as his memory continued on to later developments. Giving his wife a gentle pat, he rose, crossed to the sunken closet in three long strides, returned with the terry-cloth robe and held it open for her. Mary emerged naked from the covers and wrapped her body up in one fluid movement.

George encircled her shoulders with both arms from behind. “I sure do miss him.” He said it simply and sadly. He felt her hands on his arms squeezing and her head turning to press her cheek to his chest, giving him her support.

“Somehow, I’m sure he misses you, too, Darling.”

“Never knew his grandkids...never knew what a dynamite daughter-in-law he was getting.”

There was a long, lingering pause.

“Coffee smells good,” she said.

That was it for the stroll down memory lane, at least for that day. Sam Wainwright, Mr. Gower and Harry had all conspired to cover George’s duties at the Building and Loan, and over at Bailey Park housing development, so that he and Mary could get away. And after weeks of hemming, hawing and protests, George had finally admitted that the world could get along without him for a week or so. Harry’s wife Ruth, and Marty and Doris, were all looking after the kids--that is, when Mother Bailey and Mother Hatch could be pried away from them.

Up in Heaven, Peter Bailey was enjoying long talks with his new friend Clarence, who was very happy with his shiny new wings.