Two Flash Fiction Stories by Paweł Markiewicz

 

The Danube and Dreameries

Flash Fiction

by Pawel Markiewicz

 

          One day, in the dreamy Middle Ages, three young friends lived in Moravia: a thinker, a poet and a dreamer. They loved every dawn. They have decided to visit Vienna, to buy jewelry there. They liked furthermore a gold of a starlit heaven. They passed the Danube River and a miracle happened. The miracles came often true at tender thoughts. In their souls by the Danube, a total secondary human-becoming took place: in the thinker through praise, in the poet through appreciation and in the dreamer through honoring. The men were enchanted and bewitched. In all three cases, the primary human-becomings were fulfilled: at the thinker with the first thoughts, at the poet with the first poem, and at the dreamer with the first infatuation. The bygone thoughts were about the dreamed Golden Fleece, poem was about journeys of Zeus into clouds and the infatuation was related to Ovid-like beauty of butteries.  In addition, the thinker thought of the Danube, that is about: size, quantity, water, depth, fish. The Danube was thereat cerulean. The Poet wrote about Lorelei - a girl from a grove who had drowned in the Danube, because she was not loved. She had drunk an azure water of the river, like an ambrosia from the moon. On the other hand, the dreamer dreamed of a river wizardry, because he was absolutely enchanted by the dreamy Danube.

Thus. The third way to the human-becoming is the philosophy. The philosophy must be mysterious and should be grounded in an ontology of laws-like rules. A mermaid was indeed really a she-philosopher. She must have been touched by the celestially Apollonian breath of a nightingalelet.

And all the rest of my story happens in the world of today.    

 

           The mermaid is an inhabitant of a Danube depth. In the great depth, she has hidden a treasure of silvery cranes –a handful of silver, fallen down from stars. From today on she is very dreamy, because she purposes to think of a beautiful poem to the end. It would be a sonnet about a dreamy awaking of the spring-like druid. This is besides a delicately (most) lovely poem of eternity. I can name it the moony sempiternity.  The mermaid sleeps in a pit under the Danube during the day. >The early bird gets the worm< that sentence is erroneous for the sake of charm of the spellbound metaphysics.  She wakes up every midnight and sits on the banks of the Danube behind the city of Vienna. The mermaid wants to describe a charm of the sea of lights.  She looks at the beautiful city. The Mozartean genial spirit rests in her and the mood of the city is quite unbosomed.  The Danube is enchanted, because the mermaid heats the water up to 35 degrees for the sake of her soul's warmth. The heat energy takes place owing to the warmness of her bosom. Boys can swim and bathe in the warm Danube without limits. They are the lineal descendants of above heroes of the Dark Ages, of: the thinker, poet as well of the dreamer. Even a fisherman can easily refresh his body in the warm water, fallen in love with a silent, dreamed epiphany, then >Loose lips sink ships<. From today a miracle will take place. This miracle is fulfilled by a singing of a eesome, pulchritudinous, fair, beauteous cormorantling. The noble august star, namely the constellation of the philosophers, shimmers over Vienna, the Danube and the mermaid. I recall the dearest, most tender weird of all people of this story. The star signalizes the fulfillment of all dreams. I'm just in love with the mermaid, the star and all of Vienna. I have many wishes to Danube and Vienna.

I believe, Danube will be inhabited only by all mermaids forever. In the future, the thinker, poet, dreamer and this mermaid will be adoring the Terpsichorean Arts in the heaven. Until the end of days, their love to all birdies will have been taking.  

 

Explanations for Readers:

Nightingalelet – in fact the neologism – small Nightingale.

Sempiternity – poetic eternity.

 cormorantling – as diminutive in English, like a birdie, never used  

in the famous literature. The adjectives, to wit:  eesome, pulchritudinous, fair, beauteous denote the word: pretty; eesome = eyesome.

weird – fate, destiny

The Broken Soul in My Homeland

Flash Fiction

by Pawel Markiewicz 

            Do you know where this world has got so much evil in it? When I was in the Osuszek-grove for the first time, I was fully grown. I went there on a bike after finding out about it on the internet, a few years ago. I drove south through my whole town, on the road to Siemiatycze, along with the place, namely: the little village of Piliki. Osuszek was wrapped in a summer mood. This is a forest clearing by a 2km long path into the forest, marked as a small memorial site. There Hitler-Germans shot about 1000 residents of Bielsk Podlaski and the surrounding area during World War II, probably also my late grandfather's young sister called Leokadia. When I was in Osuszek for the first time, I thought of a story whose witnesses were only the plaques. An angel of imagination had broken his wing at that time. His eyes caught fire.

In angelic hands there was the gold of melancholic forlornness.

My muses wept. They no longer needed joyful poems, but poetry of tearful chasms into which the corpses of men, including those of the clergy, fell. There was sadness everywhere. A god was crying. He was sad for humanity's sake. My homeland was on fire. And my sparks were gone for some moments that hurt. A spirit of Leokadia left tears that were never meant to be swept away. I was in this clearing briefly, then I came home.

            When I first read about a wartime-labor-camp in Bielsk Podlaski on the Internet, it was an autumn day a few weeks ago. People had been arrested here, forced to work, murdered and tortured. There were no more witnesses in the form of walls or buildings. The angel of imagination wept tears again, poetically dark Apollonian tearlets. His eyes suppressed fire. In the angelic hands there was silver of sad oblivion. My muses burned like books in Nazi Germany. They no longer need jolly floodplain-like poems, rather gloomy elegies that are no longer able to enchant the world. The sadness unfolds wings. The god left home again. He was angry because of human souls. My homeland fell apart for many moments that cried.

            A ghost of a forced labourer left behind the tears that could never be swept away. I thought about it for a long time sitting at home. When I first experienced this, I felt like I was an eternal witness to eastern Calvary.

            Now I can't ride my bike to Osuszek anymore. Psychoses return with exhaustion. When I first fell ill with schizophrenia, I was 24 years old. Cause: A bad woman rented a windowless room for me in the basement of her villa. Such madness as in Wes Craven's movie People Under the Stairs. The pre-eternal world has evil in it, which will become good in eternity. My poetry is people's path to paradise. To reduce evil, you must forgive your fellow man, like the gods who forgave the dead Nazis.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is a poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetry in many magazines. He writes in English and German.