Writing Prompt

WRITING OBSTACLE

Using an archaic language style, write a short story about a modern-day issue.

Think about the language and phrasing you can use to make this humorous but descriptive!

Writings

A Horseman's News of Yonder

Tis the drumroll into the doom scroll, Sire. The anticipation of having to sing for one's supper, post the most engaging fool's riddle that pleases the Court in the Castle of Algorithm. Thy factions battle with symbols and are sworn to their ancestors' hatreds while the sun riseths anew with plenitude for the hungry just beyond the walls of the freeway over yonder. In another life, my parents- who had seen the coming of the French Revolution - moved me to Spain for my safety. Where shall I take my family now, when there are only worlds of the mind, and the collective thoughts are infected by the virus of big lies repeated like replicated cells with a new strain each season? The only way to stop a game is to not play it, Sire. The young and creative ones know that. It is the youth of stilted imagination and toxic education whose bodies are hollow with rage. The hollow among them allow their shapes to be manipulated by the hands of puppeteers. While healthy and spirited young watch the so called elders circle 'round their battle plans. The lamb bleeps up the mountain to its kin to search for shelter and smell the rain. Life, it will go on. It is only death that dies. The only way to live is to relinquish the fascination with dying. The blindness of gentocracy: those inside it are playing by rules that won't sustain the young. Their last gasp is scorched earth. Replicants of delusion, using governments to maintain their dying wish...to finally get to be the popular King or Queen if even through control and brutality . That they never could be popular when they were a snotty nosed spoiled brat is a vengeance taken out on the world. Power is temporary, my Lord. Sadly, we live too short a lifetime to warn the people, and too long a life to wait for these dangerous fools to rest. The only thing I see that can be done is to survive the tragic mess this viral travesty has brought about. There will be an end and I pray for my loved ones to treat days like gold in spite of clouds that block the sun, and let nights be enchanted, in defiance of the smoke that hides the stars.

Call Us the Knockers

Ye can call us what ye will, the wee folks, the fae, it dunno matter we won’t come anyways. We hail from the old country of course you know. Some live under bridges and tell riddles or spin straw into gold to buy more straw or some such nonsense. We call those types of brownies freckin’ idiots. We are miners. Ores or gems, we dig in the earth and she gives us her treasures. That is why we took pity on the humans. Big, stupid things always crashing and suffocating without a lick of magic or common sense. Oh the racket, the wailing of their womenfolk and little ones when the troubles fell upon them. We helped as we could. We knocked to warn of unstable rocks and pockets of poisons. We knock when one of the big lugs is trapped underground to guide the rescuers. And when a poor soul has hung up his hard hat for the last time we littles sit with the lad until the other humans can take him home. We came over from the homeland, the luscious swells of Devon and Cornwall. We came over in grand big ships, stinking and leaking, but grand don’t you know. Some stayed behind but some were up for adventure. We followed the miners across the pond. To the Welsh other tongues wagged, all different kinds of human silly talk, German, Portuguese, Cherokee like a bloody orchestra of chatter. Digging is the same. Miners are the same. The earth she is the same. Till recently. Lately the earth has been off her feed. We could feel her change, get peaky. We dunno understand at first, so we listened We listened hard. We heard the crunch crunching of the fancy new machines. The gray water sloshed and swirled deep in the crust. Then we parlayed with the wood sprites and the water nymphs. Now the sprites and the nymphs are nutters, so airy fairy, if you pardon my French. Despite their wishy washy ways they taught us the word fracking. We stood with the miners and the families of our miners. We held their cooling fingers and searched for that crack of blue sky. We helped as we could. Hear our warning ye. We still not tolerate the shenanigans. Now we have to climb up out of the earth’s bowels and put an end to this tarnation. Our kind has always lived down below but we canna let our old girl wither and perish. We will not. The time has come to knock.