Writing Prompt

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.

Ooga booga, what life mean? Ugg oog, where do me belong? Me just a cog in da machine. What da point in being strong? I just a thoughtful caveman. Pounding me chest and wonder “Am i only one in da clan That think life a blunder?” Lonely i am. I see da stars; They happy and have each other. We divided by screens of ours But we suppose to be brother.

Heī all tis thy boī Chaucē̆rSaucē̆r1066 backeth with anothē̆r ophe mīn ranting videoſ. A'd hider tis ain doozi! But, beforæ Ich forget, Ich neede thee to makæ suræ to lǒve, subscribe, a'd smash sin lǒve button. Don th' waī to ain 1,000,000 subscribers! Okay, now to mīn rant: can thee believæ tis almosÞ 2023 a'd wẹ̄-self still dī not havæ th' hoverboards wẹ̄-self weræ promised? Ich unlā̆rǧe, th' documentarī Ich saw whan Ich waſ ain kiede saiede wẹ̄-self woulede havæ them bī 2015! Perexcellentlī, cometh don Science, hǒu is th' holede up h're?! Ich am still walkende arounede don mīn feet like tis 2014! Ich don'Þ know hǒu needſ to hear hider, maybæ Elon Musk oth-the something, buÞ y'all bettē̆r geÞ don it! Alright, Chaucē̆r out!

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.

Is thou writing this Simply for thy daily streak? No, what profound cheek!

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Who speaks, with such a sharp tongue, and not get cut The hasty spew that you brew, without even a sore gut We eat and dine, and we may shoot an arrow or two Pick up your weapon, breath and aim, and then it flew Give to they poor, and steal from thy filthy, ungrateful, rich That is my saying to thee, as I ride and climb without a hitch Arrows and apples, are part of our garden Forrest game Don’t forget that Sir Robin Hood, is certainly my name

We all chose to keep and remember our childhood, and if it is true that all children have had a childhood, not all of them remember it the same. For me, my childhood consisted on watching Sofia The First, Henry the hunglemonster and crying because I didn’t get the doll I wanted, I faked being asleep in the car that way my parents carried me to my room. Why isn’t like that for all of the kids? Why do they suffer and we enjoy? My childhood is the one thing I wouldn’t change for anything, watching old videos, laughing at old jokes, that’s my favorite hobbie. Why do we pretend that all of us had perfect childhood, because spoiler it is not like that for all.

Where was it? My cosynalie. I chaungide alle chayeris, and Y foond no thing, my nyyt was spoond, as my cheris weren wont to be coold. I diggide my britheren, and I fond sad fame. It hadde been delayed by a wowke. My conseil spoppeth, I putte on a janglere reyn.

“Have ye seen the devil boxes?” “Aye! What evil conjured up those traps?!” “Traps! What a fitting description that!” “Cuz they are traps! They trap one’s soul!” “Aye that they do. I pity the youngins’ glued to them boxes. Lured by the devil himself while their souls and minds rot…” “Quite right, pity that.” “And what of this ethereal web carrying knowledge? Surely you see good in that?” “Good? What good comes from letting your mind rest while magic does your thinking?” “It is quite convenient…” “Rubbish! Convenience is the devils lure, and pretty soon our children will scant know how to add and subtract!” “By god! You’re right! It just now dawned on me how quickly I resort to…” “To?” “Er…never you mind.”