Hey, I'm Really Sorry To Have To Do This But I'm Having A Really Difficult Time Recovering Both Financially

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Donate to Help a disabled artist recover after escaping abuse, organized by Aspen F

Hi, my name is Aspen. I'm a queer, Black, physically disabled/neurodiverge… Aspen F needs your support for Help a disabled artist recover af

Hey, I'm really sorry to have to do this but I'm having a really difficult time recovering both financially and nervous-system-wise from a hellish few years of abuse and mounting health problems and I'm just... not ok. Very basic self-care like being able to unclutter my home or even go outside to get some sun has fallen by the wayside as I struggle to catch up on a chronically backlogged commission queue while paying off a literal mountain of debt in the high tens of thousands and being continually derailed by illness flares. I'm trying to put more attention into my shop but it's so early on and I'm still working through so much debt from illness that it's not able to fill the gaps I had hoped right off the bat. I hit an absolute wall the other day, completely shut down, and realized I can't keep going without help. More details are in the link, I'd really appreciate shares or even just reading. Thank you so much to everyone who's helped so far ;;

Métis Miku (Creeku)

The Manticore.

I am consumed by fear that my mother might die in Gaza while I am far away, unable to help her. The thought of her suffering alone in such a dangerous place breaks my heart. I feel so helpless and terrified, knowing I can't be there to protect her or bring her to safety. Every day is filled with anxiety and dread, as I hope and pray for her survival amidst the chaos.

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Donate to My mother's life is in danger, time is running out, organised by Issam Aziz

My name is Issam Aziz, and I am 26 years old, living in the Netherlands.… Issam Aziz needs your support for My mother's life is in danger, t

Some very eloquent notes on violence as a necessity for resistance.

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.