D13 Or D38!

If they can’t see that making business with terfs is a bad idea, then we’ll make them see.

If they can’t see that giving terfs a platform is a bad idea, then we’ll make them see.

If they can’t see that we do not want anything to do with giving profits to a terf, then we will make them see.

Hey, so they’re making a Netflix Harry Potter.

With that in mind, we’re all gonna remember that JKR is a terf who has literally been cited by legislators engaged in legislation that actively harms trans people, and we’re not gonna give her any more money.

That means not streaming the new show on Netflix, because regardless of how much influence she has on the production, she gets paid for it.

We’re gonna make the show flop. We’re gonna show Warner Brothers that we don’t forget (of course, how would we forget, it isn’t as if she’s stopped), and that their business association with terfs is no longer profitable.

It is NOT like Lovecraft, because Lovecraft is very dead and his works are in the public domain. By consuming Lovecraft media, you are not giving any money to old Howard.

ni

We live closer to 2050 than 1990

“There’s a service dog among us”

Leff

“You look terrible,” she said. He could only harrumph softly in response. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Good morning to you too.” “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” She stood from her seat at the dining table. With the aid of her long limbs, she quickly stood before him. A gentle hand on the side of his cheek angled his face. “Have you been getting any sleep lately?” “What’s sleep?” he deadpanned, jokingly of course. His own hand lifted up to wrap around her wrist. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just been a tiring few days.” She frowned at him. Clearly in disbelief. He didn’t blame her. Not only was he terrible at lying, but they’d had also been stuck in quarantine for the past few weeks. He goes to his meetings without pants on.  “Quarantine is tiring,” he said in response to the thought that is no doubt ringing in her head. “Very stressing.” “That’s true.” She twisted her wrist out of his grasp. “What’s not true is your excuse to why you haven’t been sleeping.” “I have been,” he protested. A hand lifted up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he muttered. “Pardon?” He sighed and dropped his hand. Her worried face made him pause - made his gaze soften slightly. “I’ve been having...” he trailed off. “Nightmares?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?” He rolled his eyes and pushed past her. “Shut up,” he muttered. With a sigh, he made his way towards the sofas - flopping down on the soft cream cushions.  “I think I’ve been having nightmares,” he muttered. “But I can’t remember what they are, most of the time.” The cushion beneath him dipped downwards slightly as she joined him. A frown was sketched into the features of her face - accompanied by a pair of furrowed eyebrows. “How do you know they’re nightmares if you can’t remember them?” she tilted her head, leaning her chin on her fist. “Mostly from the...vibe?” he tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing. “I woke up feeling like I just had a nightmare, so...” She leaned back, sinking underneath the cushions. Her eyes - deep in thought - stared right through him. “You really can’t remember anything?” she asked again. He sighed and glanced away. “Not really,” he muttered. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I remember it was....really, really bright?” “Bright?” she prodded. Slowly, his head dipped up and down in a nod. “Really, really bright...” He leaned against the sofa, tilting his head upwards in thought. “And it was...loud.” Suddenly then, he winced. A light pain stabbed into the side of his temple - a feeling he shook off. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he breathed out a sharp breath. Blinked a few times. “Small headache. Anyway, there was...a sort of table-” He can see it in his mind’s eye now. A table so dark it contrasted with the pure white surroundings. Except- “-it wasn’t a table.” He held his hands out, staring at them. His vision blurred slightly with the raging headache. “It was a hole...in a shape of a table.” “A hole in the shape of a table?” She sounded amused now.  He didn’t blame her. He snickered softly himself. “Uh huh, so I leaned over to look in it-” -and then? What happened after that? Why can’t he remember. Dark tendrils unfurling. Why was there a hole shaped like a table? Clicking sounds. A high-pitched growl. Why was he talking about this? Slimy, boney hands. His head. Hurt. She leapt off the sofa with a screech. Her heart hammered in her throat. Her fear made it hard to think as- She watched as his head jerked back violently. Watched in horror as the skull split in two. Watched as some thing- -crawled out of the gaping hole in his skull. It growled as it fell to the ground. A high-pitched sound that made her ears ring. Tendrils unfurled from its back. A being. Of nightmares. It had no head. It had no definitive shape. It kept changing and shifting- Yet somehow she knew the exact moment it’s focus landed on her. Because it, then, smiled.

Writing Prompt #3

‘You have 10 days to live.’

Mortality is a dark subject to dwell on.

We don’t often think about what happens when we die, after it, about the death itself. Often times, we go through our daily lives without even being reminded that we are such fragile things.

I lived that kind of life; a life where I went by the days with a kind of reckless, careless freedom.

Perhaps you could call me ignorant, or oblivious. All living creatures die, but with the way I had lived you would’ve guessed I was chasing death.

I wasn’t. I had no intention of dying. I wanted to live. To live without regret, to look back and to say ‘I’m happy with the way I lived’.

That sentence ran through my head when I learned I had 10 days to live. A measly 10 days - barely more than a week - was all that my goodwill had earned.

Yet amidst the raging thoughts one would usually experience when faced with their own mortality, there was one clear sentence. Found beneath the piles of fear, of anger, of ‘why me?’, there it was, clear as day.

‘I’m happy with the way I lived.’

And I was.

Truly, genuinely happy.

After I realised it, it was easier for me to accept my fate. At least, as easy as it can be.

Those around me took longer; longer nights spent holding them while they cried, longer hours spent pounding away at locked doors because I cannot stand not seeing them again before I left.

I didn’t even tell most people. Those who had been with me for years and years, defended me from all sorts of monsters, and yet I kept this secret from them.

I wished I had enough time to tell them, to be able to tell them and be there to reassure them. But I barely had time to comfort the ones closest to me, and to convince them to accompany me on my plan.

My last journey.

I only had a few days left, after spending them on clearing all my extra affairs. It was then that I realised I had been lucky, in a sick and twisted way.

At the very least, I knew enough to plan for it.

After all affairs had been settled, we packed our bags into our car and went on a road trip. We called out buildings, sighs, horses, cows, fields, mountains, lakes, parks, people. We stopped and ate at the most questionable diner I had ever stepped into - and that was truly saying something, as I’d walked into multiple questionable diners.

We traveled and slept and talked. After a while on the road, I’d noticed that the others had began to relax slightly, to enjoy this final journey I’d planned, to live in the moment with someone without many moments left.

I was glad they did. It made the journey easier for me.

After all that traveling, we’d finally arrive at our destination. 

A long bridge, suspended high above a river valley. From the centre, a single piece of cord.

It had been unanimous that I were to go first. The man in charge fixed a harness around my torso, gave the cord a few more experimental tugs, then nodded an affirmative in my direction.

I took in a deep breath, then I jumped.

After it, my friends had applauded me on my bravery. They called me reckless, as always. I smiled cheekily in return, as I’ve always done.

And then we went home.

Bungee jumping had been the last thing on my bucket list. My last hurrah to the life I’d lived before I learned the news.

I was happy, but oh I wished I’d lived longer. Of course I would. I had plans that went on for years, dreams that plummeted like a deflated balloon.

But I dealt with the hand I was given, and while it was truly a shit hand, I was satisfied enough.

9 and 3/4 days after the news, I climbed to the roof of my apartment. The stars still peeked out beneath the ever-brightening sunrise sky, and I had wanted to see them one more time.

One last time.

Despite how dark the subject of mortality can be, Death always came on time.

And I was ready for it.

you do know that when jewish and romani people say “never forget” we mean “learn about the holocaust so you can recognize the warning signs of facism and genocide” not “repeatedly bring up the holocaust whenever anything bad happens and exploit our pain and trauma to make people care about your cause” and when we say “never again” we mean “take action to prevent any stage of genocide on any scale by any means, hold collaborators responsible and don’t be complicit” not “only care about genocide when it’s too late”, right? or did you think it was just a fun catchphrase?

stOP CALLING ME OUT AAAAAAAAAAAA-

Gay👾irl

I’d write sumn like “Dreamside” and the spell check would go “Excuse me, excuse- do you mean dream side?”

Then I’d lock gazes with it and say “no.” and it’ll instantly shuffle back and start to learn the word ‘Dreamside’ because I am the writer and I am God here.

The ‘add to dictionary’ button on MS word is such a power move like I don’t care if it’s a real word or not, you stupid little software, you will learn the word Quinjet and that’s that on that

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