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occasionally subtle
seen from Türkiye
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@livingdarwinaward
“It is a terrible thing, this kindness that human beings do not lose. Terrible, because when we are finally naked in the dark and cold, it is all we have. We who are so rich, so full of strength, we end up with that small change. We have nothing else to give.”
Ursula K. Le Guin - The Left Hand of Darkness
6 Quick Writing Exercises to Wake Up Your Imagination
We all hit those blah writing days. Your fingers are ready, your doc is open... and your brain goes static. That’s where writing exercises come in — small creative boosts to shake off the dust and get back into your story flow. Here are six to try when your words feel stuck in traffic.
1. The 5-Minute Word Sprint
Pick a random word (use a generator or close your eyes and point at a book), set a 5-minute timer, and write anything involving that word. No stopping, no deleting.
2. Dialogue Without Context
Write a short convo between two people. No descriptions. No setting. Just back-and-forth lines.
3. Rewrite a Scene in Another Genre
Take a scene from your current story and flip the genre. Drama becomes comedy. Fantasy becomes sci-fi. Romance becomes horror.
4. Describe a Place Using the Five Senses — No Sight Allowed
Can’t mention what anything looks like. Only sound, touch, smell, taste, and intuition.
5. Character Swap POVs
Write a paragraph from the POV of a side character reacting to your main character. Bonus if the POV is brutally honest or completely wrong.
6. One Line Story Hooks
Write 3 one-sentence story starters that make you want to keep writing. (Example: “I woke up married to my enemy, and worse — he knew it before I did.”)
You don’t need to write a masterpiece every day. But showing up — even for a silly exercise — keeps the creative part of your brain warmed up. Try one of these before your next writing session, and see where it takes you. 🍒
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
I couldn't remember the word "doorknob" ten minutes ago.
ok but the onelook thesaurus will save your life, i literally could not live without this website
REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER'S LIFE
If you're reading this...
go write three sentences on your current writing project.
# my favourite part about this post # is that nowhere does it say to reblog this # but we’re all reblogging it # because if we have to suffer # so do other writers
In writing, epithets ("the taller man"/"the blonde"/etc) are inherently dehumanizing, in that they remove a character's name and identity, and instead focus on this other quality.
Which can be an extremely effective device within narration!
They can work very well for characters whose names the narrator doesn't know yet (especially to differentiate between two or more). How specific the epithet is can signal to the reader how important the character is going to be later on, and whether they should dedicate bandwidth to remembering them for later ("the bearded man" is much less likely to show up again than "the man with the angel tattoo")
They can indicate when characters stop being as an individual and instead embody their Role, like a detective choosing to think of their lover simply as The Thief when arresting them, or a royal character being referred to as The Queen when she's acting on behalf of the state
They can reveal the narrator's biases by repeatedly drawing attention to a particular quality that singles them out in the narrator's mind
But these only work if the epithet used is how the narrator primarily identifies that character. Which is why it's so jarring to see a lot of common epithets in intimate moments-- because it conveys that the main character is primarily thinking of their lover/best friend/etc in terms of their height or age or hair color.
I have never thought of it this way! That’s so interesting. So maybe you’d replace those descriptors with actions - reaching up to rub X’s blonde hair between their fingers, following the path of X’s tears dripping pat crow’s feet, etc
So you maintain the intimacy but keep the visual component? I love this, brb gonna go make some edits
Take some writing encouragement
Your story matters. YOU matter.
The writing road is long but worth it. We're all rooting for you. Enjoy the trip
You cannot be replaced by a machine no matter how hard they try
Your story deserves to be told, and you are the best person to tell it
You are an artist no matter what you write, or if you share it
Your inner critic is lying. Your art is fine. Ignore it and keep going
It's okay to take a break. Remember to breathe, and refill your creative well
You stories, your art, have value no matter what it is.
Someone needs to read your story.
It's okay to be scared. Write your story anyway.
Everyone gets rusty when they don't write for a while. Don't let that stop you
It's okay to have fun with your art. You're supposed to! Art is awesome that way
Reblog so everyone can hear what they need.
Here's a potentially fun one:
A controversial/unpopular writing choice you actually quite enjoy:
Second person POV
Digressions/infodumps
Not explaining conlang (or not in any detail)
Headhopping
Footnotes
Purple prose
Beige prose
I am a...
Pantser Writer
Plotter Writer
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
If you fucks actually go through with not voting on your next USA president elections and subsequently lead Trump to power again.
Yes. Yes I'm going to blame every single American for that. Collective responsibility and all that jazz.
Explaining in simple terms: if you don't vote for Biden because "he is murdering palestinian babies", you will get Trump as a president, who, being an open and proud islamophobe, will murder even more palestinian babies.
It is no good situation when you have to choose between two shitty candidates. But you have a two-party system.
russia has previously aided trump during elections, and they will do so again. A call to boycott the elections = a call to support trump
You are in no position to afford the privilege of being idiots.
Also this.
Also, a lot of his goons have been filling a LOT of important spots in the military and civilian fields to have positions available for trump to fill in with his loyalists and to easier do a hostile takeover if he wins the election.
IF YOU DON'T VOTE FOR BIDEN YOU WILL GET A DICTATORSHIP BY TRUMP AND WE WILL ALL BE FUCKED
I don't know how many times we have to tell people to make everythingin their power to stop Trump from coming to power again. USA will be fucked. Ukraine will be fucked. Palestine would be fucked. We don't know how many other countries will be fucked.
Trump's presidency already gave cart blanche for the international far right rise, and I don't think we need to spell out to people that the state of the world today is directly credited to Trump's presidency, his incompetence, him being Russian puppet, etc etc.
As much as I am actually an opponent of the whole idea that USA is responsible of everything in the world, it does have a huge influence on international politics scene.
SO GO VOTE.
And since USA is a democracy, then, again, y'all are responsible for the president you elect.
Also, in 2016 Russia went hard on surreptitiously spreading propaganda to get people not to vote for Clinton. We already know that Russia is using bots to spread misinfo about the Israel-Gaza war. I don't think it's a coincidence that we are suddenly seeing tons of posts about how we shouldn't vote for Biden in 2024. You are not immune to propaganda.
This is why I'm always bringing up the nuance. Because Biden and Trump are not equally bad. They are not even in the same orbit of bad.
Biden is a leader too moderate for my tastes, who I really really wish wasn't so old. The things he has done have been unexpectedly good despite being hamstrung by the opposition. Love him? Nope. But Biden is making sucky choices from an array of sucky choices, domestic and foreign.
Trump is calling his opponents Vermin, outright explaining that he is 'retribution' and cracking jokes about victims of political and racial violence. He brags about being the one to kill Roe v Wade. In 2020 he asked why the cops didn't just shoot the protesters in the legs. He wants to deport immigrants, including all dreamers, and his plan starts with 'put them in camps.'
I know most people don't track political news. I get it. Its nauseating. But this idiot's gotten stupider, and he's gotten more hateful.
We are, horrifyingly, going to have to watch another Trump v Biden election barring some act of god. (on Nov 5, jfc) And I will walk you through your specific hesitations about Biden if that's what it takes to get through to you. We don't get to vote for a candidate we love. We get to vote for one who won't actively kill american citizens.
#deciding not to vote just strips yourself of any power you have. that’s performative. it’s not activism
Building a fantasy world is like being the world's most specific historian.
I'm glad we're all in the same boat on this one.
As suggested it's also like being the most specific biologist, chemist, and geologist.
I want you all to know that I read every single tag and reply yall drop in the notes and I love you fellow worldbuilders.
I'm sorry, but this tag fucks supremely.
There is only one alien race that humans fear; a race that can send them into a panic almost immediately. It just so happens that race was voted the most harmless in the universe. One was recently voted a seat in the intergalactic council next to the human judge, who was silently shaking.
The other races don’t understand it.
The Aégon are a peaceful sort, the result from a long history of war and strife. They’re kind and generous, patient and understanding, they’re about as good as you could find in the cold reaches of deep space.
The Aégon deserved the votes, the almost unanimous agreement. They hadn’t caused any trouble when they joined the intergalactic field. They adapted so well, accepted so readily, it was remarkible. Almost a miracle.
The other races don’t understand, however.
They say stuff like ‘the Aégon are so kind’ and ‘this Aégon helped me’ or ‘The Aégon should be praised’. They celebrate and compliment and agree like it’s nothing. As if they’d been a part of everything forever.
The other races don’t understand, even when they claim they do.
The Aégon and the Humans are similar. Not just historically, with war and struggle and conflict that eventually pushed for a peaceful existence. They’re so much alike, in the cultures that praised gods and the revolutions that brought for individualism and equality. They look so much like each other, in shape and form, mannerisms and behaviours.
“It’s so uncanny, as you humans say. You’re so alike!” One of the many, many who are fooled dare to say.
But they don’t understand. They believe they do, like how a foreigner thinks they know the language. But they don’t.
It’s uncanny, yes. Every human in existence would agree. It’s uncanny.
And that’s what’s so frightening about it all. To look into another’s eyes, so close to yours. But something always feels off. These aren’t humans, after all. They’re Aégon.
They’re not human, even though they act and look and talk and seem so much like us. They aren’t human. It was scientifically proven. The Aégon’s homeworld is so very different from Earth, so barren and lifeless and wrong.
Humans are hardy, tough and resourceful. But even the toughest question how, how did this species so much alike manage to evolve on a world so empty. So dry and rocky and looking more like any random place in space.
The judge dares a single, shaky glance towards the Aégon sitting next to him. There’s only a small barrier between them, sufficient enough to allow the distinction of races. The Aégon seems oblivious to the human’s gaze, eyes fixated on the presentation at the front.
But the judge would swear, after the hearing is over, that he saw something move under the Aégon’s skin. Something alien. Something inhuman. Gone as quick as it came, too faint to have been real but it was there, the judge would swear. Something about that Aégon is wrong.
And all the other aliens would do is laugh and joke and say “There’s nothing wrong! Just relax, an Aégon doesn’t bite!”
But when the judge looked towards where the Aégon judge is sitting, he’s almost certain there’s something knowing, something dangerous, hidden behind those too-similar pair of eyes.
Something ravanous and hungry.
The Uncanny Valley effect serves to make us aware of predators in hiding, after all. And something about the Aégon sings threat threat threat.
The best predators are the ones who blend in. The best predators are the ones who can play pretend. The best predators are the ones who lure you in with promises of warmth and kindness and light, only to snap their hidden jaws down upon you.
And the whole universe is walking straight into the Aégon’s mouth.
sometimes i forget my characters are transgender but not that they like physically are trans i just forget that thats considered like a defining quality. like i dont remember being trans is a thing. to me a boy has boobs sometimes and thats just how it is
'this outfit might be cute for her-' 'no that wouldnt be comfortable her dick would be squashed' 'she has a dick????? why????' 'what do you mean why. why wouldnt she'
*adds a sprinkle of cornstarch to the plot and stirs*
#NOOOOO URE SUPPOSED TO MIX THE CORNSTARCH INTO A SLURRY BEFORE ADDING IT TO UR SOUP ITLL CLUMP IN HOT WATER
NOOO THE PLOT CLUMPENS
Loving the non-writers who are reblogging this specifically for the cooking advice
Standing on the picket line is a cute gesture, but let's not forget how he prohibited the rail workers from striking for safe minimum staffing and the ability to take sick days.
After months of negotiations, the IBEW’s Railroad members at four of the largest U.S. freight carriers finally have what they’ve long sought
Also, this “cute gesture” is something no US President has done.
Fuck off with yourself now.
Obligatory Biden not perfect disclaimer blah blah blah (do you people still expect to get perfect politicians??? apparently I guess)
But.
Going to a picket line is actually a huge deal. There is a reason no other president has done it.
Brief explainer:
A picket is not a protest. They have different goals and they are viewed differently under the law. A protest is meant to disrupt and to draw attention to an issue. A picket is meant to stop scabs from entering a workplace to replace the workers picketing outside.
This means that, historically, pickets were often very violent. When people in the 1920s wanted to stop you from entering a factory, they did not confine their tactics to angry yelling. This is why the courts treat pickets differently, and they do not enjoy the kind of broad free speech protections that protests have.
Biden standing on a picket line is huge in a number of ways. It's a statement by a sitting president that no one should go to work at that workplace, for one, which kind of wild in and of itself when you think of it. Who the fuck is gonna scab when you have to walk past a picket line that includes the fucking president.
It's also granting a kind of implicit sanction to picketing as an activity that it has never historically gotten. Picketing is one of those things that even the FDR administration was a little wary of. The law tends to approach it as something that is techhhhhnically allowed and we can't stop you...but it's something that needs to be reined in, controlled, corralled.
And like, is this the most radical thing a president has ever done? No. Is it going to magically fix everything related to organized labor? Absolutely not. Is Biden the most pro-union president ever? No again because FDR existed. But he is the most pro-union president of my lifetime.
And as someone who knows a lot of labor history, having a sitting president on a picket line is honestly kind of breaking my brain a little.
Other things that the Biden administration is doing or has facilitated (by getting non corporate hacks into critical positions for example) which are not getting talked about:
The lawsuit was brought on alleging Amazon penalized sellers who offer lower prices.
Justice Department Sues Google for Monopolizing Digital Advertising Technologies
U.S. Federal Communications Commission chair Jessica Rosenworcel plans to begin an effort to reinstate landmark net neutrality rules rescind
2024 is coming.
The Republicans have the 2025 Project that wants to literally imprison and genocide queer and disabled people.
The Democrats are giving us our money and lives back.
Show this to EVERYONE WHO YOU KNOW.
Tell them the difference.
Get them out to vote.
We have a chance to have a country that is worth living in if Democrat candidates keep winning.
