It's Kk's World

So yeah, like most users I guess I just got that email from Redbubble saying they’re going to start charging a fee on each sale you make. About 40-50% of what you take home after they’ve already taken all the other charges and fees.

So that £3 ish you make from a £40 hoodie, yeah, that’ll be about £1.55 in future.

Fuck ‘em.

ATTENTION artists who use RedBubble:

Redbubble just announced through email that they will start charging artists fees beginning May 1, 2023. A link to the fee table and the different account levels is below:

They are going to take a SIGNIFICANT CUT of your earning as fees AS MUCH AS 50%

Please Reblog to spread the word!!

Copy and paste from the email:

Redbubble is introducing a new tier structure for artist accounts, and an account fee for some accounts. We understand that this is a big change for the artist community, so we want to be transparent and clear about what's happening.

The new account tiers are intended to encourage actions that are positive for the marketplace and recognise and reward artists who invest time creating and promoting unique products. From today, your account will be classified as either Redbubble Standard, Redbubble Premium, or Redbubble Pro. You can find your account classification on a new Account tiers and fees page on the Artist Dashboard.

I LIED !!!! GET PRANKED

POST BELOW ME GET FUCKING WET

She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.

“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”

The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.

So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.

Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.

The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.

She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.

When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.

She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.

And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.

The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.

“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.

“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.

She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”

A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.

Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”

She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”

The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”

It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.

I worked two days a week there while also doing a full college course load. Each day I was in the office I’d pitch a bunch of stories, most of which would get picked for development. Each day I worked I told my boss I had tracked down a lead. I found more info on stories and would have solid story folders by the time I’d tell my boss that the story’s subject declined to be interviewed by us. Not one of my pitches went into development because every story subject declined to give us their story.