I am Heba Al-Dahdouh. I currently live in the completely destroyed city of Gaza. Since the war on Gaza began on 7/1/2024, my family- my father Nasif, my mother Asmaa, and my siblings Khaled, Ahmad, Muhammad, and Malak-have been living in constant fear, crying, and suffering due to shrapnel, shells, and bullets.
We have no food, no electricity, no cooking gas, no schools, no homes, no cleaning supplies, and no clothes. Our house was completely destroyed. My school has been bombed, and my brother Khaled's university is now rubble, depriving us all of education. The war has forced us to live in displacement centers, which are just tents unsuitable for living, especially in winter.
Every day we live death, terror, and panic a thousand times because of the ongoing bombardment of my city. The war has killed more than 50 of my relatives and neighbors. At the start of the war, we sought refuge at my aunt's house, but it too became rubble. Imagine: we have survived imminent death more than 20 times and have been displaced among shelters more than 13 times. My siblings and I have suffered from many illnesses due to malnutrition, and we need medication continuously.
Dear friends around the world,
Greetings to you from Gaza, the land of pe… Heba Nasef needs your support for Helping Heba Family : Escaping
If we stay in Gaza, we might lose our lives. Recently, we have been seriously considering leaving Gaza for a safe place. However, travel costs are extremely high. We need over $50,000 to leave Gaza. Due to exorbitant prices, rampant unemployment, lack of security, the ongoing siege, and relentless bombardment, we have lost all our money. How can we live in such insecurity, with constant shelling and shrapnel flying above us? Dear compassionate friends around the world,
With your generous donations, even if small, you can save 7 people from imminent death, allowing us to start a life outside Gaza filled with love, peace, and hope.
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making this post to support the campaign of @kawlafamily7 who is @fidaa-family2 ‘s sister
kawla has three young children. her daughter was injured from falling shrapnel and rubble and also has a glucose allergy. she needs special milk without glucose which is very expensive.
“She needs glucose-free soda milk, and her growth is bad so far. Her teeth will not grow due to allergies and lack of growth, and she is one and a half years old.”
please take a second to share and donate to this campaign. people are living in unbearable conditions, every donation makes a difference
My name is Abi from Lincoln, NE, and I'm raising money for Khawla and her family from … Abi Lass needs your support for Support Khawla's Fam
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Don't know where else to post, enjoy- follows the same premise as my comic but in more depth and more scenes.
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An excuse to drink dissolved the fervent tenacity with which Ford and Fiddleford had pushed their pencils a few hours earlier. A desire to unwind, celebrate, and enjoy some rewarding and thoughtful conversation between the two was mutually acknowledged. Fiddleford had finally managed to adapt the hyperdrive into the rest of the mechanical configuration, entailing a huge advancement in their construction of the portal. Such a breakthrough in close proximity to the holidays was unprecedented but warmly welcomed, and naturally Ford had proposed an evening of indulging in nog. Neither was willing to admit that the progress on the portal didn’t exactly call for inebriated merrymaking just a day before Fiddleford’s flight, and so an awkward ignorance of this ethical transgression (and the fact that the other also consciously ignored it) hung in the air.
The lively buzz of their conversation filled the kitchen as Ford prepared the beverages. He’d offered to let Fiddleford sit back and enjoy the joint celebration of both work and the holiday plans that were run short. Idle talk between the two was always fast-paced, profound, and difficult for the ordinary person to follow along. They teetered down intellectual rabbit holes, bounced ideas off each other with incipient enthusiasm, and challenged each others’ thinking with astute noetic prowess. There was always something about which they could engage in heated discussion in their slivers of free time, and the loftiness of the kitchen provided a great environment for philosophical jousts.
Ford frequently looked up from the crowded kitchen counter to reply to Fiddleford, before reverting his attention to exactly measuring out each ingredient. The concoction was already simmering in a saucepan as Ford leveled out a cup of sugar with surgical precision. The topic was Fiddleford’s computer business now, Ford’s inquiries probing the reception of such radical innovation in Palo Alto.
“How about Emma May? Does she take an interest in your business?” Ford set down the measuring cup and looked at Fiddleford.
“I wish I could say so, but I conduct my business in the garage.” he chuckled. “She has more important things to worry about.” Fiddleford stopped fidgeting with his hands and turned his head to look at Ford, expecting a lighthearted quip. He was met with silence.
Ford’s expression was unreadable. There was a blankness to it that disconcerted Fiddleford, and he couldn’t tell whether Ford was looking at him or past him.
In a split second it was over and Ford turned back to the countertop as quickly as he had turned away from it.
-----------
Ford kept his eyes strictly on what was in front of him. She didn’t care for any of it? The thought was strange. Ford found himself ruminating over the entirety of the three seconds of Fiddleford’s remark. Could you spot any sadness in his eyes? Maybe he’s being a little dismissive? Is this possibly illating towards a bigger problem between them?
Get ahold of yourself. How on earth could you arrive at such a contrived conclusion???
Ford realized he’d already staled the conversation by retreating into his head, and there wasn’t any chance to further question Fiddleford. But good grief, was he curious. He wanted a sign, some sort of confirmation that he wasn’t just imagining Fiddleford and Emma May’s marriage as an unhappy one beneath all the chicanery. What does it belong to me anyway… what would my muse think if he caught me engaging in such nosy speculation? I’ve got better things to worry about. He glanced up at Fiddleford, unbothered by the abrupt introspection but now gazing somewhere else, absentmindedly bouncing his leg at ≈240 KBPM and zoned out. He turned his head to look at Ford again and met his gaze with a humoring smile. Ford sensed his cue to speak, having no choice but to let his mouth lead in diffusing the somewhat awkward atmosphere he had conjured.
“How would you like your nog?” Ford posed with false confidence, hoping nothing seemed amiss with his impromptu change of topic. He marinated in self-doubt as he waited intently for Fiddleford, who would clearly put a lot of thought into the matter, to formulate an answer. Did that come off as too abrupt? The time between what he said and what I said took far too long. I can’t let him think I care about what he said. It was a casual remark. Casual.
“Don’t be stingy with the booze.” he grinned. “D’you reckon the base is sweet?”
“I added 25% more sugar than the recipe called for- a calculated gamble,” Ford announced, a hint of prideful unseriousness in his voice. He could feel a bit of the self-induced tension melt away as Fiddleford flashed a pleased smile at him.
A bottle of rum was set on the kitchen counter, along with a dwindling bag of sugar, opened egg carton, and an emptied carton of half-and-half. Two small containers of cinnamon and nutmeg from the inadequately-stocked spice cabinet sat at an arm’s length away from the bowls and saucepans Ford had methodically arranged onto the counter. A scrawled-out recipe bearing neat folding lines rested right at the edge of the tabletop, which Ford periodically squinted at.
The conversation wandered off elsewhere and Ford maintained a dual attentiveness to both his thoughts and his ongoing conversation with Fiddleford. After turning back from the freezer, Ford permitted himself to sit down on the dining table and immerse himself fully (or as much as he could) in what Fiddleford was saying. Time off work was rare but to be enjoyed, especially with a significant hurdle now crossed. He felt his face glow with endearing warmth as he observed his best friend launch into yet another tangent about the inconvenience of hardware sourcing. There was something intrinsically admirable about the passion Fiddleford harbored for computers- the way his eyes lit up given the opportunity to mention his newest application of algorithms, his eagerness to cater to any interest Ford showed in technology, his devotion to tinkering away with microchips and circuit boards in the early hours, just as he had in university.
BMU. What a time. Even after five years of self-imposed isolation at Gravity Falls, an immediate rekindling of the friendship between them felt instinctive, and Ford couldn’t help but feel drawn (once again!) to Fiddleford’s kindness and brilliance. Things truly are the same way they’ve always been, he mused. He stole a glance at Fiddleford’s eyes. They were a pale hazel he knew well, focused and sharp, with a gaze that Ford felt only he truly understood. Fiddleford could never look at one place for long while talking, as Ford had noticed long ago, but it always seemed far easier to just tune everything out and listen to him during their split seconds of eye contact. I can appreciate him like this. This is allowed.
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The conversation teetered to an unsatisfying halt after a while, as Ford stood up with a characteristic stiffness to retrieve the eggnog. Fiddleford wondered if he’d said anything disinteresting as Ford had his back turned to him.
“It’s lukewarm by now. Are you fine with that? It’s not as viscous as it could be.” Ford turned to stare at Fiddleford, gauging his reaction.
“Of course it’s fine! Hand me a glass.” Fiddleford was more than eager to calm his nerves after today, and he couldn’t imagine a better way to pass his last day in Gravity Falls before Christmas- he’d achieved something genuinely considerable after what felt like weeks of non-stop attempts. Something worthwhile at last!
Fiddleford’s arms remembered the ache of miniscule dexterity required to wire the hyperdrive just a few hours ago as he reached to grab the glass out of Ford’s outstretched hand. His knee still bounced as he took the first sip. It’s done. You can stop worrying.
Idle remarks about the success of the recipe bubbled into passionate chatter yet again, and Fiddleford felt the tension in his body begin to subside. He impulsively reached for another glass after he’d downed his first, rationalizing that he could afford to properly destress. The bitter aftertaste the nog left on his mouth was outshined by the warmth and comfort the kitchen bathed him in. For the moment, the grip his thoughts had on him was a little gentler. It feels great to be suffocated when one is used to being crushed.
Near-bottomless laughter and humorous reminiscence on university days transported Fiddleford back to his first day at BMU. He prayed he didn’t visibly reflect the emotions attached to the analepsis to (and by extension dampen the spirits of) the unusually raucous and unguarded Ford he became after a few drinks.
---------
Hot tears of shame spitefully trickled down Fiddleford’s cheeks. He shielded his face with his hands, as if they’d cover any of the sobs ripping from his throat, and hunched himself over the (pointlessly) unpacked bed. His shoulders jerked with the effort of containing each heave, and he could feel his skin begin to burn up against his clothes. It’s over. Starting university was supposed to be the greatest time of his life, yet here he sat, ridiculously, crying in his dorm on only his first day. It was plain and clear he wasn’t cut out for this- his mind raced to the farm and how sad everyone had been to see him go. He’d been too hopeful- no McGucket had ever amounted to anything good enough to get out of Tennessee, and he was stupid to think he was some sort of exception.
As Fiddleford dug himself deeper and deeper into self-loathing, he heard a door unlock. Dang it! Scrambling to collect himself, he looked up from his trembling fists to be blinded by the bright fluorescents outside. A silhouette sauntered into the doorframe, obscuring his view of the corridor.
“Greetings!” Fiddleford heard a flicker and the room was cast into light that felt inappropriately upbeat. Fiddleford shrunk back into himself as he could now get a view of the person’s face.
A man his age, clad in a blue button-down shirt, brown sweater vest, and dark slacks stood frozen at the door, his hand still hovering over the light switch. He was staring at Fiddleford’s tear-streaked face, wearing an expression that appeared equally appalled to be faced with such an awkward first impression. Fiddleford observed as the man reformulated his approach. His gaze swept the room before setting foot in it.
“Ah. I apologize for intruding… is this not a good time?” The hasty show of peaceful intentions was genuine, and Fiddleford could spy a hint of pity in his lively eyes. The bags the man carried in one arm rustled as he set them down as tactfully as possible.
“I-it’s fine.” Fiddleford internally grimaced as he bumbled over his first word, hiccuping as he choked the second one out. He gave his face a quick wipe with the sleeve of his sweater he’d been wearing all day, a pathetic attempt at fitting in at this stupid institution, then glanced back up at the man.
“Alright then. Will you be okay?” The man picked up his bags again and decisively shuffled into the room, unhindered by the moving boxes clanging against his belongings. He kept his eyes trained on Fiddleford even as he maneuvered himself through the chaos, causing Fiddleford to squirm a little under such scrutiny.
He wouldn’t be okay. All of his parents’ hopes for him had been steamrolled flat in a day, and the scholarship would go to waste. He could just about imagine their disappointment as he broke the news to them. Another bout of sobs seized Fiddleford’s body as he envisioned the scene. Could it get any more humiliating?
“No, dammit!” Fiddleford wailed, crumpling back into the support of his hands. His glasses slid down his forehead as he sniffled. He already looked pathetic in front of this man, an unsightly pile of cowboy boots and teardrops. What business did this stranger have knowing what had happened anyway? Fiddleford gave it some thought. Judging by the bags, this was his new roommate. The realization made him pause. It couldn’t hurt to open up the day’s events a little, he reckoned. He straightened his back out and smoothed the folds on his sweater, still avoidant of eye contact with the man.
“Today’s been- *hic* rough, that’s for sure.” Fiddleford let out a feeble laugh, trying to steady his breathing. There was no response from the man.
“Could you imagine? First day at uni and I’ve already made a fool out of myself. I wrote out an equation proving the universe is *hic* a hologram!” Fiddleford’s attempt to frame things cheerily was bogged down by the bitter reality of it all as the words left his mouth. Even he can’t laugh at the absurdity of it.
“Oh, did you?” The man’s voice was tinged with sudden interest, and he stood up from his bags to face Fiddleford. “Could I see?”
Wait, what? Fiddleford stared intently at the man. Was he joking?
His enthusiastic tone was clear as day. Fiddleford hesitantly rose from the bed to retrieve his workings with a skeptical “Alrighty then”. He braced himself to be mocked by this man as he laid out the paper on a worktable. To Fiddleford’s surprise, the man actually leaned over the work- with an air of solemn professionality at that. In the duration of time he examined the papers, Fiddleford beat himself up repeatedly, second-guessing every last detail of his workings despite quintuple-checking them. He didn’t want to be considered a fool by one more person.
“It’s plausible!” Fiddleford’s monologue was cut short as the man looked up from the grid-paper. Fiddleford didn’t know what else to do other than let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You think so?”
“Your equation works. With a thorough examination this, I think we’d be able to prove your conjecture!”
Fiddleford felt a glimmer of hope in his chest.
“Our conjecture- you’re proving it with me!” He flashed a smile to the man who now took to pacing the carpet.
“You bet your keister I am! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep till I prove this.”
Fiddleford chuckled and agreed.
“I’m Stanford Pines. Pleased to work with you.” He stopped in his tracks for a moment, hands behind his back and beaming at Fiddleford. Another Ford? Fiddleford smiled, not back at Stanford, but for the fact that he was aware of the coincidence just a few seconds before Stanford would be.
“Fiddleford McGucket. Nice meeting you too.” Fiddleford could track delight arising from pattern-seeking manifest on Stanford’s face as he registered the similarity.
-------------
The raw memory seared Fiddleford’s skull with the vividity of it all, dizzying him even as he sat firmly rooted in his seat. Misery, glee, and longing amalgamated into a single crashing wave of emotion that submerged him in its magnitude, sweeping Fiddleford into a violent current. To his despair, Ford couldn’t see his dear friend drowning, flailing, thrashing for air as the pitcher of booze emptied itself over the hour. The kitchen was mockingly phasing in and out of proximity now, Ford’s voice the only certainty that anchored Fiddleford to his surroundings. He wasn’t even paying attention to what came out of his own mouth in response to his partner’s charming drabblings. Some hangover this’ll be.
On impulse, Fiddleford circulated the toasty air of the kitchen through his lungs until he felt his head clear sufficiently, turning to fix his attention to the story being told. He failed to do so, only noticing the way Ford’s features were illuminated with a tender clarity that the lamp failed to provide all else in the room with. Fiddleford let his eyes wander over the reddened face, wild dark eyes, and effervescent grin so familiar to him. When’s Ford last been this hammered? Vague flashes of solo cups filled with cheap alcohol, frenzied passion projects in the dead of night, and almost-kisses shared in dorm rooms crossed Fiddleford’s mind. The bouncing leg which he’d fought so hard to still today sped its way up to a steady rhythm once more. This calls for more booze.
The batch of eggnog had been worked through with unprecedented speed, so Ford had at some point set what remained of the rum on the table for enjoyment. Looking for an extra shot, Fiddleford quickly spotted the bottle fully emptied and laying on its side. Ah.
appalachia is devastated. towns i loved, towns i visited all the time, are gone. not damaged, GONE. they are leveled to the ground. there is nothing left but rubble and ruin. people are dead. appalachia is poor to begin with and relies on tourism for a lot of its income, and multiple of those tourist locations are just...gone.
my town is okay, but it's flooded and wrecked. trees are blocking all but one way out of our neighborhood. power lines are hanging limp in the roads. we've been without power for over 24 hours and will continue to be without power for likely another 24+. disabled people and poor people are GOING to die from this. gods save appalachia.
it's always a hit or miss with appalachian charities. a lot are just evangelism with no action behind what they do. i suggest looking into them before donating.
adding some additional photos from the other side of the mountains here in northeast tennessee. there has been genuinely catastrophic flooding in many areas and billions of dollars of damage across NETN and WNC. we are not built to withstand this. 33 people are currently missing in unicoi county alone
to those of you reblogging this, thank you. i have not seen one negative comment about appalachia and i cannot put into words what that means as someone who has lived here for their entire life. we are used to being mocked, scorned, and dismissed, to being the butt of classist jokes, and y'all aren't doing that. thank you. so much.
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,🆘dont skip please save my family from the genocide🆘
I will take amoment of your time
My name is Shadi Issa. I am married and a father of three children: Tia (6 years old), Ibrahim (4 years old), and Sand (1.5 years old). We currently live in Deir al-Balah, located in central Gaza, after being forced to flee from northern Gaza where we previously lived in Beit Lahia. We, along with over a million other Palestinians, had to relocate to the southern part of Gaza, specifically to Rafah, where we experienced a period of relative stability until the outbreak of the conflict.
Before the war, I worked as an accountant and we enjoyed a peaceful and stable life in our home, which comprised five residential apartments occupied by my extended family and me. We had access to amenities such as a water well and a solar power system, and we cultivated olive trees on our land. Our lives were proceeding normally, and my children were about to start the school year, until the fateful day of October 7, 2023, when the war erupted, turning our lives into a living nightmare. Our home was bombed, destroying our dreams and future.
Our displacement journey began amidst the bombing and danger, leading us to makeshift shelters lacking basic necessities. We face daily struggles to find drinking water, which is often unsuitable for use. We currently live in a tent no larger than five square meters, which offers no protection from the summer heat or winter cold, and provides no defense against insects, scorpions, and snakes, which have impacted the health of our children.
We have endured immense pain and fear, witnessing death repeatedly. The situation in Gaza continues to deteriorate, and all escape routes are blocked. Returning to northern Gaza is prohibited due to security barriers. After seven months in Rafah, where we faced further bombing and losses, we moved to Deir al-Balah in central Gaza, where we lost all our belongings.
Escaping Gaza to Egypt is not easy and requires significant funds to cover travel costs and other fees. The estimated cost is $5,000 per adult and $2,500 per child. The funds will be used to cover travel expenses and basic living costs in Egypt until we can rebuild our lives away from the ongoing conflict.
We are currently living in an extremely cramped tent, and we have lost everything we once had. I kindly ask for your assistance in raising $20,000, which will enable us to escape to Egypt, where we can be safe and start a new life, and where our children can attend school and have a chance at a normal life.
Any contribution, no matter how small, will be greatly appreciated and will help save our lives. We urge you to support us and help us in this critical time.
ending is low effort and will be properly drawn out and dialogued! Wip for the previous comic and about what happened that night. Ford was blackout drunk and on the verge of passing out, so he led fiddleford to the bed so he could be taken care of. Fiddleford takes this VERY wrong and goes into a panic. In the end he ends up erasing both of their memories because of how terrible of a thought it would be that his own partner tried to “make a move” on him (or so fiddleford thinks) anyways this is an extremely polarizing miscommunication!
My name is Mohammed Abu Swierh, and I’m writing to you from Al-Nuseirat, Gaza, where my family and I face unimaginable hardships. My wife and I are raising our three beautiful children: Mira (6 years), Bakr (3 years), and Maria (1 year). But our once peaceful lives have been shattered by the relentless conflict that has plagued Gaza for about a year. 💔
Our home, which once held so many dreams, is now damaged beyond recognition. Every day, our children live in fear, surrounded by destruction, without the safe place for our children to grow up. The war has stripped them of the freedom and childhood they deserve. Instead, they are growing up in a world filled with fear, uncertainty, and despair. 😔
After many sleepless nights and countless prayers, we’ve come to the heartbreaking decision that we must leave Gaza. We are hoping to build a safer, better future for our children, a future free from war and filled with hope.
But we can’t do it alone. Here’s where you can make a life-changing difference for our family:
$20,000: To cover the expenses of leaving and rebuilding our lives in a safe country.
$39,000: For a year’s worth of rebuilding our life, housing, food, and essential living costs as we adjust.
$1,000: To cover transaction and fundraising fees.
We humbly ask for your help. No contribution is too small, and every dollar brings us closer to giving our children the chance to grow up in peace. This is more than just a financial plea, it’s a call to save a family from the grips of war. 🙏
Your generosity can be the light that leads us out of this darkness. Please consider donating and sharing our story with those who may want to help. ❤️
My name is Mohammad Salem Abu Swierh, a husband and father of… Mohammed Abu Swierh necesita tu apoyo para Help Mohammed's Family From Gaza R
My family woke up in the dark of night, frightened by the sound of rain hitting the roof of the tent, making a sound similar to the sound of bullets. I told them, "Don't be afraid, this is the sound of God's mercy, this is the sound of rain." They went back to sleep, their fear gone and their terror gone. As for me, sleep flew away from me, and I began to watch the roof of the tent for fear of drowning!! In the past, when it rained, we were happy and welcomed its arrival, and the children would go out into the streets to play under its showers as if it were a holiday. But today, when the sky is covered with clouds, our hearts are filled with worry and anxiety, and our chests tighten from the intensity of fear and insomnia. How could it not be, when our worn-out tents, torn apart by the summer heat, will drown in mud and clay at the first drop that falls from the sky? You can imagine the extent of the oppression and pain at that time!! O God, have mercy on the young and old, be kind to the people of Gaza, relieve their distress and extinguish their war before winter comes!! 🌧🏕🌧🌪🍉🙏🏻🚨🚨⛄️
About my family:
It consists of a mother, father, me, my wife, and my children.… Ashraf Alserr needs your support for Urgent Relief for Fam
Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #79 )
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I'm Alaa, a 49-year-old father from Gaza with eight children. Recent events have left us homeless and without means of support, and we are now living in a tent in Dair al-Balah.
I’m reaching out in a time of desperate need. I lived in Gaza, where I ran three clothing stores and built a life with my family. Sadly, the ongoing conflict has destroyed everything. We’ve been forced to move seven times, lost our home and businesses, and suffered the tragic loss of my nephew.
Any assistance you can offer would mean the world to us. Your generosity could bring us the hope and safety we so desperately need.
