#Content writing companies in Dubai

[stylus-22]

Is Creative Block a Common Phenomenon

Click Here To Learn More : https://www.stylusolutions.com/blog/is-creative-block-a-common-phenomenon/

[johnypage95]

[carneytechnologiesdubai]

Maximizing Impact with a Google My Business Profile

A strong online presence is essential in today’s digital-first world, and Carney Dubai knows how to leverage Google My Business (GMB) profiles to boost visibility. By optimizing your GMB listing with accurate details, engaging content, and local SEO strategies, Carney ensures your business stands out in Dubai’s competitive marketplace. From attracting nearby customers to enhancing credibility, Carney Dubai’s expertise in managing GMB profiles helps drive traffic, build trust, and convert searches into sales.

[textuarcom]

How Content Writing Services Transform Businesses in Dubai

In Dubai's bustling business landscape, where innovation and competition intersect, effective communication is very important. Content writing services play a critical role in transforming businesses into online powerhouses. This blog post explores the significant contribution of content writing services in Dubai, highlighting how they enable brands to new heights.

1. Customized Skills

Content writers in Dubai bring a nuanced understanding of the local market. They grasp the cultural intricacies, linguistic nuances, and the pulse of the audience. These customized skills ensures that the content resonates with the diverse population of Dubai, creating a connection beyond mere words.

2. Elevating SEO Strategies

In a city where competition for online visibility is brutal, content writing services in Dubai play a significant role in enhancing SEO strategies. Expertly crafted content, infused with strategic keywords, is the key to improving the search engine ranks. Businesses leveraging content writers gain a competitive edge by ensuring their online presence is informative and easily discoverable.

3. Compelling Website Copy

First impressions matter, especially in the digital space. Content writing services in Dubai specialize in creating compelling website copy that captures the core of a brand. From engaging taglines to informative product descriptions, every word is carefully created to leave a lasting impact, turning casual visitors into loyal customers.

4. Building Trust and Credibility

In a city that thrives on global commerce, trust is of prime importance. Content writing services build a brand’s trust and credibility by delivering content that reflects authenticity and expertise. Whether it is blog posts, articles, or social media content, the narrative developed by content writers establishes a brand as a reliable authority in its industry.

In conclusion, the impact of content writing services in Dubai goes beyond the surface, exploring the core of brand communication and online success. From tailoring content to local nuances to boosting SEO strategies and building trust, the transformative power of content writing services is a game-changer for businesses seeking to thrive in Dubai's dynamic marketplace. Invest wisely in content writing services, and watch your brand transcend beyond words into a domain of unparalleled success.

[resumewritingservicesindubai]

Content Writing Services in Dubai

Are you looking for content writing services in Dubai? LearnwithFaiz offers content writing solutions to your business. Boost your online presence and engage your audience with compelling website copy, blog articles, social media posts, and more. Trust our experienced team of writers to deliver high-quality, SEO-friendly content that drives results. Get in touch with LearnwithFaiz today for unmatched content writing services in Dubai.

[contentwritingservicesinuae]

Are you looking for branding agency Dubai? Stop at Dikshavohra is the best branding agency in Dubai which is a specialized creative agency to provide best branding solutions.

[agendabymooner]

colour me your colour || toto w. x ofc (1)

Summary: Tilly Marie nearly loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it’s the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn’t want to attend. Who would have thought that her father’s partial ownership of three brands could take her to the zone of Mercedes and meet the love of her life?

Content warning: Age gap, mentions of an absence of a father figure, brief use of explicit language, mentions of nepotism. Fictional family and business involved (Hearth family and Hearth Automotives Group).

Note: I did a funny haha series. I literally just started on this yesterday. I'm writing the third part right now, hoping to work on this as much as possible. Again, I am still new to F1?? Please forgive me.

Enjoy! xx

i. what a beautiful sight that was

   It was the year 2006. The 21-year-old me did not want to attend on behalf of my father’s role to whatever this business was he was handling. I remember being extremely confident about walking up the stage to get my master's. 

I had always been told to be an intelligent girl. One that utilizes her skills in any way possible. Everyone praised me, and my maternal grandparents encouraged me to continue my education. My paternal grandparents expressed their admiration with a pat on the head and a kiss. My mother hugged me tightly and hung nearly every certificate I had captured. My father, however… he couldn’t get over the fact that he never had a son—one who would run the company someday and perhaps become a world champion. 

He lacked boys for his fatherhood experience, so he turned to me and set a list of expectations he had of me. He was still as healthy as ever. He could bench if he felt like it. But he still wanted to instill some responsibility in his companies and passed it on to me. 

But I earned my master's in Journalism and was halfway through my Bachelor's in Marketing. What did I know about motorsport? 

This didn’t mean anything to my father. He wanted me to handle the business and pass it off to the next person if needed. He just wanted his surname to remain known in the industry and public. He trusted me to handle particular areas that he thought I could do. 

But it was 2006, and I wasn’t given the responsibilities until years after. I was simply in Dubai to watch and entertain myself while cameras tried to get a glimpse of me—the Heiress. I was the next to become a shareholder in the businesses my father and grandfather (and his father) had put their money on. I was an eye candy—the strong woman of the Hearth family. And I was just in Dubai to watch men race lap after lap while they stayed there for hours, like mad men. 

And my father didn’t even tell me anything. I’ve only been exposed to observation. But my brain wasn’t made to be awake for a day, and my eyes preferred a piece of entertainment from my research paper. 

But my mind gave me a little nudge and turned my head to look at the man who’ll have me thinking for years. His helmet was on his side, his fingers tapping to keep him focused. He was tall. He was tall and handsome—a deadly combination.

The combination was too deadly, and I only realized this when he caught me looking. I hadn’t turned my head quite fast enough as I continued to examine and annotate my anecdotal record, pretending that my face wasn’t blushing.

It turned out he was just as intrigued as he was handsome. Fucking great. He sat across the chaise lounge I stiffly sat on, his smile I could barely see from my peripheral vision. 

Knowing he probably wouldn’t leave, I stopped pretending I was studying and looked up only to see his lips spread in amusement. His smile. Oh god. Couldn’t this man be the perfect man to have existed?

“You’re not here to study,” he chuckled softly, “Because you’d be in the wrong place otherwise.” 

Of course, I hadn’t passed up the chance to roll my eyes jokingly. 

The conversation lasted forever, and not once did he gloss over the screens to see how his team was doing at the track. He listened to me as I complained about the research I had to do for book publications. He wondered how I’d gotten through my master's at 21. Then he decided to guess while I provided my answer too.

“You��re gifted.”

“Generational wealth.” 

Then silence filled the atmosphere as if we could only hear the people talk in the background. My laughter after the pause made his mouth grin as he silently laughed. One of us was more biased than the other, I thought to myself. My success at school came from the high 90s that I achieved. My family's money made it easier for me to get in without any trouble with tuition. 

But the conversation didn’t last as long as I thought it would have, as someone who wore the same racing suit came barging at the door. The man frantically gestured for my company to follow him. 

He looked at me, his eyes keeping me in one place as I shifted. He could only say, “It was nice talking to you.” 

And all I could offer him was a stutter of, “Y- yeah, a pleasure to meet you. Y- your name is…” 

But his teammate beat him to it before he could utter his name. “Torger!” 

Then he looked at me again with a brief nod as he walked out of the room. 

He was a lovely man. There’s nothing nicer than an equally attractive and genuine man. I liked every single second that I spent with him. And I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes. 

And that remained as that. We’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. When they announced the race winners, I was already on my flight back to England. I was already reporting to my father about what I saw. 

I told him about what I saw and experienced. But never once did I say to him about a driver of the winning team and how I’ve practically fallen for him. Because I haven’t fallen, he was just lovely. 

What a beautiful sight he was. 

[voidscarredadjudicator]

Drizzle Season 2023 is out for Splatoon 3. You know what that means?

(Long post warning)

It means me having the totally normal immediate reaction of, "what new ingame content can I use as inspiration for Humanity's Endling and it's side stories?"

This post is gonna sorta double as both a very surface level analysis of new stuff in Splatoon 3 (mainly the new maps) and a brief look into my creative process for how I go about taking what's shown in the game and applying it to the canon of the world Kaleb finds himself in. One of my goals is to keep what happens in HE as close to the canon as presented in the game as possible, while still making very healthy use of the blank space that is things the games nor extended lore don't necessarily address, and quite obviously bending the rules a bit here and there to make the story... well, happen? 'Cause if I were 100% dedicated to preserving canon, the series would look something like this.

they wasn't lyin, them humanitys really do be endling

Jokes aside, basically what all that means is I enjoy filling in the blanks to make the game world feel more full. Like, if possible, I wanna have the series written in a way where you could easily headcanon it as something that's happening in the background of Splatoon 3 as you are playing it.

...At least until we get to the later acts. HE ain't just a slice of life. But let's not get too ahead of ourselves here :)

But as that statement ominously implies, I have a general idea of the overarching plot for all five acts, and the process of writing is basically me ironing out the details and stringing it together into a cohesive narrative. Luckily for me, details are sometimes filled in for me by Nintendo. Speaking of which, let's look at Crableg Capital!

You can kind of already see it just barely peeking from behind the crane on the right, but Hagglefish Market is visible from up here, and they actually added this stage into the background of Hagglefish as well, so you can actually see it from down there, too.

From up here, you can more or less make out the exact route Kaleb came from in Act I, Ch7

I know for certain Crableg wasn't there before; I spent a frankly weird amount of hours doing recon on Hagglefish for Act I. Can't wait for this to become some New Mandela Effect meme or something. Anyways, you can see from up here that there's a lot of green grass in this city that's meant to be in the middle of a desert, so I kinda have this feeling that an ungodly amount of the city's water supply is fed right into keeping that greenery. I can see Kaleb drawing a comparison to Dubai, or maybe even Las Vegas to a lesser extent. Speaking of Vegas, you know what it has? Tons of ads. You know what this stage also has? Tons of ads!

shoutout to the paragliding jellyfish btw

Okay, well, obviously it's nowhere near as bad as Vegas. But I needed a segue, dammit. Now to be fair, I can't read any of these signs, so they might not actually be ads. Like, clearly at least a couple of them are company logos on the bigger skyscrapers. But the concrete building at the end of the clip? I don't know what those signs would be otherwise.

Like, who are they advertising to? The people in the neighboring buildings? The ads face outward, so it couldn't be that. Maybe it's extremely cheap ad space because basically nobody would see it, but then whatever in-universe powers that be decide these stages decided, "yes. of course. the actively under construction highrise. the perfect spot." I'd imagine that ad space probably skyrocketed in value, because there's no way these ink sports aren't televised to at least some capacity in canon.

Speaking of absurd spots for stages...

Shipshape Cargo Co. At first, it looks like you're on some platform underneath an oil rig or something to that nature. Then you realize that you're somehow moving. Then you notice the bow of the ship on the far end of the stage, then it's like, "Oh shit I'm on one of those half-submersible cargo ships!"

So not only did the folks running these ink sports decide that an active construction zone was a good spot for a stage, but they also decided to set up a stage on the back of a presumably en-route freight ship. And it's far enough north for there to be goddamn icebergs floating around. If anything, this season's maps have convinced me that an organization equivalent to OSHA does not fucking exist in the Splatoon universe. I'm aware that culturally, turf wars were at first backstreet sports and very unofficial/disorganized, and also there were stages in Splatoon 1 and 2 that would raise the same concerns (i.e. old Hammerhead Bridge, Saltspray Rig, Piranha Pit, etc.), so I really shouldn't be surprised by all this, but... I dunno, it's almost 4 am at the time of writing.

I don't have much more to say about Shipshape, though. Like, it's a very cool concept for a map, and if for whatever reason I need Kaleb to freeze to death, I'll have it in mind. Crableg is... very helpful, though.

Y'know, isn't it interesting that a lot of stories end with the hero scaling a huge tower?

Just a thought. 🙂*

Oh yeah, I also spotted this in the catalogue!

Lola got to be a model! I'm so proud of her! 🥰

I don't have much else to say right now, though. I might do a follow-up for Big Run if Um'ami Ruins has a cool enough atmosphere to warrant it; otherwise Undertow Spillway having that alarm blaring during the last Big Run was the coolest shit ever and I can't believe I accidentally predicted it as a stage w/ it being half flooded in Act I.

By the way, I am going to be grinding the shit out of this upcoming Big Run for that gold helicopter figure, so if you wanna play with me, I'm still in the 'Endling' pool. Again, if you spot Lola herself, that's me! I tend to go pretty hard in Salmon Run though as it's actually my favorite mode, so uh... if you're not EVP and you join me, it might average out the hazard level to something a lot harder than you may be used to. So fair warning!

*all ominous foreshadowing is subject to change

[dcbbw]

American Thanksgiving

This original story is my submission (if it isn’t too late) for a writing challenge that has now closed. (Gonna post it anyway)  I decided to go with a holiday (Thanksgiving) theme, and I am really, truly crossing fingers hoping it all makes sense.

THANK YOU to those who read this over and assured me it wasn’t boring and for giving me the idea that maybe I can follow-up on these characters for Christmas. A huge THANK YOU to all who will read this.

Please, please, please forgive any typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. While MS Editor rates this as 99% error free, it’s me and I am tired and it’s getting really close to my bedtime.

All characters belong to me

Word Count: 4,775

Song Inspiration: Wash., Bon Iver

No triggers or warnings that I can think of, but there are mature themes in this story. If you find any part of the content disturbing, please let me know so I can tag appropriately.

PS--For anyone curious why Scott Peterson is an unfortunate name choice, here’s your answer. 

Atlanta, GA

“You look pretty, Linda,” Yoyo grudgingly complimented me as I slip my feet inside of brown pumps that are barely on the right side of being termed worse for wear.

It’s Thanksgiving Day, one of the few days of the year the shelter allows us to stay in all day; even better, we’re allowed to stay in bed all day with the exception of meals. For those of us fortunate enough to have somewhere to go, curfew is extended until 8pm.

This year, I’m among the fortunate. My sister Lisa is having dinner at her house: it will be a small affair with Lisa’s husband and daughter, our sister Lucy and her family, and my son Famir. I haven’t seen my only child in over a decade because of my drug addiction; I last saw him when he was 13.

It was for the best.

I’ve lived a life of street corners and jail cells.

Lisa raised him right, keeping my son off the streets, and involved in studies and sports. And now my baby is 28 years old, headed to Dubai to work for an international finance company. I have no idea when I’ll see him again after today.

I rise from the side of the twin bed, tossing Yoyo a quick glance. “Thank you. I’m sorry you won’t be with your family today.”

I am rummaging in my locker for my only pair of earrings; my eyes fall upon my 30-day chip.

Thirty days clean.

It’s a milestone for me, one that I’m proud of and am eager to share with my son. Finally, after decades given to the streets, I’m ready to rejoin society and be the mother he deserves. I quickly attach the jewelry to my earlobes, swipe on some lipstick, and tug the slightly too-small sweater dress down around my knees; I am just pulling on a shabby wool coat, turquoise in color with a faux-fur collar, when my name is called over the loudspeaker.

I shut the locker door, and again catch sight of Yoyo; she has her bedcovers pulled up to her chin. Her face is in profile, and I see tears shine her ebony-colored cheeks as she stares at the bare branches of the tree outside the window.

“I’ll bring you back some pie,” I promise as I hurry out the door.

Lucy is waiting for me at the shelter’s entrance. She looks … expensive. Her coat is a simple, yet stylish, ankle-length gray wool. Underneath is a black jumpsuit, complemented with a heavy turquoise pendant. Her hair is perfectly styled, her olive complexion smooth. When we hug, I smell her fragrance; it’s a woodsy floral. Her red lipstick imprints itself on my cheek when she kisses me.

My sister chats excitedly about how happy everyone is I’m coming to dinner as we walk to her Lexus SUV; I’m fastening my seatbelt when she presses money into my hand. I glance down and back at her, pleasantly puzzled. I didn’t agree to come to dinner for a financial reason.

“You’re doing good, Linda. I don’t know if you’re still using or not, but you’ve been in one place for almost two months. It’s … progress, and progress should be rewarded.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. I stare out the passenger window, looking at dilapidated houses and cracked sidewalks pass by before peppering my sister with questions.

“How’s Famir? Is he good? Does he know I’m coming?”

I feel the shift in Lucy’s demeanor as the car gently brakes at a stoplight., and my shoulders tense ever so slightly.

We’re at the infamous intersection known to us locals as the War Zone; it’s a red-light district where prostitutes, drug dealers, and gang bangers converge. A few homeless folks, too old or too riddled with illness to support their habits, huddle inside of bus shelters, their outstretched hands silently begging for money from the few passersby.

Women with skinny bodies and dead eyes sit on the stoops of vacant houses that are boarded over and splashed with graffiti, watchful for both potential johns and the police. There are no holidays here, no 30-day chips, no hope.

“He’s not coming,” my sister says softly. “He’s attending a Friendsgiving or something.”

The hurt I feel at hearing her words is physical; my gut aches, as if I’ve been sucker-punched. My baby, my reason for getting clean, the only person I want to see today … is abandoning me when I need him most.

Tit for tat.

I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

I feel my sister’s hand grip my wrist. Her voice has tears in it when she replies. “Famir just needs time to process things. It’s a lot of pain and broken bridges between you two. He needs to see that you’re changing for the better, for real this time.”

Except he can’t see if he isn’t showing up.

I am quiet as tears burn the corners of my eyes; my heart sinks as I realize that I’ll never get a chance to show him that I do love him, have always loved him. That my decisions, which appear selfish on the surface, were actually borne of wanting the best for him. I couldn’t be his mother and pimped by drugs at the same time.

I feel Lucy’s eyes on me. “Lin, don’t cry! He can still swing by after his dinner for dessert. You may still be able to see him!”

But I no longer want to go. I can’t deal with facing my son’s condemnation and judgement. In my mind for the past two weeks, I had visions of a picture-perfect reunion: forgiveness, healing, my son and I beaming and basking in the pride of my triumphant return to life and his understanding of my choices.

My thirty days of sobriety has given me just enough clarity to realize the problem is I can only see it from my perspective:  I didn’t abandon him; I gave him to his aunt who was better equipped to raise him. Unsure if I cannot or merely refuse to see the situation through Famir’s eyes.

I may be ready to function in society, but I am unprepared to deal with reality.

“Let me out,” I say.

“What? No!”

“STOP THE FUCKING CAR!” I yell forcefully, emotions tearing me apart.

Lucy stops the car in front of a rundown strip mall; only the McDonald’s and 7-11 are open. Panhandlers loiter around both doorways. I recognize three of the folks: Two are well-known drug dealers, conversing in front of the liquor store; Doobie and Minnesota Fats. The third is my former street-running partner, Pinky; she’s eating fries while squatting in front of the beauty supply store.

Lucy is openly crying, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “LINDA! Don’t let this be a setback! Famir may not be ready, but your sisters, your niece, your nephews ARE! What am I supposed to tell everyone?”

There is a soft thump as her forehead hits the colorful fabric encircling the wheel.

I shove the wad of cash into my coat pocket while unlocking the passenger door.

“You can tell them I had 30 days sober.”

I exit the vehicle, walking briskly to meet up with my past. My present. My future.

Wilson, NC

The two women at across from each other at the dining room table; their dinner plates were before them: Cornish hen, mashed potatoes drenched in giblet gravy, dressing, and buttered green peas. Two dessert plates in the middle of the table held slices of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

Ella Fitzgerald sang softly from a vintage phonograph player.

A beautiful cherrywood Dutch cabinet with paned windows lined one wall of the room; inside was fine china and glassware on the lower shelves. The top two ledges held photographs: wedding photos; baby pictures; group photos of military units; people long dead, their faces forever captured in laughter and smiles at parties and picnics.

Alice Cooper was saying the prayer, her lips moving slowly against the sides of her hands which were pressed close to her mouth. Her thin blonde hair lay in limp curls against her wrinkled cheeks.

“Dear Lord, thank You for another day filled with small mercies and bigger blessings. Amen.”

She opened her pale blue eyes, clouded over with cataracts, to see her oldest, and best friend Anna Horowitz slicing into her hen. Anna was short to Alice’s tall, and stout to her friend’s skinny. Anna’s hair was steel gray and pulled back in a severe bun. Her still-dark eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as she cut.

Alice’s gaze went from Anna to her own dinner plate, then to the slices of pie. “I think I want pie first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alice! Eat your supper, then you can have dessert.”

“Land’s sake, Anna! It’s Thanksgiving! It’s all about the pie!”

“Turkey,” Anna corrected as she dragged her fork through the potatoes.

“Does it look like we’re eating turkey?”

“The Macy’s parade was lovely, don’t you think?” Anna changed the subject, covertly watching Alice finally begin eating her dinner.

“It used to be so much better, it’s way too modern now but the singing tree was nice.”

The two women had been friends for over 70 years, having first met in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps in 1954. Despite their advanced age of 93, the two women were still extremely active: working two days a week at the Wilson County American Legion office, gardening, participating in a senior exercise class at the local YMCA, church, and meandering around the local flea markets and thrift shops.

They had been roommates for the past 15 years, when Anna’s husband died. To avoid infighting amongst her children, who Anna freely admitted were hooligans, she sold her brick ranch house and divided the proceeds equally between her and her offspring; what furniture no one wanted was donated. Anna then moved into the four bedroom, 3 bath Victorian with bay windows and wraparound porch with Alice and changed her phone number.

Alice had no children; she had been widowed at the age of 40. She never remarried, choosing to stay in the house she and her husband had purchased with dreams of raising a family and throwing dinner parties in mind.

Until the Vietnam War.

Until high-ranking Army officials knocked on her door, their expressions grim.

“This hen is tasty,” Anna complimented.

“I was worried because I didn’t have enough rosemary.”

“It’s perfect!” Anna reassured as she took another bite. “We need to start planning what we’re going to do for our 100th birthday.”

Alice placed her fork carefully on her plate. “You’ve lost mind! That’s still a long ways out.”

“Seven years! We can do seven years, Alice We’ve done the hard part making it to 93! Hell, if we make it to 95, we can round up!”

Alice stared at the tablecloth for a few moments, her expression pensive. “I don’t know, Anna. It’s been a good life, a full life, but ever since Don was killed … it’s been a lonely one.”

Anna reached for her glass of sweet tea. “I know,” she commiserated.

She did know. Ever since her George had succumbed to cancer, life felt … incomplete. But the good Lord above kept waking her up every morning to fulfill a purpose she still didn’t know about.

Anna reached over, placing her palm atop the back of Alice’s hand; the women sat in a comfortable silence for a minute, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Don’t forget I have the eye appointment on Monday,” Alice sobbed as they both dried their eyes.

“Me? Don’t YOU forget! They’re removing the cataracts from both eyes, right?”

Alice nodded as she ate peas. “When my eyes heal over, can we go to the beach? I’d like to sit on the sand and watch the ocean. Don loved the water so.”

Anna nodded gently, her expression soft. “That’d be nice.”

“Thank you.” Alice pushed her dinner away, reaching for dessert. “You know we have egg nog to go with the pie.”

“You didn’t eat all your dinner!” Anna chided.

“Sue me,” Alice retorted as she pulled a plate of pie towards her.

“Hold on, let me the get the nog!”

“Anna, are we lesbians?” Alice asked curiously when her friend bustled back into the dining room with a carton of egg nog and two fresh glasses.

Anna looked utterly confused. “What? NO!”

Alice poured a half-glass of the holiday dairy, mindful of her gastric issues.

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

Chicago, IL

Thanksgiving Eve slipped quietly, effortlessly into Thanksgiving Day as Evan Bacino led his guest down the darkened hallway towards the front door. He didn’t remember their name, there was no need to. His thick brown hair with red and blonde highlights bounced against the nape of his neck with every step he took.

He unlocked the only ingress/egress into his apartment and opened the door slightly; the blonde man stepped around him, his blue eyes searching Evan’s face briefly before extending his hand. The hand that not an hour before had been fisted around Evan’s cock before gripping wrinkled bedsheets in a room filled with moans and permeated with the fragrance of sex.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” the guest murmured as the two shook hands.

“Ditto,” Evan replied in a neutral tone. He didn’t want to give whoever this person was any ideas that he was interested in continuing even a conversation.

Despite his eagerness to be alone, Evan loitered in the open doorway after his visitor stepped into the hall, listening to footsteps move further and further away before closing the door and entering the living room. He turned on a standing lamp, watching as light spilt over furniture and flooring, illuminating an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table and the day’s clothing littering the carpet.

Evan ignored the mess, instead walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window that afforded him an envious view of the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan. He pressed his palms against the glass, his eyes watching the rain fall steadily from sky to ground. The weatherman said there was a chance the rain would turn to snow overnight; Evan didn’t doubt it.

He wondered if his visitor had an umbrella.

It was Thanksgiving Day and he had absolutely no plans, other than to stay indoors, off social media, and get mildly drunk. His parents had invited him to join them in Aspen for a weekend filled with catered food and winter sports, but he had begged off. The last thing he needed right now was his mother’s vapid and vacuous gossip about people neither of them knew, and watching his father ogle every woman under the age of 60.

His friends had asked Evan to join them for a Friendsgiving brunch. There were promises of eggnog pancakes, turkey sausage, and beef short ribs but Evan’s circle of friends was also Eduardo’s circle of friends. He wasn’t ready to see or talk about Eduardo just yet.

Three months was not enough time to heal from a five-year relationship.

Evan worked a half-day Wednesday, then ran errands: Liquor store for two bottles of chocolate cherry wine; bakery for two pies; KFC for a bucket of extra crispy chicken and two large mashed potatoes and gravy: community market for a box of Stove Top, cigarettes, and a 12-pack of Heineken. After arriving home and putting away his purchases, Evan fell across his bed and into a deep sleep.

Upon awakening, he was hungry for Chinese food, and had DoorDash deliver from his favorite place, Hunan House. He then decided he wanted a real drink, and after freshening up, Evan meandered down to the neighborhood bar, The Watering Hole. That’s where he met his hookup. He hadn’t left his house planning to bring someone home, but the drinks had been potent and the lure of the unknown enticing.

The sex hadn’t been satisfactory, due mostly to Evan’s emotional turmoil. He felt guilt, shame, and as if he were cheating on Eduardo. The man who had left him three months earlier to “explore and experience.” Eduardo never said what or with who.

Evan never asked; what was the point?

Before turning away from the window, Evan studied his nude reflection in the glass: tall, toned body with some muscle definition; skin that was more tanned than pale thanks to his mother’s Greek Cypriot heritage; thick, voluminous hair that was longish, but not overly so; his facial features were attractively arranged but Evan wouldn’t call himself handsome.

He frowned; his goatee needed trimming.

Later. He needed a shower.

He faced the room, hands on hips as he surveyed the disarray. The entire apartment needed cleaning; heartbreak was not conducive to domesticity.

Later. He needed sleep.

Evan awakened shortly after 9am, and by noon the apartment was tidy: ashtrays emptied, trash taken out, laundry done and fresh sheets on the bed, bathroom cleaned, dishes washed, and rooms vacuumed.

Afterwards, he showered; at 1pm, Evan was settled on his couch with a large plate of kung pao shrimp with fried rice and a cold bottle of brew.

Outside, thick flakes of snow swirled and fell from dark gray skies, coating the city’s surfaces with a thin blanket of white; inside, heat and computer-generated flames emanated from the wall-mounted electric fireplace.

It should have been normal: food, football, and beer on Thanksgiving Day. A cozy fire on a cold, messy afternoon. But it wasn’t. Evan was plagued with feelings of incompleteness and inadequacy; he was playing a role to an audience of none, and not very well.

Fucking Eduardo. Fucking love.                                                                                    

Evan channel surfed as he ate, settling on college football. When the station went to commercial break at the end of the first quarter, he headed to the kitchen for a more Chinese food, a piece of chicken, and another beer; the knock on his front door stopped him.

Who the hell could that be? he wondered as he cautiously approached the door, praying it wasn’t his friends coming to cheer him up.

Pity parties are solo affairs.

His stomach plummeted when he peered through the peephole. On the other side of the door stood a tall, lithe Brazilian man wearing an uncertain expression on his clean-shaven face. His navy-blue wool coat was buttoned to his throat, a Blackwatch plaid scarf draped his neck. Droplets of precipitation glistened in his dark, dark hair.

Eduardo!

Evan’s heartbeat accelerated; blood rushed through his body, causing a whooshing in his ears and a growing erection in his gray sweatpants. Relief, anger, disbelief washed over him, causing tears to burn in his eyes. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion as he unlocked the door before pulling it fully open.

The former lovers stared at each other, facial expressions filled with indecision, hope, regret.

“Hey, Evan,” Eduardo said softly before his gaze dropped to the floor.

Evan found it hard to breathe; everything he had prayed for and cried over the past 90 days was standing right in front of him, waiting to be welcomed with open arms, embraced tightly, and forgiven.

Evan’s stare went from Eduardo’s face to the rolling suitcase at his side.

Eduardo wanted to come back home.

Like nothing ever happened.

Except it had.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Evan slowly closed the door.

Eduardo’s frantic knocks covered the clicking of the locks.

Compton, CA

Thanksgiving Day in Compton is warm and sunny. Outside, the faint laughter and yells of children racing bicycles down cracked sidewalks and playing football in the streets drift through the closed windows of my kitchen; more than likely, they had been chased out of hot kitchens and crowded houses to let the grown-ups do what grown-ups do: cook, drink, cuss. The iconic palm trees lining my street sway under the touch of a light, balmy breeze.

It's 3pm, and my house is crowded with people despite the fact that dinner is at 5. My family arrived at 11am, carrying bags of ice and carryout food. That’s it. They set up camp in the family room, turned on the television, and proceeded to eat greasy wings, fried rice, and ketchup-drenched fries while taking advantage of my full cable package.

My husband’s family arrived at 2pm with egg nog, ice cream, pies, and my mother-in-law's tiresome rant about Compton being the biggest failure of the state’s housing authority. That led, as always, to an argument with my younger brother, Man-Man. She, her daughter Susan, and my brother-in-law Neil mingled for a few minutes before taking up residence in the living room, watching Food Network and day drinking.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling to remove a 22-pound turkey from an extremely hot oven, trying not to scream out loud from the lower back pain caused by the overdue baby in my belly, and dealing with my three-year-old son Noah tugging on my pant leg asking me to pwease help him.  

I give up on the turkey and set it back on the rack before turning to my son. “What is it, sweetheart?” I ask in a voice filled with forced patience.; it isn’t his fault that there are seven useless, non-functioning adults in this house.

I roll my eyes when he says he wants my phone to play a game. Scary Teacher 3.

Dear God, give me strength.

“Honey, let me find my phone. Go get your Uncle Monty for me while I do that.”

He nods, his dark curls bobbing as he scampers out of the kitchen to find my brother Lamont. Meanwhile, my eyes dart around the room quickly, a growing panic inside me.  With the massive quantities of food that I had cooked, and still needed to cook, my phone had been the last thing on my mind. Earlier, I set it down … somewhere. But where?

I wonder if I stuffed it in the cavity of the turkey.

I’m distracted from my search by my sister loudly arguing with Neil about someone named Kyle being a fraud and that something called fire dragon crab rangoon casserole was nothing more than imitation crab meat, Philly cream cheese, and hot sauce. I’m so busy trying to make their conversation make sense, I neither see nor hear my brother join me.

“What you need, Sandra?” Lamont asks in a bored tone.

I jump slightly but recover quickly. “I need to find my phone, the turkey needs to come out, the ham needs to go in,” I say as I sit in one of the kitchen chairs. “And I’m thirsty,” I add as I mop the perspiration from my brow.

He shakes his head as he busies himself: the refrigerator door opens and closes before a cool bottle of water appears before me, the cap loosened; he grunts as he hefts the roasting pan from the oven, the metal clatters against the stovetop; he lifts the lid on the pot of collards, giving the greens a stir before cutting the flame down low. My phone slides across the crowded table, just in time for Noah to see it as he enters the room.

His little hands reach and grab, but I hold it out of his reach, trying to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts. “Baste the ham before putting it in, please,” I mumble as I guzzle more water.

“Lawd, woman! You tryna work me to the bone,” Lamont complains.

I pay him no attention; he didn’t have to buy the groceries; he doesn’t have to cook the food. We’re using paper products, plastic utensils, and solo cups; minimal clean-up. All the others have to do is eat, take out the trash, and help put up the Christmas tree.

Easy peasy.  

“MOMMY!” Noah wails impatiently.

“What, little boy?” I huff playfully before surrendering my phone. “Hey, babe … you hungry?” I ask, trying to recall the last time I fed my child.

He shakes his head, eyes glued to the screen. “No. Gamma gave me chicken and fwies.”

Lamont shuts the oven door. “Anything else?”

I think over what’s left to do: macaroni and cheese, which is already prepped. It just needs a thorough heating. Stuffing: it’s boxed. so that makes life easy. Biscuits: thank you, Pillsbury Doughboy.  Mushrooms: already prepped, just needs heating.

I shake my head. “Nope. Thanks.”

The plan now is for Noah and me to head upstairs for an hour nap … we’ve both been up since 6am …but I neglected to look at the time. The whoops from my family members, coupled with the off-key singing of Bad Boys, the theme from Cops, tell me my husband is home from work. His deep, deep voice literally booms throughout the rooms as he greets his family and in-laws.

My son practically throws my phone at me before he rushes into his father’s arms. Once securely hoisted onto his daddy’s hip, Noah smirks smugly at his cousins who are pulling excitedly on their uncle’s pant legs.

Through the mayhem, my eyes meet my husband’s, and he winks at me with a wide grin on his face. The man I married is tall … very tall. His shoulders and chest are broad and sculpted. There are dimples in his cheeks. He is an officer with the LAPD.

He is unfortunately named: Scott Peterson. He tells strangers that his name is Harry.

And he’s white.

It hasn’t been easy being an interracial couple in Compton. I was born and raised here but marrying a white cop has called my blackness into question with my family, my friends, my very community. I think it has more to do with him being a cop than his race.

Scott grew up in Los Angeles proper; his childhood was more affluent than privileged until his father went to prison for insider trading. His mother, as WASPy and Karenesque as her personality suggests, gave up bridge clubs and martini lunches to re-enter the workforce. I wouldn’t call her racist; I see her as more of a bigot. An elitist bigot.

When we bought our home six years ago, his mother told Scott she was extremely disappointed in him.

He responded he was through trying to impress dead folks and racists.

With wide eyes and a horrified expression, she clarified she was referring to him living in Compton. Who lived in Compton?

Pulling me closer to him, he asked her who could afford LA nowadays? Hell, she didn’t even live there any longer. And judging by Compton’s growing and diverse population, a lot of people did indeed live in Compton.

But we’ve survived and are more in love than ever. Scott and I are a working-class couple; I’m a teacher at the local preparatory school. We’re happy, and family gatherings have become louder and more boisterous in the best way possible.

After promising to play with the children after dinner and advising Man-Man what to do about his upcoming case in traffic court, one of the suggestions being do NOT wear orange as it may give the judge ideas, Scott is finally making his way to me. He pulls me to him, planting an eager and lingering kiss on my lips; when we part, we walk into the kitchen together so I can show off what I’ve accomplished.

He admires the spread and insists that he’ll take over so I can get some rest before dinner.

“No!” I yell quietly. “Your mom is here; MY mom is here. Our sisters are here. Our BROTHERS are here! You’ve worked all day!”

He’s rummaging in the utensil drawer; it’s a hot mess that I keep meaning to organize. He closes it when he finds a fork, which he dips into the pot of collards. “We’re the hosts,” he explains as he tastes the greens; he noisily smacks his lips to express his satisfaction.

“We’re always the hosts!” I retort. “And they are not guests!”

He pulls me into the closest embrace he can manage with my belly extending from here to the I-10. “You’re tired. You’ve done a lot of work today. You know my mom can’t fix anything other than salad kits and Stouffer’s. Your mom loves her fatback a little too much for me.”

I giggle. “Remember the Thanksgiving she shoved a slab of it inside the turkey?”

“That’s when you said we would be the hosts of Thanksgiving!”

“Fine,” I grumble, pretending to still be disgruntled.

“Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom.”

We don’t make it.

There’s a sharp pain in my lower back that spreads around to my belly, and my water breaks.

Tagging:  @jared2612 @ao719  @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @liamrhysstalker2020  @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet  @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @phoenixrising0308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @foreverethereal123 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @jovialyouthmusic @21-wishes @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @bbrandy2002 @queenmiarys

In case you’re interested: @athena-anna-rose​

[stylus-22]

Elearning Companies In Dubai | Custom Elearning Development Services

Microlearning

Too many words may not do the trick for everyone!

It is necessary to keep up with the changing time and trends. As one of the E learning Companies in Dubai , we understand the need to deliver content in a simple and straightforward manner. Instead of elaborating on a topic, we understand the significance of getting to the point for certain topics.

Why Microlearning?

Given the current situation and the busy schedules, not many participants or learners have the time to browse through lengthy or wordy documents. We are cognizant of this fact and are implementing new methods of delivering content to our clients. Our writers prioritize their choice of words carefully to deliver the appropriate message in a crisp and complete manner. Today, short videos have gained more prominence over short bursts of content. Videos are visually pleasing and thus delivering videos that are under the one-minute mark is our primary target for time-pressing professionals.

To bridge the gap between the increasing learning needs within less time and engaging the audience, microlearning is extremely significant. It has the right ingredients to retain the audience’s attention and deliver the message to the audience effectively. At Stylus, we create courses keeping in mind the client’s requirements along with the prospective audience, the topics under the course as well as the handheld devices that will feature these courses.

Are Other Forms of Content Outdated?

Since people today have very little time for themselves, the best way to engage them is to provide shreds of information every day instead of sharing it all at one time. This not only helps to digest the information quickly but also allows for long time engagement.

So does that mean that blogs, newsletters, e-learning modules, books, etc. are all backdated and redundant? Of course not. These are still very important and required to provide complete detailed information.

Micro content can in fact be used as a teaser or bait to lure the learner to the detailed information. It can also be used to solve a specific problem or answer a question for your target audience in a very short amount of time. Micro content is a great way to lead your audience deeper into the funnel of wanting to know more.

Stylus – One of the Leading E-learning Companies in Dubai

While detailed information in the form of books is significant to gaining knowledge, providing small bites of important information in an interesting way can help the learner retain information better and faster. As the name suggests, microlearning as part of online course development presents content to students in short bursts.

We provide microlearning materials in the form of:

Short videos

Articles

Infographics

Illustrations

Images

PPTs

Memes

FAQs

Quizzes

Unlike other E learning Companies in Dubai , we at Stylus not only provide e learning modules that are fifteen minutes to one hour in duration, but also provide microlearning services to our clients, based on their needs and requirements, along with a focus on the target audience, the content that needs to be covered and the medium or device through which it will be delivered. In microlearning, the design and format are fairly different from the other courses of e-learning content development that we offer.

With the increasing popularity of short-form entertainment media, people have developed shorter attention spans and therefore tend to get bored and lose interest very quickly. This is where microlearning can be used to impart knowledge. It is most effective in cases where the learner cannot sit through long-form courses.

Microlearning is less time-consuming, more engaging, straightforward, and effective. We provide microlearning modules that are thoughtfully created with a focus on efficacy. These courses comprise little packets of information presented to the learner in easy-to-understand formats. You can confidently depend on us for any microlearning needs you may have.

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[carneytechnologiesdubai]

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[poetry-protest-pornography]

Among the not-person followers that I've allowed to stay, there is a water filtration company from Dubai, and a French roofing company, because 1) they had actual content, and 2) I think it's objectively hilarious that their algorithm told them that they should boost their SEO by following the loud queer woman who yells about her gay little shows, kpop, politics, pretty people, and the mostly sad state of her various writing projects.

Like, the reason I'm being recommended or whatever is that post about us all melting down while ao3 was down. And corporations are like "yes, that's our in on the Tumblr!"

[corporate-gifts-dubai]

Budget friendly Corporate gift Ideas – Royal Top Trading

Corporate gifts are given by organization for their employees/clients to strengthen their relationships. Corporate gifts are given to employees to show appreciation for their hard work done. One of the most popular types of corporate gifts is branded merchandise. This can be included from pens and notepads to t-shirts and drinkware. These gifts can be customized with logo/branding from Royal Top Trading. Some popular options include thank-you gifts, holiday gifts, and employee recognition gifts.

Here are some of the budget friendly corporate gift ideas;

Customized Notebooks

Personalized notebooks with the recipient’s name or initials are practical and thoughtful gifts for your recipients for making a lasting impression.

Desk Accessories

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Consider items like stylish pen holders, desk organizers, or elegant paperweights. These functional and visually appealing gifts can enhance the recipient’s workspace.

Customized Calendars

Create custom calendars by adding your company’s logo, inspirational quotes, or branding. It’s a practical gift that helps recipients stay organized throughout the year.

Promotional pens

Pens are a necessary writing tool both in the office and at home. A promotional pen that is branded with your company’s name can last and maintain long-term marketing for your brand, ultimately increasing your brand value

Succulent Plants

These gifts are very Low-maintenance, visually appealing, and they’ll be your great office companions. Choose small potted succulents or create mini succulent arrangements as budget-friendly gifts.

USB Flash Drives

https://sp-ao.shortpixel.ai/client/to_webp,q_glossy,ret_img,w_300,h_233/https://royalpromotion.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/MO10011d8d-1-300x233.jpg

Customized USB flash drives with your company’s logo or a unique design are practical gifts that can be used for storing files and data. They can be customized into many ways like Card USBs, eco-friendly USB etc.

Personalized Keychains

Keychains are an, affordable corporate gift which is easily customizable. You can add a personal touch by engraving the recipient’s initials or company logo/messages.

Customized Tote Bags

https://sp-ao.shortpixel.ai/client/to_webp,q_glossy,ret_img,w_300,h_300/https://royalpromotion.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/coco-1-300x300.jpg

These are Practical and eco-friendly, tote bags with your company’s logo or a custom design are useful gifts that recipients can use for shopping or carrying essentials.

Wireless Bluetooth Speakers

Compact and portable Bluetooth speakers offer a great listening experience. We have affordable options that still provide good sound quality.

Customized Sticky Notes or Notepads

Personalized sticky notes or notepads with your company’s branding/logo are handy gifts that can be used in the office or at home.

Engraved Pens

Consider metal pens with engraved names or initials for an elegant and professional gift. Or you can choose ecofriendly pens which is good for nature. They’re practical for daily use and make a lasting impression.

Gourmet Food Baskets

You can Create budget-friendly food baskets filled with gourmet snacks, chocolates, or locally sourced treats. It’s a delicious gift that can be shared and enjoyed.

Remember, the key to budget-friendly corporate gifts are to focus on thoughtful personalization and practicality. By considering the recipients’ preferences and incorporating your company’s branding, you can create meaningful gifts without overspending.

Royal Top Trading is your trusted partner for selecting corporate gifts Dubai. We are the top corporate gifts supplier in Dubai since 2003. With 20+ years of experience in corporate gifting, we can help you find the right corporate gifts for your business.

Contact us today at +971 50 588 4169 to discuss your corporate gifting needs and requirements so we can tailor a unique corporate gifts. We accept orders in both small and bulk quantities.

Or visit our website to see our extensive selection of corporate gift items, and we’re confident you’ll find the perfect item for your brand promotion. However, if you require assistance, our team is always here to help.

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[cremecontent]

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