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31
The Writers Circle / Nursingessaywriting.com - get your dream work resume
« Last post by John56832 on October 09, 2020, 02:16:41 PM »
Some people don’t understand why anyone would pay someone else to write them a resume or CV. And at first glance, it seems logical – after all, who knows you better than you do? However, that is not the key moment when trying to get a specific job. And hiring a professional resume writer will make all the difference.
In the long run, you will save money, time, and nerves and start working at a place you’ve been aiming for, while someone else will keep sending his or her resume and not even getting to the interview phase, not understanding what is missing and why their personally-written resumes get dismissed all the time.
You definitely want to get the best company for such an important task, so look no further. Nursingessaywriting.com specializes in this type of services and has been helping job-seekers to reach the desired results for years, so if you are in need of nursing resume writing services, you will find the solution at Nursingessaywriting.com, whose professional writers will do their magic and provide you with job-winning papers. Just visit this site to learn more or proceed and place an order.
Even if you need it the next day, they can still manage it and send it to you in time. It is, of course, preferable to set a longer deadline when you’re placing an order. That way, not only will it cost you less, but there will be time for you to order a free revision should you deem one necessary.
If you have a resume you’d like to update or improve, attach it to make the writer’s job easier. Also, pay attention that you can get a resume, a CV, a cover letter, and a follow-up letter separately or as a package. Contact customer support if you need and they will help to choose the best option for you.
32
All the Write Questions / Manuscript Page Sizes
« Last post by meliodasgaming on October 08, 2020, 05:54:32 AM »
Hi guys ! My name’s Dave
In the office suite I downloaded from the Google store, the page size selections are A3, A4, etc, and all are measured in centimeters!  I'm a Yank-- Arizona, USA & totally clueless about to use for  my novel!! Someone please assist!
To all mods: Please "park" my request where it should go--PM me where you had put it, with a link. Much thanks!!ข่าวกีฬาออนไลน์

Any help will be fine.
Thank you in advance.
33
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34
The Coffee Shop / What kind of person are you?
« Last post by oker288 on October 06, 2020, 11:20:49 PM »
Hi everyone!
เล่นคาสิโนเว็บไหนดี
If time travel were possible and you were given the opportunity (but only the once) which would you choose, the past* or the future?
See the things you already know? Or those you can only imagine?
I would definitely go to the future. I would like to see all of the really cool stuff, the inventions, the progress we'll make.
How about you?
*I'm going to invoke the rule that you can't change anything in the past, if that's your chosen destination.
Thank in advance.



35
Curtains filtered sunlight, and my bedroom fell in dusk. On my desk, dad’s photo frame rested. His gaze piercing. Presence lingering. Wooden planks creaked and my darkened eyes darted at the sound.

Nothing.

I searched for my slippers as the mattress’ squeaks mixed with the ticking of clocks. Hair rose at my tan skin, saluting my courage to attend. Been three years since we spoke. With body steeled, I left the apartment.

Streets bustled with cars, the sidewalk scenting of midsummer showers. Around the block was a small cafe. A bell jingled as its door opened and the aroma of roasted coffee beans wafted on air. My eyes caught a table by the window—our favorite spot. We used to be here every day—dad and I.

Minutes passed. The door chimed, my neck stretching to peek. Mom strolled inside, a man beside her fashioned in black apparel—expensive ones. A friend?

We exchanged pleasantries.

Mom’s hands swished the space, illustrating the gossip prattling out her lips. Her long brown-dyed hair bounced to her rhythm and gesture. 
   
Mom giggled.

“Surprise!” she clung on the man’s arm, “He’s my boyfriend!”

My eyes widened, stomach heaving.

“Congrats,” I flashed a strained smile.

The voices stung. My legs twitched and fingers fidgeted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My throat dried.

“Well, I did now,”

Fists clenched on my lap. “Dad died so you find another man?”

“Honey!”

“I’m just asking,”

Mom quieted.

Blades of disappointment, confusion, and anger clashed inside me—none victorious. The voices are louder now. Irritated, I nipped my lips.

“Excuse me.” I stroke a leer, piercing them both before storming out.

My head ached, another migraine? At my apartment, the door slammed against the wall. Hurried, my eyes shifted around the room—scouring for my tasteless pills.

Dad greeted me.

Swallowed, it grounded me. Tired, my body plopped itself on to bed. 
 
Days passed, and my head cooled.

With car keys grasped, my footsteps stride outside, heading to mom’s house.

It was late afternoon. Out of my car, the doorway welcomed me. It was how it used to be.

“Mom? You home?” I rang the doorbell.

The door clicked.

“Carina?”

“Surprise?”

The air tensed, but mom led me to the dinner table.

They’re silent today. Mom seated.

“This concerns my boyfriend, isn’t it?”

My glance struck the floor, and voices murmured.

“We didn’t tell you,” mom clasped her hands, “since we weren’t ready,”

They were restless. Dad watched from the kitchen counter and a glint snared my eyes. Doubt welled inside me, like a tub overflowing with water. My mouth opened, but the words eluded me. With eyes closed, I glanced again. He’s gone.

But the glint sharper.

Mom snapped her fingers. “Honey, are you listening?”

My mind jumbled. The voices made it more painful to think, they’re darker, and flaring. Raging fire on fuel. My heart raced. Body stiffened.

Ding! Ding!

“Phone,” I said. “It’s ringing,”

Mom motioned her knuckles on her chin. She gazed at the phone, swiped the screen and looked at me—puzzled.

She ignored it. My hand snatched her phone, skimming her contacts.

“Honey!”

Didn’t mom fight with dad before he died?


“Mom,” my glare striking hers, “dad died because of you, didn’t he?”

Shocked, mom hurried towards me. “Honey! What are you saying?”

Voices wailed. Screamed. Shrieked. Blood rushed and euphoria surged my veins. Thoughts shuffled and merged with whispers and suspicion.

The balance scale tipped.

I shoved mom, a grin streaking my lips. My body dashed to the kitchen knife. Seized, the sharp blade pointed at her. 
With a tight grip, I slitted her windpipe—mom’s inaudible shrieks echoing in my ears. Mom gagged and choked, stumbling. Her eyes blackened in terror. Clothes smeared in blood.

Numb—mom’s struggle ceased. Seated on her, my knife stabbed her neck’s sides. Blood spurted and spilled—painting me red in murder.

Moments passed.

My face sunk in murder-guilty hands, tears gushing out my sullied-red and slender fingers with the pressure of torrential water crashing dams.

Dad’s here.

He held out his hand and his warmth reminded me—I needed it.

“Can I be with you again?”

Dad didn’t answer. He let go and walked out—leaving me again. It was dark out. Like that day. But now, he won’t leave me.

Later, under the moonlight on his grave.

We vanished.
 
Months passed, and there was a burial.

It was a scorching afternoon. Bodies phased past me amid the chattering crowd, regret tethering me. Sorry.
36
The Writers Circle / Manuscript Page Sizes
« Last post by meliodasgaming on October 01, 2020, 04:32:11 AM »
Hi guys ! My name’s Dave
In the office suite I downloaded from the Google store, the page size selections are A3, A4, etc, and all are measured in centimeters!  I'm a Yank-- Arizona, USA & totally clueless about to use for  my novel!! Someone please assist!
To all mods: Please "park" my request where it should go--PM me where you had put it, with a link. Much thanks!!ข่าวกีฬาออนไลน์

Any help will be fine.
Thank you in advance.
37
Writers Wanted! / Re: FANFIC EDITOR AND BETA WANTED!
« Last post by Marie Meyers on September 28, 2020, 07:02:00 AM »
I’m a FFNet beta. Send a message if interested.
38
It's not a bad read, but it needs work. The plot progression is jerky in places - sentence fragments and sudden leaps from one moment in time or location to another make the narrative seem unco-ordinated. Some of these switches are extremely clumsy.

Quote
. . . I head out my apartment.
The bell jingled as I entered. . .

and

Quote
. . . I gazed at the kitchen.
I knocked.
“Mom?” I said. “Are you home?”. . .

You also change verb tense for no apparent reason.

Quote
They sat, PAST and we exchanged PAST pleasantries. Minutes later, I find PRESENT myself in disbelief. Slamming the table, I stood PAST.

I glanced PAST at the kitchen counter—dad watching. Doubt wells PRESENT inside me, like a tub overflowing with water. My mouth opened PAST, but the words elude PRESENT me.


This has potential, but you seem to be in a rush. The dialogue is so cryptic it serves no purpose. My advice, for what it's worth, spend more time on the setting and your characters before committing your story to paper. As a short-hand exercise in identifying the main plot points it works, but not as a meaningful reading experience.
39
He used to always be there for me—now he’s not. It’s been three years. Putting back dad’s photo frame on my desk, I pause. He’s here. Changing out of my pajamas, I head out my apartment.

The bell jingled as I entered. Scent of roasted coffee beans wafted the room. Not here yet? I picked a table by the window, waiting.

“May I take your order?” A waiter asked.

Surprised, my body jumped.

“A cafe latte’s fine,”

“Nervous?” he asked. “Waiting for someone?”

“I am,”

“Good luck then!”

“Thanks,”

It’s been too long since we met. The door’s bell chimed again—my neck stretched to peek. It’s them, but with a guy?

They sat, and we exchanged pleasantries. Minutes later, I find myself in disbelief. Slamming the table, I stood.

“Are you joking?” I shouted.

“Wait, honey,”

“No, mom!”

“Honey, I can explain,”

Leering at the man, I left. My head ached, another migraine? At home, I took my pills. Dad greeted me. Nursing is a tough course, seeing things are normal. Tired, I plopped myself onto my bed.

After days of mulling over what happened, facing mom again would be best. Before leaving, the whispers returned. I gazed at the kitchen.

I knocked.

“Mom?” I said. “Are you home?”

Surprised of my visit, mom said, “Agatha? You never told me you’re visiting!”

I smiled, “If I did, it won’t be a surprise.”

Mom led me to the dinner table. Seated, I pulled my handbag on my lap.

“Hungry, honey?” she asked.

“Cookies” I said.

They’re silent today. Mom grabbed a jar of cookies, placing it on our table, and she asked.

“This concerns him, isn’t it?”

I stared her in the eye, glancing at the floor right after. Taking a cookie from the jar, voices began their murmurs.

“It’s sudden, but he’s a good guy,” mom seated, clasping her hands. “He wants the chance to know you,”

They were restless. I glanced at the kitchen counter—dad watching. Doubt wells inside me, like a tub overflowing with water. My mouth opened, but the words elude me. Closing my eyes, I glanced once more. He’s no longer there. I munched on my cookie.

“Honey, are you ok?”

“I’m fine,”

“How’s school? Any friends?”

My mind jumbled on the query. The voices making it more painful to think, they’re louder now, and darker. My heart raced. My body stiffened.

“Phone,” I said. “It’s ringing,”

Mom motioned her knuckles on her chin, gazing at her phone. She swiped the screen and looked at me—puzzled. “Did you not sleep well, honey?” she worried.

She ignored it. I snatched her phone, skimming through her contacts.

“Honey?”

The voices speak to me, indescribable, yet I understand. She’s suspicious since that day.

“You killed dad,” I said. “You’re an assassin, a murderer, a liar!”

Shocked, mom rushed towards me. “Honey! Are you alright?” The voices are louder, they sound like screaming, but they’re not. Blood rushes in my veins and in euphoria—seizing the knife in my bag. Pointed at her, smiling, but not wanting to.

Charging at her and slitting her wind pipe—her inaudible shrieks echoing in my ears. She gripped her neck, attempting to stop the bleeding. Struggling, she stumbled, her eyes blackened in terror as blood smeared her clothes.

Falling numb, her struggle ceased, and I sat on her. Stabbing through the neck’s sides, blood spurted, spilling—painting me red in murder.

Moments passed.

Squatting, tears streamed my chin. The voices return, but now—deafening.

Dad’s here.

He held out his hand. Taking it—his warmth reminds me. I miss it—I need it.

“Can I be with you?”

Dad didn’t answer. He let go and walked out. He’s leaving me. With keys gripped tight, I left. It’s dark out, just like that day. Except this time, he won’t leave me. Clutching tissues from my car drawer, wiping my hands clean, I drove off to meet him.
 
Later, under the moonlight on his grave.

We floated away together.

After months, there was a burial.

It was a scorching afternoon. Mindless chatter, rumors like wildfire—all halt at the eulogy. Sorry. We should have gotten through that day side by side. Should have asked for help.

I held their hands tight. We could have avoided our funeral.

40
Thanks for leaving this space open,


I can start developing a new type of literature here,
Silent Reply Writing.

Come on !

- Really -

Nobody creative in any other ways....?

 


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