#temporary workers

[nationallawreview]

Summer, Baseball and H-1B Visa Filings in Full Swing

As summer and baseball season are now in full swing, so is the H-1B filing season. The U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) completed its initial round of selections on April 1, prompting immigration practitioners and employers to get filings across the home plate by June 30. However, many potential employees are stuck in the dugout, so to speak, unable to get in the game, as they…

[andrasthehun]

My Rat for Today: Immigration Overload?

January 13, 2024 Driving to have coffee with my friend at Timmies, I listened to the daily talk show with a panel on immigration. One said the Canadian public is sympathetic to (and has an enviable record), welcoming immigrants. Based on that attitude and arguing that the economy needs immigrants for its continued growth, the government doubled immigration targets to the 500,000 range. In…

[keferon]

Two Peas in a Pod: part 2/?

*slips another piece into your mailbox*

_____________________

Jazz was still feeling a little woozy from his donation in the dark hours of the morning. Blaster had breakfast changed from the usual to something that felt more like a treat, probably a reward for his good behaviour, and to help his body recover. Fish heavy in proteins, fat, all that healthy stuff. Something that normally he would have tried to savour, but he wolfed it down from excitement. Too many questions ran through his head, and most he couldn't bring himself to voice.

The mer, the mer would pull through. Blaster told him about how he had saved their life with his blood. Praised him high and low. Because Blaster knew how Jazz felt about seeing blood, about how hard blood tests were for him, and that was only a tiny vial. Not three big bags of it. Jazz hadn't seen how much they had taken – because he had kept his eye closed until they left in a hurry –, and hearing about it made him dizzy for other reasons, but he honestly felt real proud of himself.

It was a new feeling, different from other moments of pride – like when he figured out the lock codes. Yeah, this gave him butterflies and the drive to help more.

Blaster laughed when Jazz offered that the vets could take more if the other mer needed it. His handler didn't think it would be, but he would pass it on to the vet team.

Jazz's morning checks were a little off, expected with having a little less fluids and feeling off-balance, but it was kept short and quick. Blaster told him that if he learned anything more, he'd tell him next time he came by and then hurried back down to the staff area. Blaster was needed elsewhere, understandably as there weren't many mer experts here, though he did leave Jazz his waterproof stereo if he wanted to play some of his favourites.

But, the orca mer was far too busy causing a whirlpool from the laps he was swimming. He was too excited to sit still, and embarrassment be damned he started practising old vocals. He didn't remember much of his mother tongue, and he was pretty sure that his pronunciation was off, that or had one hell of an accent. Echo-speech was even more rusty. And once he had gone over and over what he could recall, Jazz began to really worry. A few sentences and handful or so of words was all he had? Gods, I hope I can at least make a decent first impression. Blaster said they were just like me, so hopefully, that will give me some starting points.

More than he cared to count, Jazz would swim into the shallow waters of the medical bay and hope to see something through that window. But no one ever came close enough for him to hear any news of the mer. He couldn't even see anything on his radar, wherever they had done treatment, it wasn't in the hospital ward. It almost felt like he was being purposely kept in the dark.

And just when Jazz was starting to worry that things had taken a bad turn, a group of staff turned up around four pm. He wasn't able to ask any questions, or rather they refused to answer. Shooing him away as they got to work. Starting with closing the gate to the bay to 'keep him out'. Jazz could easily climb those walls, but that wasn't the point. Even if the gate window was closed, he could pick up that they were setting up the water hammock. But it wasn't until he heard the cautionary beeping of the hoist lift approaching that it dawned on him – the mer was coming. Now.

"Jazz," Blaster called, "… Jazz," he blew the training whistle and finally got his mer's attention. "Stop pacing and get over here."

"But–" Jazz looked back longingly up the wall.

"Jazz," his tone dropped to a firm one, and Jazz begrudgingly swam over to the pier. The human crouched and made sure that they held eye contact before he spoke. "I need you to promise me that you will stay in your enclosure."

He sunk a little, trying to play into his cuteness, but being far too anxious to really pull it off. "What do you mean?"

"Jazz," now warning him. Blaster knew full well that he was more than capable of getting into or out of places he shouldn't, bloody Houdini mermaid, "this is serious. Things are going well, we want to keep it that way. Which means keeping things calm and feeling safe. You're excited, I get it, we all are. But in about an hour, they'll be waking up and – from past experience seen with wild Mers – they will likely freak out. And the last thing we need is you hauling your tail over that wall and making things worse. Understand?"

The beeping was louder how and the hiss of hydraulics caused Jazz to look up. The arm of the lift was visible over the wall. They're here!

"Jazz," Blaster hopelessly called for his attention once more.

Within moments, a massive bundle was carefully raised, the staff calling out and coordinating. Jazz's gaze was fixed on the black and white fluke poking out, it was the only part of them he could see, and his heart began to race. Once they became hidden by the wall again, Jazz moved back to pacing by the gate without even thinking. Listening to people hopping into the water to unstrap the mer and call back n' forth. "Careful, careful! – Watch the head! – Someone give me a hand over here! – We're clear on this side! – Keep the head up!"

Really starting to sound like a broken record, Blaster chirped the whistle and called out to him again. The expression he wore must have been pretty pitiful because the look on Blaster's face dropped. "If I open the view port… will you promise me that you will wait, that you will stay in your enclosure?"

"I promise," he answered hastily, placing his hands on the gate, over the panel that would slide open.

"And that you will wait until everything is in the clear, till the staff come to oversee the integration. There will be no rushing things and no asking staff when we will open the gate."

"I promise," he repeated, trying not to beg.

Satisfied, Blaster pulled out his radio, "Blaster to Control; when the team is out of the Mer enclosure's medical bay, open the view port. Jazz's stress is mounting without a visual."

"Can do," came a quick reply.

Though, opening the panel was not. Several minutes went by, the hoist had cleared out, and much of the staff had returned to their other duties. Only two remained double-checking the mer's breathing and pulse. The moment that the last of them left, Jazz heard the lock disengage, and he retracted his hands as the panel shifted and began to slide open. The window was too small to get more than his hand – maybe up to his elbow if he wanted to push it – through, and sat just at water level– any movement sending water hopping to either side. But it gave him a clear view of the surface area inside.

Oh.

Oh. Jazz stopped breathing. While the mer's body was mostly supported by the fabric of the hammock, cradling them on their side, effectively hiding most of them from Jazz's angle. Propped up on a soft floating platform was the mer's head, face towards the gate. Sharp features and elegantly shaped finials, with flattering lines of their markings complimenting the peaceful expression as they slept. The butterflies from earlier came back stronger than ever, his heart thundering as words fumbled from Jazz's lips, "he's beautiful…"

_____________________

-GLC

Orca Prowl really is just-- too fucking pretty, omg, I'm living through Jazz in this moment like when I first saw your designs of him.

I'm more than happy to continue writing for you, you bring me so much joy. I screamed when I saw how much you liked it. If you have any requests you would like me to add to the story, leave it in the tags or comments ♡ I now plan to continue until the tsunami and a bit afterwards, maybe more, we'll see~

Upd: There is a next part!

Previous

Oh. MY GOD. OKAY ALRIGHT OKAY ALRIGHT OKA

I'M ABOUT TO START PACING IN CIRCLES JUST LIKE JAZZ OVER HERE KDLCNFJFLFB PL E A S E THIS IS SO GOOD. The tension?? You can fucking TASTE it IT'S SO GREAT GLC I LOVE YOU

The way it all starts at night and then you (as a reader) have all this additional time to boil in your anticipation?? So fucking great. Like you can really feel how little power Jazz has over the wholse situation. The plot is moving but he doesn't have any saying in it. Well. Yet heheh

Anyway haha. Im normal and I made some art>:D

[hiveswap]

baby's first retail job

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary - Chapter 1

-

80’s Paul Mccartney x reader

—

New fic!! lmk how you guys like this one wink wink

thank you to @treeeeesurfer / @yesitisbea for her continued support and contributions to my fics!! pls go show her fics some love

this will also be posted on my ao3 (@katie_bugggg)

i’ve made a Pinterest board for the the aesthetic and fashion referenced in this fic! enjoy!

https://pin.it/6ex4yUxDf

—

After what has seemed like months of mindlessly picking up whatever job you stumbled across in the paper, you finally landed a secretary spot that paid more than the other shit jobs that only kept you a few months before their companies dissolved.

This spot was different as it was in advertising for a big record company. You’ve worked in advertising before but for a shit vacuum company that quickly went bankrupt because of issues regulating heat. It blew up and burnt someone’s house down. Messy way to go down.

You filed into the busy lobby of the New York office building, countless people clocking into whatever miscellaneous job they had.

You glance down at the ad read in the paper that you clutch tightly in your hand. Floor 17.

Like sardines, you squeeze into an elevator that shoots you and about ten other people up.

Eventually, you reach your floor and creep up to the front desk.

APPLE RECORDS

is what’s plastered on it. You introduce yourself to the woman sitting in front of her loud typewriter, explaining you’re the new hire and hope you could be guided on where to go. Her smile is friendly enough during your simple conversation. She nods and stands up from her seat, gesturing to you to walk with her.

Casual conversation grows between the two of you as she points out where everything is on the floor.

“Here is public relations, next to them you’ll find our accounting and finance, as well as data analytics. Oh and right down that hall is Creativity and Visuals.”

Her pace slows as she stops in front of a light wood door. On it, a gold plaque shines under the fluorescent lights. You squint to read the lettering.

Advertising Director

J. P. MCCARTNEY

“This is you!” She says cheerfully as she pushes the door open.

Inside, there’s a small waiting room and an empty, L-shaped desk facing outwards into the room in the further left corner. You assume that would be yours.

A set of 4 chairs line up along the wall adjacent to the desk. A taller potted plant is placed in another corner and a dull modern artwork hangs on the wall above the chairs.

There's another door on the other wall. This one is deeper in its shade of wood but still adornes the same gold plaque.

Large windows cover the wall behind the desk, casting a bright morning light into the waiting room.

“You should be all set up in here.” The receptionist says as she strolls over to the desk. You glance around at the items on it. A black typewriter (similar to hers) sits heavy in the middle alongside a notepad, a cup of pens and a filing cabinet.

You thank you and exchange pleasantries as you get comfortable in your new desk, setting your stuff down and pulling out the chair.

She opens the door to the hall but lingers in the doorway, hesitant. “Uh-“

You glance up, “Yes?”

“Mr. McCartney is-“ she pauses and looks around, seemingly looking for the right word as if it’ll pop up in the waiting room. “…difficult.” she lands on.

You raise an eyebrow and sit down in the chair.

“Keep a good head on your shoulders. Just do what he says.”

Her mouth stays open like she has more to say, but she’s hesitant once again. Her lips close as she decides against whatever she was thinking and gently pats the door frame, giving you a small smile before closing the door behind her.

Strange. You take note of this… warning?

You blink at the empty space around you. It’s very quiet.

You pull out a few of your personal belongings: a framed picture, a fountain pen, and a little cat figurine. It looks like your own cat, grey and stripped.

The warning the receptionist gave hangs heavy on your mind, leaving a thick blanket of anxiety over you. You knew you’d have to introduce yourself to your new boss so you swallow the score lump in your throat and walk over to the mahogany door.

Face to face with the name plate,

MCCARTNEY

you reread.

You roll three low knocks onto the door, the sound being jarring in the painfully quiet waiting room.

A few seconds go by and you hear the quiet shifting of papers and the creaking of a chair beyond the door.

“Come on in,” a voice echoed. The accent caught you off guard at first, however it was not unusual in the mixing-pot that was New York. But still, surprising.

You grabbed the cold handle and pushed the door open. You took in the space around you as you stepped in.

The office space was simple. Large windows stretch from ceiling to floor on one wall, allowing large streams of morning light to pool inside the office.

On the wall Adjacent to the windows, there were framed photos of older advertising posters and LP’s, framed as well.

In the middle of the room sat a large, heavy dark wood desk with two leather seats placed in front of it.

On the desk sat another large typewriter. His was dark green and shiny, much more expensive looking. A desk lamp shined over the scattered papers he was shuffling through.

And behind the desk, sat Mr. McCartney. He was younger than what you had expected, hair still dark in color.

But you could tell he was still quite a bit older than you, subtle lines that rippled down from his cheeks was the only indicator of his age. You guessed around 15 years older — in his mid or late 30’s.

He sat tense in his large leather office chair, eyes never leaving the papers. He wore a simple black suit jacket, and a smooth white dress shirt with some sort-of patterned tie. He looked very put together.

You gulped.

“Good morning sir. I’m you’re new secretary, Y/N. I’m sure you’re already aware.” You say as confidently as possible, your voice bouncing off the quiet walls of the room.

Finally, he looks up from the papers andblinks at you. His eyes were soft and downturned, small crow-feet lines pull at the corners of them. He has long (almost feminine) eyelashes and highly arched eyebrows. His hair was a dark brunette, longer in style with short bangs and some length at the back of his neck.

Mr. McCartney’s eyes raked over you. Slowly, from head to toe. Your legs in the sheer black tights. A dress that fell just above the knee. Hair pulled back into a bun.

He gave a small nod, “G’ morning, then.” was all he said in return. His eyes snapped away from you and back onto the papers.

You blinked. Well, alright.

Awkwardly, you shuffled out of the office and back to your desk, tightly shutting the door behind you.

The day drags on, morning soon becoming midday. You find yourself doing miscellaneous tasks that Mr. McCartney asks you to do. Call this place or that person, schedule a meeting for this time, write down notes from these papers.

Around 11:30, the door to the waiting room opens and a man steps in. He looked to be around Mr. McCartney’s age, maybe a year or two older.

He was tall and fashioned a similar look to Mr. McCartney’s. His dress shirt and pants were brown however. He wore round, thin framed glasses and had shorter, wavy, light brown hair.

He held a large black portfolio tucked tightly under his arm and a mess of papers pressed to his chest.

The man blinked in surprise at you sitting at the desk in the waiting room. He snorted out a laugh.

“That didn’t take long.” He huffed under his breath, giving you a quick once over.

“Here to see Mr. McCartney, sir?” You ask politely, looking up at him.

“You can save it sweetheart, I’ll be two minutes.” the man said with a sly grin.

“John’s fine by the way. My job’s not nearly important enough to be called ‘sir’.” He laughed out the last part of the sentence before tugging the darker door open.

“Paul! How are ya!” Was all you heard before the door shut behind John.

Paul. You thought on the name. You’d doubt you’d get familiar enough with ‘Paul’ to ever call him that. But it was good to know since he didn’t even introduce himself.

You huff and fall back into the back of your chair, crossing your arms. What dicks they all seem to be here.

About 25 minutes passed before you were called into the office. You cracked the door open and peaked your head in.

John was stood over the desk, drawings spread across it. Paul sat relaxed into his large leather seat behind the desk.

“Yes?” You ask.

“Lunch please.” Paul said blankly, holding out a small piece of paper. A Post-It.

You felt your eye twitch at the impoliteness. But who were you to argue? This was your job after all. Simple as it was.

You strolled up and took the paper from his fingers. John’s eyes dragged over you once again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You hold back a gag. God. men.

Nonetheless, you obliged and rang in an order of sandwiches from a bistro down the street so they’d be ready by the time you’d walked there. You snagged your purse and rushed out of the building.

You hadn’t been gone for more than 15 minutes, returning with two large brown bags of food. You pushed the dark door open and to your surprise, two more men had joined Paul and John. They all chatted loudly, strings of fluffy smoke surrounded them.

“You weren’t lyin’, John.” One said as you walked in, giving you the same eyes that John had earlier.

You gave an uncertain smile. The air felt thick.

Being the only woman in a room full of men like this feels like being a sheep circled by wolves.

You curled in on yourself slightly, refusing to make eye contact.

Gently, you place the bags down on Paul’s desk before hurriedly walking towards the door.

“Ah-!” Paul calls after you just as you tug on the handle. Ah fuck. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“Yes?” You say and plaster on the most pleasant smile you can muster.

“You see a room full of men, don’t you?” He says with that same blank tone. His eyes bore into you.

Your mouth goes dry — what does that even mean? Obviously you sees them.

The silence trickles on.

“Coffee.. jesus-“ he sighs and puts out his cigarette.

You don’t move.

“Coffee! Get the men coffee!” Paul lets out an annoyed laugh and throws his hands up a little, looking at his coworkers who all chuckle.

You nod, the smile quickly dropping from your face as you rush to the kitchenette. You wanted to disappear. Wanted a hole to open up under you and swallow you whole. If you’d known your boss would be a total asshole you wouldn’t have taken the job.

But alas, bills needed a-payin’.

A few minutes later, you return with four mugs. Your past waitress experience coming in handy. You place the mugs on the dark wood desk, still not making any eye contact with any of the four men that blow smoke around you.

“Thanks.” Paul grumbles out, as if it hurt him to be kind.

The shortest of them lets out a laugh and rolls his eyes. He has a larger nose and a thick mustache spread across his top lip.

“God Paul, it wouldn’t kill ya to be nice to the thing” He says and picks up a mug, eyeing you as he sipped it.

The one who appeared to be only a few years younger than the other three followed in suit, taking a generous swig of the coffee. “Rich is right.” He says simply.

He sucks a deep breath through his sharp teeth, “At least this one knows how to keep coffee hot!”

They all erupt in laughter; all besides Paul. His eyes still dig into you. You return the gaze, only for a second.

Something lingers behind his eyes. Something expectant; hungry, one could argue.

A chill creeps up the low of your back before you slip out of the office.

—-

[allthecanadianpolitics]

A major construction union is calling for a suspension of Canada’s temporary foreign worker program, citing the case of an Indonesian man who says he was exploited. Ariefs, who Global News is not identifying because he fears retaliation for speaking out, came to Canada after seeing a job with Concord Wall Painting advertised in a YouTube ad. He was hired to work on major public building expansions, including the Lions Gate and Royal Columbian hospitals.

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Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[suntails]

FINALLY got a better job!!!! somehow i will now work in IT. i do not have IT experience but goddammit i have the desire to earn a beautiful paycheck

[poppy5991]

Live footage of me working on my little fics in my free time while everything is on fire as a form of self-care and in hopes that it will maybe bring someone a little joy somewhere:

[tirfpikachu]

LOST MY JOB OUTTA NOWHERE

GOT AN INTERVIEW WITH A CLIENT FROM SAID JOB

LITERALLY THE SAME DAY ?????????

omfg i went from crying in despair to crying in relief in the same day i am so freaking drained emotionally oh my god. but also super happy. and if this doesn't work out i have a paid job finding program i can do for july! so may/june would be a bit tough but i'd be okay!!! :']

life finds a way my gyns. doors close and windows open instead. i'm gonna keep trying keep moving along despite all the chaos!!

[toughtink]

the genshin/hoyo sag-aftra strike situation is depressing and complex and i wish everyone stopped pretending that it’s easy because the more i learn about all the ins and outs of these agreements, the more i see why this has stalled out for so long. can people at least stop harassing VAs over it, please???

[gouinisme]

cant be bothered to take proper pics of my jacket but i'm also super proud of it so here's a pic from last night

[andrasthehun]

My Rant for Today: Immigration Overload?

January 13, 2024 Driving to have coffee with my friend at Timmies, I listened to the daily talk show with a panel on immigration. One said the Canadian public is sympathetic to (and has an enviable record), welcoming immigrants. Based on that attitude and arguing that the economy needs immigrants for its continued growth, the government doubled immigration targets to the 500,000 range. In…

[allthecanadianpolitics]

A United Nations official on Wednesday denounced Canada's temporary foreign worker program as a "breeding ground for contemporary forms of slavery." Tomoya Obokata, UN special rapporteur on contemporary forms of slavery, made the comments in Ottawa after spending 14 days in Canada. "I am disturbed by the fact that many migrant workers are exploited and abused in this country," he said. "Agricultural and low-wage streams of the temporary foreign workers program constitute a breeding ground for contemporary forms of slavery." Obokata's comments echo those of Jamaican migrant workers who, in an open letter to their country's ministry of labour last month, described their working conditions in Ontario as "systematic slavery."

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[pinkestlemonades]

being a writer has me googling some wacky wild things