Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Tree, must be getting the better of me ... for a moment, at first glance, I thought those were Gunner's male parts.
Tree, must be getting the better of me ... for a moment, at first glance, I thought those were Gunner's male parts.
Yes, on your knees, there's a good girl, Dr. Moore....Mmm....The expense account is inadequate ... at this rate it will be gone in no time ... I need to beg Dean Windar for moore
Basque for one (it's in its own family). If you count Greenland, Inuktitut, the language of the Inuit. And of course Arabic is widely spoken in many communities in Europe.ndeed very few understand the singularity in central Europe of the Hungarian language - part of the Uralic primary language group, along with Finnish, the only non Indo-European based languages in Modern Europe. (I'm sure @Eulalia could correct and expand on this statement)
Barbara had some trouble sleeping
View attachment 712210...
Yes, I think most of the non-Indo-European languages that are spoken in EuropeYes, on your knees, there's a good girl, Dr. Moore....Mmm....
Basque for one (it's in its own family). If you count Greenland, Inuktitut, the language of the Inuit. And of course Arabic is widely spoken in many communities in Europe.
Chapter 20 April 18 Last Day in Zagreb
Messaline stayed downstairs long after the others had gone to their rooms. She had a glass of Pernod Absinthe. Even that powerful libation wasn’t enough to calm her fears. Finally, a little after midnight, she made her way, alone, to her room.
For the next hour, she lay on her bed exhausted, staring at the ceiling and crying. She had worked so very hard today. No one could imagine how many old records she had plowed through, translated and notated. There was an impossible amount of information there. But she had done her best to get the important information and report it. But her presentation was hesitant. She knew she wasn’t able to adequately review and analyze all the material and she feared being criticized for jumping to conclusions with incomplete facts. All her self-confidence seemed to have evaporated away during that hellish breakfast. She was sure her presentation had fallen flat. Dr. Moore certainly showed none of the enthusiasm she had for the work of the others.
Messaline knew that her fears were well-founded. Professor Moore was very nice, but she must have disapproved of Messa’s sexual advance just as her former professor had. Barbara was too refined and polite to make a scene as that other woman had done. No, she would be looking for a discrete way to get rid of the perverted student. Messa knew she would be sent home soon unless some miracle happened. She took a long time to cry herself to sleep.
The second full day in Zagreb went much like the first. Breakfast was quicker since each had work that they wanted to get to. Dr. Moore had wanted to speak privately to Messa after breakfast, but the French girl had barely eaten a thing before she had hurried off to dive back into the mountains of documents that were her assignment.
That evening at dinner, Professor Moore was even more impressed with the research completed. Especially what Messaline had accomplished. Barb realized that the girl must have plowed through an incredibly large collection of old records to get the few relevant communications that they needed.
However, Dr. Moore believed strongly in teamwork. Thus, on the wrap-up night, rather than praise the outstanding individual efforts, she withheld praise until the end when she said how proud she was of what the team had accomplished. She liked to say, “Expressio Unius Est Exclusio Alterius.”
She also announced that their efforts had helped convince her that Barbarossa’s route to Split was most likely through Bosnia. Therefore, in the morning they would be leaving for Sarajevo. To celebrate the progress, she ordered several bottles of Champagne for the table.
As the party drank and celebrated, Dr. Moore observed that Messaline was, if anything, more withdrawn and morose looking than the day before. She determined that she would do something about it tonight. She leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “Messaline, I need talk to you privately about your work on this project. Please come to my room about 9 o’clock.”
Messaline nodded rapidly and said, “Yes, Dr. Moore,” in a barely audible voice.
Barbara thought that she really needed to encourage the girl. It occurred to her, that Messaline, the youngest on the team and the only non-American might feel a little out of her depth.
The drinking and the celebration continued. Soon, Messa got up and said she had things to do in her room and left. Several looked around puzzled, Messaline was usually the life of the party. Nevertheless, the Champagne soon got festive spirits rolling again.
Back in her room, Messaline began packing her things. She cried hard. She knew what Dr. Moore wanted to talk to her about. She wasn’t going to Sarajevo with the rest. She was being sent home, fired from the project! Oh, there’d be some thinly veiled excuse: her age, budget, the team over staffed, a ‘skill mismatch’. It would be very formal and polite with the necessary expressions of regret. The Professor wasn’t one to make a scene or be gauche.
Messa emptied her drawers, feeling as if she was emptying her life. When she got back to University, she knew there would be nothing available in terms of work with the professors. Most would be polite but firm. Some would look at her with open disgust and refuse to even explain their rejection. But the handwriting would be on the wall. With no support from the faculty, a doctoral candidate was doomed. Before Christmas, she would be gone from the program. There would be nowhere else to turn. Expelled from a program with the reputation of Minnesota’s, without recommendations, she would be ‘damaged goods.’ No other place would even consider her.
The 23-year-old French girl closed her suitcase, feeling she was closing her life’s dream. To be an historian, to be a professor, to live in the academic world was all she’d ever wanted since she was 13. Her family had made great financial sacrifices to help her fulfill her academic ambitions. Now she had a just a Licence in history which wasn’t even enough to get a job teaching in secondary school.
As it approached 9 PM, she pulled herself together. She put a cold cloth on her eyes to reduce the redness and brushed her hair. Trying to stand proud even as her world was dying in her heart, she walked down the hall and knocked on Professor Moore’s door.
I'm trying to figure why, of all the background photo attachments, why this is the most popular with currently 9 likes?Barbara had some trouble sleeping
View attachment 712210
So she thought of monks praying
View attachment 712211
But aren't those candelabras rather phallic?
There are a lot of stories on CF I didn´t read as yet, but this one seems to be a rarity. There are other stories that are very emotional and empathetic, but most time that is oriented on dying or bodily torments. I am reminded of my youth. All that tentaviness and trepidations. Brilliant written!Chapter 20 April 18 Last Day in Zagreb
Messaline stayed downstairs long after the others had gone to their rooms. She had a glass of Pernod Absinthe. Even that powerful libation wasn’t enough to calm her fears. Finally, a little after midnight, she made her way, alone, to her room.
For the next hour, she lay on her bed exhausted, staring at the ceiling and crying. She had worked so very hard today. No one could imagine how many old records she had plowed through, translated and notated. There was an impossible amount of information there. But she had done her best to get the important information and report it. But her presentation was hesitant. She knew she wasn’t able to adequately review and analyze all the material and she feared being criticized for jumping to conclusions with incomplete facts. All her self-confidence seemed to have evaporated away during that hellish breakfast. She was sure her presentation had fallen flat. Dr. Moore certainly showed none of the enthusiasm she had for the work of the others.
Messaline knew that her fears were well-founded. Professor Moore was very nice, but she must have disapproved of Messa’s sexual advance just as her former professor had. Barbara was too refined and polite to make a scene as that other woman had done. No, she would be looking for a discrete way to get rid of the perverted student. Messa knew she would be sent home soon unless some miracle happened. She took a long time to cry herself to sleep.
The second full day in Zagreb went much like the first. Breakfast was quicker since each had work that they wanted to get to. Dr. Moore had wanted to speak privately to Messa after breakfast, but the French girl had barely eaten a thing before she had hurried off to dive back into the mountains of documents that were her assignment.
That evening at dinner, Professor Moore was even more impressed with the research completed. Especially what Messaline had accomplished. Barb realized that the girl must have plowed through an incredibly large collection of old records to get the few relevant communications that they needed.
However, Dr. Moore believed strongly in teamwork. Thus, on the wrap-up night, rather than praise the outstanding individual efforts, she withheld praise until the end when she said how proud she was of what the team had accomplished. She liked to say, “Expressio Unius Est Exclusio Alterius.”
She also announced that their efforts had helped convince her that Barbarossa’s route to Split was most likely through Bosnia. Therefore, in the morning they would be leaving for Sarajevo. To celebrate the progress, she ordered several bottles of Champagne for the table.
As the party drank and celebrated, Dr. Moore observed that Messaline was, if anything, more withdrawn and morose looking than the day before. She determined that she would do something about it tonight. She leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “Messaline, I need talk to you privately about your work on this project. Please come to my room about 9 o’clock.”
Messaline nodded rapidly and said, “Yes, Dr. Moore,” in a barely audible voice.
Barbara thought that she really needed to encourage the girl. It occurred to her, that Messaline, the youngest on the team and the only non-American might feel a little out of her depth.
The drinking and the celebration continued. Soon, Messa got up and said she had things to do in her room and left. Several looked around puzzled, Messaline was usually the life of the party. Nevertheless, the Champagne soon got festive spirits rolling again.
Back in her room, Messaline began packing her things. She cried hard. She knew what Dr. Moore wanted to talk to her about. She wasn’t going to Sarajevo with the rest. She was being sent home, fired from the project! Oh, there’d be some thinly veiled excuse: her age, budget, the team over staffed, a ‘skill mismatch’. It would be very formal and polite with the necessary expressions of regret. The Professor wasn’t one to make a scene or be gauche.
Messa emptied her drawers, feeling as if she was emptying her life. When she got back to University, she knew there would be nothing available in terms of work with the professors. Most would be polite but firm. Some would look at her with open disgust and refuse to even explain their rejection. But the handwriting would be on the wall. With no support from the faculty, a doctoral candidate was doomed. Before Christmas, she would be gone from the program. There would be nowhere else to turn. Expelled from a program with the reputation of Minnesota’s, without recommendations, she would be ‘damaged goods.’ No other place would even consider her.
The 23-year-old French girl closed her suitcase, feeling she was closing her life’s dream. To be an historian, to be a professor, to live in the academic world was all she’d ever wanted since she was 13. Her family had made great financial sacrifices to help her fulfill her academic ambitions. Now she had a just a Licence in history which wasn’t even enough to get a job teaching in secondary school.
As it approached 9 PM, she pulled herself together. She put a cold cloth on her eyes to reduce the redness and brushed her hair. Trying to stand proud even as her world was dying in her heart, she walked down the hall and knocked on Professor Moore’s door.
I'm trying to figure why, of all the background photo attachments, why this is the most popular with currently 9 likes?
I will step out of the P. Pulp character for a moment.There are a lot of stories on CF I didn´t read as yet, but this one seems to be a rarity. There are other stories that are very emotional and empathetic, but most time that is oriented on dying or bodily torments. I am reminded of my youth. All that tentaviness and trepidations. Brilliant written!