SUSAN TIPPETT BRAITHWAITE

Today’s word is shoogle. It means to shake, sway, jiggle. This isn’t the first time the word shoogle has appeared on my site. I used it in a Genre Scribes piece called Program, and seeing as I’d used it before, I thought why the hell don’t I do the whole bit in Scots. Here it is:

Martin preeset Enter oan the keyboard an waitit.

Naethin.

The screen bid as black as the Earl o Hell’s waistcoat, nae nithin tae beir thit the program wis aiven rinnin.

Is wisnae the time fur a seestem feck oop. Aathing wis timed doon tae the let saicont; gin hit didnae conform tae the ploy, he micht as weel aet a bullit richt noo.

The lichts oan the seestem server unit glentit reids an oranges.

Shite.

He rax oot an gied the external drive a shoogle. The lichts chynged tae green. Martin slid doon the wa an pecht.

A ongae bar ootcomed oan the screen, echty-seeven percent deen. He chackit heez watch; time wis rinnin oot fest—the gaird’s yokin chynge wis gey near ower.

The door-check it the en o the passage graint. Martin jeelt. The gaird wis airlie. Martin harlt oot the gun he hid doon heez breeks. Whit why did he brockt a gun? He wisnae graitht tae uise hit. He wisnae a murtherer—weel, nae by chice.

And now in English.

Martin pressed Enter on the keyboard and waited.

Nothing.

The screen remained pitch black, nothing to signify that the program was even running. 

This was not the time for a system fuck up. Everything was timed down to the last second; if it didn’t run according to the plan, he might as well eat a bullet right now.

The lights on the server unit flashed reds and oranges.

Shit.

He reached up and shook the external drive the man had given him side-to-side. The lights changed to flickering green. Martin slumped against the wall and blew out a breath.

A progress bar appeared on the screen, eighty-seven percent done. He checked his watch; time was running out fast—the guard’s shift change was almost over.

The door at the end of the corridor groaned. Martin froze. The guard was early. Martin pulled out the gun he had tucked into his waistband. Why the hell did he bring a gun? He wasn’t prepared to use it. He wasn’t a killer—well, not by choice.