Tag: Work in Progress

Today’s word is bourach. Bourach means heap, crowd; muddle, confusion, mess.

Here’s my response to today’s prompt (another wee snippet taken from Running The Asset):

Elle stappit throu the entry an jeelt. The hoosie wis malafoostert. Faem an stuffin skailt fae screeds in the sofa an muckle chairs. Papers plowt fae the offish intae the living room leavin a skirvin o papers lik confetti ower the flair. The offish neuk in the faur cunyie wis disnanuled.

A wechtie ba o dreid heft laich in hir wame. Rosa cuidnae hae been hame, she wuid hae focht thaim. But, hoo cuid Elle ken in is bourach?

And now in English.

Elle stepped through the door and froze. The apartment was trashed. Foam and stuffing spilt from slashes in the sofa and armchairs. Papers cascaded from the office into the living room leaving a coating of papers like confetti over the floor. The office nook in the far corner was obliterated.

A heavy ball of dread settled low in her belly. Rosa couldn’t have been home, she would have fought them. Except, how could Elle know in this mess?

This is a more word-for-word translation than the previous one.

Today’s word is sprauchle. Sprauchle is such a descriptive word. It means to move with difficulty; struggle; clamber; to move in a hasty, clumsy manner.

Here’s my response to today’s prompt (another wee snippet taken from Running The Asset):

There wis nae mistakin the hairdness o the gun brizzt howe intae hir side. “Gin ye wint tae leeve tae sei the nixt meenit, ye’ll stoap feckin sprauchlin,” the gadgie ahint hir fisst.

Elle jeelt. Gin she fochtin him aff, wi the gun insnorlt, hit wid maist like en wi hir bluidin tae daith aw ower hir newlins feenisht flair. She nodded.

And now in English.

The unmistakable hardness of a gun pressed deep into her side. “If you want to live to see the next minute, you’ll stop fucking struggling,” the man behind her hissed.

Elle froze. If she fought back, with the gun involved, it would most likely end with her bleeding to death on her newly polished floor. She nodded.

Today’s word is kail. Kail is a word I don’t use much. It means cabbage. But, it also means soup and broth. And, because cabbage was used so much in Scottish meals, it is also a word for dinner/tea/whatever you call your main meal.

A’m sairie fir there nae beein ony say in the Scoats the day. Bit, A’m richt thrang wi scrievin Running The Asset. A’ll bi bak wi somehin the morra. 👍

(I’m sorry for the lack of fiction in Scots today. But, I’m extremely busy writing Running The Asset. I’ll be back with something tomorrow. 👍)

Today’s word is dreich. Dreich is a great word, it means so many things. In weather in means dull, generally crappy weather. It also means dull, bleak, boring, uninteresting, lacking normal intelligence slow to repay debts, depressed. And, it means long-drawn-out, tedious, slow–kind of like this definition section 😉. You get the picture.

Here’s my response to today’s prompt (a wee snippet taken from Running The Asset):

Adam spruntit, skitin roon the gushet. Grainger wis at heez caur, nae ower far aheid, there wis time yet. He cuid stoap him; git the witten fae him. Grainger caucht sicht o him an smirked as he stertit the ingine.

Het. Flams. The bane-jaggin gurl. The pluff rivet throu the air, swashin Adam uncannie tae the grun. He tried tae git up bit heez veesion wiz daein a dreich birl tae the relentless tinglin in heez lugs.

Adam didnae need tae see the bouchery tae ken thit heez ainly wice, thit heez laist feckin kyle tae pit fae nuclear wappins fae faain intae the wrang hauns wis noo a modren airt gallery’s weet drame.

And now in English.

Adam sprinted, sliding around the corner of the building. Grainger was at his car, not too far ahead; there was still time. He could stop him, get the intelligence from him. Grainger caught sight of him and grinned as he started the engine.

Heat. Flames. The bone-shaking roar. The blast ripped through the air, knocking Adam hard to the ground. He tried to lever himself off the ground, but his vision was doing a slow spin to the relentless ringing in his ears.

Adam didn’t need to see the carnage to know that his only lead, that his last fucking chance to prevent nuclear weapons from falling into the wrong hands was a modern art gallery’s wet dream.

Today’s word is skoosh, and it’s a braw one. So braw, that it’s featured on the site before.

Skoosh was part of our (mine and Jez’s) Things in Scots series. And just to jog your memories, here’s a wee recap of what it means: to spray, to gush. It’s also a word for fizzy juice like the awesomeness that is Irn Bru. And, it even means something is easy to do.

In honour of today’s word, and as a welcome wee break for me, I thought I’d make this post a skoosh for me. Here’s a picture post of my favourite skoosh.

Today’s word is dreep, and it’s one of my favourites. Dreep means to drip, to ease yourself down or over a wall to the ground, slowly. Every time I hear it, I smile and think of my granda and how, when questioned by my mum about scuffs on his new shoes, he swore that I had forced him to dreepie off a six-foot wall. He suggested the dreepie, and it was only a three-foot wall, but my mum was four-foot-ten of scary. He did take me to the Botanic Gardens to make up for it 😊 .

Anyway, here’s my response to today’s prompt:

Wizzen dreepit fae the treetaps doon tae the forest flair. A burd owerheid wheeplet a dancin mad tuin jist ootside Cammy’s howe hidie-hole. Hit wis a shottie.

Seelence.

The air chynged, a lithe thit hid the herr oan the cuff o the neck staunin oan en. Sumbody wis comin. She graitht hir faither’s Colt 1911 as quate as she cuid.

Knack.

Cammy’s hert lowpt. He wis nar noo. A gliff o bleck skept throu the trees towards hir.

Dae or dee, Cammy.

She keeked oot o hir hidie-hole an teuk wice it the man sent tae fell hir. The man she luved.

And now in English.

Life dripped from the treetops down to the forest floor. A bird overhead whistled a frantic tune just outside Cammy’s hiding spot in a hollow in the ground. It was a warning call.

Silence.

The air changed, a stillness that had the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Somebody was coming. She readied her father’s old Colt 1911 as quietly as she could.

Crack.

Cammy’s heart raced. He was close now. A flash of black moved through the trees toward her.

Do or die, Cammy.

She peeked out of her hidey-hole and took aim at the man sent to kill her. The man she loved.

Today’s word is a new one to me; it’s eldritch. It means to of or like elves or faeries, weird or unearthly. Today’s response is inspired by my Village post. The moment I saw the meaning of the word, that old scene jumped into my head. Here it is:

Theo wantit tae spik tae heez C.O., Jack, aboot the ithers oan thur bield detail. Alane. Thir wis sumhin aff, bit he cuidnae pit heez finger oan whit it wis. He got tae Jack’s tent, bit hit wis empie. Theo luikit aboot him; naebdy wis aboot, the camp wis quietlik. Bit doon the month, there wis a unco, eldritch glowe.

As he follaed the roadie doon tae the wee toon ablow, the soonds o skraichin stappit him deid. Than the pop pop pop o gunfire hud him aff agin. He spruntit tae the backie o a hoose, keekit aroon an jeelt. Jack wis staunin there wi heez wappin pintit it ane o the veelagers they wur sint tae protecke—the ithers aready deid it Jack’s feet. Tooch. The veelager drappit tae the grun. Jack turnt tae ane o heez men. “Get Theo dalt wi.”

And now in English.

Theo needed to talk with his C.O., Jack, about the other on their protection detail. Alone. There was something off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He reached Jack’s tent, but it was empty. Theo looked about him; there was no one around, the camp was silent. But, down the mountain, there was a strange, otherworldly glow.

As he followed the path down to the small town below, the sounds of screaming stopped him dead. Then the pop pop pop of gunfire had him off again. He sprinted to the back of a house, peeked around and froze. Jack was standing there with his weapon pointed at one of the villagers they were sent to protect—the others already dead at Jack’s feet. Bang. The villager dropped to the ground. Jack turned to one of his men. “Deal with Theo.”

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.