#Scotstober Day 6 #Dreep

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.

#Scotstober Day 5 #Eldritch

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.”

#Scotstober Day 4 #Shoogle

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.

#Scotstober Day 3 #Nicht

Today’s word is nicht. It means night. I was a wee bit short of time today and ended up stealing from Running The Asset‘s first draft. Anyway, here’s my response to the prompt:

“Five meenits intae the op an she ort the script. She’s nae got ony upbring tae dae whit she did the nicht. Gin ye hidnea makit thit ca, A’m gey sicker we’d be harlin hir oot the Mediterranean.” Ward shakit heez heid.

Adam didnae hae time fur is. “She did whit hid tae be duin.”

“Thit’s whit A’m feart o. Let time thit didnae pan oot tae weel fur ye.”

Adam’s chaft tichtent.

“Dinnae bither wae the coongerin luik, ye ken A’m richt.” He smirked, “An ye ken fine weel, A’ll boot yer erse fur ye.”

“Ay, richt sae ye wull.” 

And now in English.

“Five minutes into the op and she ditched the script. She’s got no training to do what she did tonight. If you hadn’t made that call, I’m pretty sure we’d be fishing her out of the Mediterranean.” Ward shook his head.

Adam didn’t have time for this. “She did what had to be done.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. Last time that didn’t pan out too well for you.”

Adam’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t bother with the intimidation look, you know I’m right.” He smiled,“And you know well enough that I’ll kick your arse.”

“Yes, sure you can.”

#Scotstober Day 2 #Seelie

Today’s word is seelie. It means happy, lucky, blessed. And, here’s my response to the prompt:

“Dae ye huv tae staun sae close?” Evie skelt awa fae Cole, the eesome bastirt.

Cole wis gowlie. “Jist mak on thit ye dinnae wint tae fell me. Hit’s nae at defeeckwalt,” he luikit it hir, “A’m daen hit richt noo.”

“Get tae—“

He harlt hir, oxterin hir ticht. “The prap’s here.” Cole clapit hir rig lik they wur winchin.

Evie focht agin the hait and seelie growein fae whar Cole’s haun wis. “A hate ye.”

“Ay, sure ye dae.” He turnt tae hir an pred her mou.

And now in English.

“Do you have to stand so close?” Evie sidestepped Cole, the handsome bastard.

Cole scowled. “Just pretend that you don’t want to kill me. It’s not that hard,” he gave her a pointed look, “I’m doing it right now.”

“Go to—”

He pulled her to him, his arm wrapped tight around her. “The target’s here.” Cole stroked his hand up and down her back like they were lovers.

Evie fought against the heat and happiness that was growing inside her from Cole’s touch. “I hate you.’

“Of course you do.” He turned to her and kissed her.

It’s #Scotstober

Back in 2019, I started a series of posts called Thing in Scots. The series has languished for a while, and I’ve been wanting to get it up and running again. Cue Scotstober.

Scotstober is a challenge on Twitter where there’s a Scots word prompt for each day of October. You can follow it by using the #Scotstober hashtag.

Today’s word is mirk. It means dark, gloomy, night. And, here’s my response to the prompt:

Walton kept the edgie, peerin through the mirk o the wynd as he waitit fur Leigh tae answer him. “Did ye dae hit or no?” He pied doon his neb, ower heez fantoosh, wee glesses.

“Naw.” She oxtert hir hauns tae protecke fae the cauld.

“Naw? Naw?” Walton’s eens near burst oot his heid. “A kent better than tae uise a wee quine fir a mannie’s joab.” He went fir hir then, a saicant tae late.

Leigh smirked as she rammed the beetyach intae heez thairm. “Thit’s whit they aw say.”

And now in English.

Walton was on high alert, peering through the darkness of the alley as he waited for Leigh to answer him. “Did you do it or not?” He peered down his nose, over his flashy, small glasses.

“No.” She tucked her hands into her armpits to protect them from the cold.

“No? No?” Walton’s eyes bulged. “I knew better than to have a girl do a mans job.” he went for her then, a second too late.

Leigh smiled as she shoved the small knife into his gut. “That’s what they all say.”

Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #51 — Torch

Caleb whipped his head around, panic in his eyes. “I can’t make her talk if she doesn’t know anything.”

Sébastien smiled. “I can make her talk.”

Caleb backed away, relief radiating off his muscular frame.

Sébastien pulled up a swivel chair and parked it opposite Emma. “We both know you’re lying, and we both know that physical threats mean nothing to you. So, let’s play a game of who’s more important to you than Kelvin Maxwell.”

Welcome to post #51 of the Friday Fiction Writing Challenge! Here’s a complete list of all the posts so far. Feel free to join in.

Here’s another installment of Amy and Kelvin’s story. Visit their page for all of their posts.

This week’s random word is: Torch

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Continue readingGenre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #51 — Torch

Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #50 — Banquet

The truth was he didn’t know if anything was wrong. His instincts had let him down ever since he’d gone undercover in the Consortium. Sébastien’s duplicity had gone undetected by Kelvin’s notoriously infallible instincts for more than a year. “Probably nothing.”

Welcome to post #50 of the Friday Fiction Writing Challenge! Here’s a complete list of all the posts so far. Feel free to join in.

Here’s another installment of Amy and Kelvin’s story. Visit their page for all of their posts.

This week’s random word is: Banquet

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Continue readingGenre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #50 — Banquet

Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #49 — Paper

He checked his weapon over and didn’t fail to notice Amy was packing a Barreta. His Amy really was capable. Though, she wasn’t his anything. She was a distraction from his mission. A temptation to walk away from it.

Welcome to post #49 of the Friday Fiction Writing Challenge! Here’s a complete list of all the posts so far. Feel free to join in.

Here’s another installment of Amy and Kelvin’s story. Visit their page for all of their posts.

This week’s random word is: Paper

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Continue readingGenre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #49 — Paper

Genre Scribes #48 — Path

Harvey pulled the cover back across but paused before closing her into the darkness once more. “You did good.”

Welcome to #48 of the Friday Fiction Writing Challenge! Here’s a complete list of all the posts so far. Feel free to join in.

It’s been a busy (and fun) fortnight–working flat out on Working the Asset–but I’m so happy to have a wee break so I can catch up with Amy and Kelvin.

This week’s random word is: Path

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Continue readingGenre Scribes #48 — Path
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