Ross Trevelyan
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jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
Ross Trevelyan
@jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
18K followers 28K following 1.2K posts
Author, 1816 picaresque--mystery thriller, maritime adventure, international intrigue. "Black is the Sea at Night." Excerpts on #WIPSnips.

Prefer tall green French chics.🗽

#historicalfiction #editors

https://www.trevelyanwrites.com

Слава Украïнi | ⛔️DMs
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jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
💥Wow. Looks like things are about to get real.🤔
November 12, 2025 at 5:33 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPSnips "difference"
My characters would've pronounced the word as "theff'rence," th as in "the."
#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
The stage road climbed into the gap against a swift creek, with bleak, glacier-scarred elevations rising precipitously on each side. Tarlach turned. “Tell me again where we go up.” “O’er the top, acrost from a great stone on the river. ’Tis steep—dunno can Bess pull the car up.” “We’ll leave it if we must.” “The stone’s marked with pink.” “I know it—Cloch a’ Turais—onced a Mass rock. Childless locals still trake up on patthern days and pray for fertility.” He tilted his head. “I read ’bout old pagan shrines. Ye read?” “Heth, not much if I do. Me uncle taught us till the Ruction took his life. But the O’Gallaghers and the childer read in earnest.” “Let ye not be downhearted. Most are quite innocent o’ the difference ’twixt an E and a hay-fork.” Tarlach chuckled. The cart climbed. Above, dark clouds clawed at the mountaintops like eagle talons as a damp, vernal wind curled through the gorge’s hazy darkness, promising more than a chill. At length, Aibreán sighted the boulder with its patch of pink muscovite. “Now—up past the quarry.” “Hold fast,” Tarlach warned. The horsecar jumbled off the gravel road onto a muddy cow-path overgrown with dock and nettles. Tarlach drove Bess another couple of miles. She bent to the climb, her head nodding right and left. When the gradient increased, she wheezed and nickered in protest. Tarlach reined the shaggy pony to a halt. “Up we’ll go on shank’s mare.” “We in danger?” Tarlach’s gaze swept the heights. “Danger?” As if tasting the word. “Time’ll tell.”
September 17, 2025 at 4:06 PM
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#WIPSnips "practice"
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Warwick stepped closer, his mouth stretching into a sinister smile. “So, my little gallows bird—we meet again.” The taunt prickled her skin. Warwick licked his lips, his wolfish eyes devouring her from neck to ankle. Even the slotted goat’s eye scrutinized her before wandering off, making it difficult to focus on both eyes at once. Warwick folded his arms and subjected her to another lecherous appraisal. “Where’d you get the togs?” He raised a brow and snapped his gaze to her feet. “I preferred you barefoot—where’d you prig the crabshells? My offer stands, ye know. Your sisters would love to see their youngest.” Warwick’s words landed like a gut punch. The response roared from Aibreán’s mouth uncontrolled. “Och, houl’ your gob, yez arseworm!” Warwick kept his distance, tipping his hat and bowing. “What say you?” Aibreán’s lip curled into a cat’s snarl. “Where are they? Where’s me ma?” Warwick let out an obscene laugh, his battery of wide-spaced, rotting butter teeth repulsing her. “Why, your mum’s in a flying house awaiting conveyance round the Cape. Your sisters are in the practiced hands of my associates.” He clucked his tongue. “You dealt that woman in Ardara a ghastly wound. Her arm infected; the surgeon took it off. They’ve got witnesses, but your jewel’s safe with me. The power to keep it so lies in your own hands.” He paused and tipped his forehead at her legs. “And those healthy young walkers. I daresay, stand not upon your punctilios. Decide quick. Make your market whilst you may. Good offers do spill away like quicksilver.” Aibreán stepped back. “Keep your trews on, will ye?” Her vision doubled, and she blinked at the lightness in her head. Warwick smiled a ghastly smile, his discolored teeth like crooked tombstones. He drew his face closer, his eyes glinting with a singular ruthlessness. The slotted goat’s eye glowed with the sexual excitement of an old ram, which sent Aibreán’s skin crawling. “There, now. Lift up your neb—give us a little kiss before we sleep.” Aibreán’s awareness gyrated, spiraling faster. She opened her mouth, but words refused to come out. Warwick grinned. “Whatever’s the matter, my dear? Perchance that last morsel overwhelmed your delicate palate.” A blue gorillian figure lumbered toward her from the carriage. First, her fingers tingled. Now her lips. She attempted to fight, to cry out. Nothing. Aibreán’s knees buckled—she didn’t hear the satchel drop. Her vision blurred. Thoughts faded. Warwick’s voice hovered, slick as linseed on a painter’s thumb. She didn’t see the road rising to meet her. Blackness swallowed Aibreán whole.
September 16, 2025 at 4:59 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
It's so much calmer here. Thanks for a great Bluesky experience, fellow users.

Elon Musk's X is a psychotic froth.🙄
September 13, 2025 at 4:55 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPSnips "pocket"

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“Where’s me coin?” Warwick held his palms up. “Won’t need it. Besides, fawnied famms, a daubing of lace, a fogle round your neck . . . are all better than iron darbies and a hemp cravat, which is where your prigging will stand you.” Aibreán held out rope-burned wrists. “Think me a cleft? Och! Need your pinchbeck frippery like a dog needs a pocket.” “Face it—you’re but a draggle-tailed vagabond. Asylum or bridewell? I offer a better life, bringing amusement and ecstasy to men of high birth. Blithening a man’s day furnishes more swag and blunt than bungnipping.” Warwick’s hazel eyes traveled her from head to toe in a devouring manner. “Without the risks.” Aibreán’s cheeks flushed hot. “It’s servitude.” “Nay—a pleasant alternative to your woebegone scrag lagging off to Van Diemen’s Land.”
September 13, 2025 at 3:22 PM
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#WIPSnips "worst"
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Bella bent to examine Noreen’s mouth. “How’s it healing?” She showed her jagged front tooth. “Ruined. I no longer look the monsther, but I’ll yet affright the folks at Mass. Thanks for the willow.” “Drape a shawl—don’t give it another thought. I told Sally what they done, and sure, the field mice know by now. Not a soul will think the worst.” “Och, Sally’ll talk the hind legs off a goat. Tarlach wants to call at Hughie McMenamin’s for another flitch of bacon, so we’ll be off with the weans afther I comb the tats outta Hannah’s hair.” Bella rolled her eyes. “Bacon, is it?” Noreen pished. “He and Donie running some caper.” “I’ll brait Hannah if ye like. Where’s himself?” “Down the barn with them three beauties.” “Da says I catched the Salmon o’ Knowledge,” Peter said. Bella chuckled. “Ye must ate it afore ye know for sure.”
September 12, 2025 at 12:46 PM
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#WIPSnips "half"

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The half-hidden booley house burrowed into the hillside, its thatched roof swallowed by furze and brier. Leaky thatch would be shelter enough. Maguire hurried back to share his discovery. As he crested the hill, the sky split open. The wind shrieked, rain lashing down, soaking him to the bone. He led Aibreán and the animals over the drumlin to the booley, his wet roquelaure flapping heavy against his legs. Slashing rain abated, but the leaden sky promised more. Conall removed the wicker creels and freed George from the straddle’s weight. He spun to Aibreán, who’d collapsed on a flat boulder. “Couple of nights. I’ve a wheen of turf but need to run down the moss for firestone.” Maguire pointed at a glacial moraine near a stretch of red-brown bog. “Them rocks down thonder. Make yourself to home. I’ll bring them rascals with me.” Aibreán huffed. “Haste—comes a dark sky in two shakes of a lamb’s lug. And more rain. We’ll be dracked again, to be sure.” Conall whistled. The dogs frolicked after him. A wintry gust bit through his garments, driving him to lengthen his stride. Chert was no luxurious indulgence—fire meant survival.
September 11, 2025 at 7:05 PM
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#WIPSnips "outside"
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Tarlach’s grief seemed authentic, but a glint in his eyes prickled Aibreán’s skin from afar, betraying the roil of darker emotions just below the surface. Hannah laid a green petticoat and scarlet bodice on a chair. “Them’ll do the job, Aibreán.” Tarlach’s eyes traveled to his wife. “Feed her well. Need a bite at the screek o’ day afore we go—and ates for the journey.” Aibreán flashed Noreen a sincere look. “Ye’re kind folk.” Her eyes shifted back to Tarlach. “I’ve more to tell. Afore the robbers, the land agent Edmund Sherkey seized the sheep.” Tarlach straightened his spine. “Divil mend him. And the mare—‍” “Condy had but a dunkey—highwayman stuck him.” Tarlach made a quizzical face. “Sherkey’s the agent?” Aibreán nodded. Outside, hooves ground gravel like a pestle against mortar. Slow, determined footsteps tramped to the house. A firm, insistent rap with an instrument had Tarlach pushing up a sleeve and lifting his cudgel from the corner. His grip tightened, the bulge of his forearms bespeaking prodigious strength. Noreen hissed. “Tarlach!” “We’ll take no chances, Nora. Heth, wish I had a long gun. See to the door, will ye?” Heart racing, Aibreán studied the towering height of Tarlach Maguire, a man of twenty stone or more. She’d once seen a terrifying newspaper drawing of the great American grizzly bear—this must be how one appeared in the flesh. Pity the man Tarlach saw fit to clout.
September 10, 2025 at 2:32 PM
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#WIPSnips "tired"

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Bella nodded at the enormous pike to the north. “Gibraltar.” Dearbhla pointed south to a fortified promontory. “Spanish Africa.” “By the mark, eight!” the leadsman called, announcing the depth. The Octavia drifted in a slight breeze while men dumped buckets of galley waste overboard. Anchor chains rattled out of the hawseholes, the din rumbling down the vessel’s length. The previous day, Bella had overheard Skirling and Payne speaking of an escort—the Caroline. “We’re awaiting another ship,” she said. “Grand. I want off this’n.” Dearbhla sighed. “Ye might get your way—Skirling knows a body’s been cutting the rigging. Best keep your head down.” “Needed work afther the crew got off in port.” Bella snickered. “Aye,” Dearbhla said. “And, sure, I’ll do it again when I gets a chance—anything to slow us down. And I’m tired of the midnight creeper.” “Leastways nobody got separated.” “Ye’re wrong—where’s Mary Gorman? Warwick poisons her to get—‍” A whistle shrilled. “Ahoy! All hands! Ahoy!” Men assembled on the weather deck, forming rank lines amidships facing the quarterdeck. Two of Warwick’s knucklemen hefted a body sewn into a bloodstained hammock from below, dropping it forward of the larboard beam. Bella cringed. “Och, not another dead one.”
September 2, 2025 at 5:26 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPSnips "faith"

Note: a wolf is called a "son of the land" (mac tíre). This is a type of kenning to avoid invoking an evil creature directly. Wolves in folklore weren’t just animals—they were evil shapeshifters and bad omens.
“The Maguires were chiefs of Fermanagh, me family said.” Aibreán pished. “Pure fancy—ye haven’t a wheen of sartinty—like sons of the land, hunted by them who’d exterminate us. Meantime, our inheritance serves as their larder and granary.” She arched an eyebrow. “Life must be betther in Americay—and tell me, when did ye last see a wolf?” “Clutching one o’ me sheep in a bramble.” She rolled her eyes. “The wolf walks this godforsaken land no more. Ye make the best of what’s on your breadboard, or ye die. What says your wife? Different, I wager.” Conall drew a breath. Aibreán lifted her pointy nose. “Time has come to live by our wits. Learning the English gave me a new skin—and the ken to find the wolf traps. Canna cloisther ourselves away no more.” “I’ll not change.” “Then ye’ll find an early grave. History learns us lessons. They mean to crush our faith and tear out our tongue. That’s true—but ye don’t blieve an Irishman’ll still spake the Gaeilge afther two hundred year, do ye? I do not.”
August 31, 2025 at 11:43 PM
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#WIPSnips "nose"
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The Cyrillic engraving:
Torgovaya Ko. "Pribaltika".
Sankt-Peterburg
1812 g.
(Pribaltica Trading Co., Saint Petersburg, 1812.)
In time, the door admitted a slight, long-lobed gentleman in a burgundy clawhammer coat with black silk lapels. Curly, grey-flecked hair circled his head like a laurel, and he wore a high-collared bleached shirt with smart buckskin breeches tucked into riding boots. Years had stooped him, hunching his shoulders and thrusting his head forward like a bird of prey, an impression underscored by a narrow, accipitral nose. Thin eyebrows peaked on a weathered, sloping forehead. Warwick bowed. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” “Afternoon, Henry.” Simon Woolf, Viscount Musgrave, eased himself into the second armchair, motioning for all to sit. Musgrave’s lips pressed taut. “Now then, Henry. How many are we taking aboard?” “Thirty, milord. My group and more from Bristol.” “Ought to net a tidy sum, I should think—‍” The door interrupted Musgrave. A thin, sharp-nosed servant in black rattled a service cart with a small-footed silver-and-brass kettle into the room. Stoddart studied the enormous samovar as it passed, its elegant embossed double-headed eagle with unfamiliar letters engraved above and below. Торговая Ко «Прибалтика». Санктъ-Петербургъ. 1812 г. Musgrave’s face expressed impatience. “Seems Providence meant for tea before business.” The servant glanced at him. “Everyone, milord?” “Yes, Spencer.” Spencer scurried about with smug humility, moving a lacquered tea table within Kincaid’s reach, placing another between Warwick’s knucklemen.
August 30, 2025 at 1:11 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
We might be too late.
August 30, 2025 at 2:13 AM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
😂No kidding...
But we did have fun with it for a while.
August 30, 2025 at 12:46 AM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
Aibreán Ní Bhroin is an itinerant "bungnipper" (pickpocket), so she's streetwise. She usually packs an 18th-century Spanish navaja folding lock knife in a secret pocket in her shift. Here, she's disarmed... but has managed to lift a Sheffield razor.😬
August 29, 2025 at 11:54 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPsnips "scrub"

Historical note: The Pattern-1800 rifled carbine was the same carried by Bernard Cornwell's soldiers in his Sharpe's Rifles series. It was known as the "Baker" in Victorian times. This story is 1816, Regency Era. "Gaugers of excise" was period slang for the king's revenue police.
Maguire coaxed the donkey down a barren hill, the treeless land offering only mud and loose stones. Grassland and moor, dappled with scrub, spread across the lowland, deceptive in its emptiness. The haze had lifted to reveal a muddy gravel high road snaking across a plain that boasted a kaleidoscope of earthy hues speckled with the oyster-grey of granite erratics, the detritus of ancient glaciers. In the distance, a party of eight green-jacketed horsemen in bucket-shaped black shakoes traveled the road, their dreaded Pattern-1800 rifles slung in saddle scabbards. Aibreán straightened her bonnet and pointed. “Them’re gaugers.” Conall halted the donkey. Trailing the gaugers, a single-horse chaise followed two plain-clothed horsemen, four more in the king’s scarlet behind, their Tarleton helmets tossing red-over-white plumes. “And yeomen cavalry, aye. Best let ’em pass.” Unspoken worries promised no trouble. No need to bother the lass about the two dismantled Charleville-Mézières muskets in the trunk’s false bottom.
August 29, 2025 at 3:47 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPSnips "broad" Part 2
I normally use the ALT Text also
Warwick’s leers made her want to vomit. “Don’t give a carlycue! Ye poisoned me, ye bodach.” “The potion was to calm you.” Warwick sipped the wine and held out the glass. “Here—a Bessarabian Saperavi. You’ve a chance to learn life’s fineries.” Aibreán crossed her arms. “Get away.” Warwick set the glass down. “Haven’t you a little kiss for me? Ivána says nature adorned your lovely rose with flaming red brambles. Must they be fraught with thorns?” Aibreán drew back. Words failed as the images of herself stretched naked on the bed came back. Warwick’s face darkened. “Scream, if you will. No one to hear. Drágica—‍” “Blast your termagant.” Warwick came closer, chewing the inside of his cheek. Aibreán ran for the door, jerking the knob. She spun. “Lemme out!” Warwick grazed her torso with the short horsewhip, tapping her hip. “I’m in no mood for cat’s cradle with a tease.” “Get away!” Aibreán eyed where she’d stashed the razor—the sharpest thing in the room. She could make peace with God later.
August 29, 2025 at 2:56 PM
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This is #WIPSnips "broad" Part 1:
Escape was Aibreán’s only thought. Fear clenched her guts. Warwick’s minions had prepared the room for her and prepared her—decked her out like a maiden for sacrifice. Or young filly for the mounting block. Aibreán smoothed the white linen gown over her thighs, its stiff lace scratching her neck and arms. Her red hair had been tightly plaited at the back of her head, and her pits, legs, and nether regions stung from the scrape of Drágica’s razor. Revulsion pushed her to tears. The rattling lock stole her breath. Warwick brought in a goblet of red wine, quirt under his arm. He relocked the door and set the wine on the table. “The bath calmed you?” His shrewd eye fastened on her. The goat’s eye wandered. Warwick unbuttoned his waistcoat and quirked his mouth into an unattractive grin—a row of broad, discolored teeth in rosy gums. He blinked hard, righting his eyes. “Well?” Aibreán rued her anxiety, which had distracted her from seeing where Warwick put the key. At least she’d nimmed Drágica’s razor. Warwick removed his waistcoat, laying it over the chair. Both eyes stroked Aibreán’s length. “So lithe and larky a figure—a neggledigee would delight me.” He lifted the goblet. “Wine? And do you prefer April or Dervla?”
August 29, 2025 at 2:52 PM
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#WIPSnips "broad"
#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
This one might be too dense--the alt text got truncated a bit. Dangerous scene--didn't want to omit context.
Escape was Aibreán’s only thought. Fear clenched her guts. Warwick’s minions had prepared the room for her and prepared her—decked her out like a maiden for sacrifice. Or young filly for the mounting block. Aibreán smoothed the white linen gown over her thighs, its stiff lace scratching her neck and arms. Her red hair had been tightly plaited at the back of her head, and her pits, legs, and nether regions stung from the scrape of Drágica’s razor. Revulsion pushed her to tears. The rattling lock stole her breath. Warwick brought in a goblet of red wine, quirt under his arm. He relocked the door and set the wine on the table. “The bath calmed you?” His shrewd eye fastened on her. The goat’s eye wandered. Warwick unbuttoned his waistcoat and quirked his mouth into an unattractive grin—a row of broad, discolored teeth in rosy gums. He blinked hard, righting his eyes. “Well?” Aibreán rued her anxiety, which had distracted her from seeing where Warwick put the key. At least she’d nimmed Drágica’s razor. Warwick removed his waistcoat, laying it over the chair. Both eyes stroked Aibreán’s length. “So lithe and larky a figure—a neggledigee would delight me.” He lifted the goblet. “Wine? And do you prefer April or Dervla?” Warwick’s leers made her want to vomit. “Don’t give a carlycue! Ye poisoned me, ye bodach.” “The potion was to calm you.” Warwick sipped the wine and held out the glass. “Here—a Bessarabian Saperavi. You’ve a chance to learn life’s fineries.” Aibreán crossed her arms. “Get away.” Warwick set the glass down. “Haven’t you a little kiss for me? Ivána says nature adorned your lovely rose with flaming red brambles. Must they be fraught with thorns?” Aibreán drew back. Words failed as the images of herself stretched naked on the bed came back. Warwick’s face darkened. “Scream, if you will. No one to hear. Drágica—‍” “Blast your termagant.” Warwick came closer, chewing the inside of his cheek. Aibreán ran for the door, jerking the knob. She spun. “Lemme …
August 28, 2025 at 6:35 PM
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Any questions?
August 23, 2025 at 12:28 AM
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#WIPSnips "shout"
Footfalls thumped around the kalývia after midnight, jarring the men awake. Maguire lurched upright in terror. Crackling torches danced past the greasy windows, the torchlight invading the dwelling, shifting shadows across the walls. A tug at the back door. More footsteps. Pounding at the front. “Kapıyı açın!” Booming voice. “Dışarı çıkın!” Torchlight increased with shouting and footfalls. “Herkes dışarı! Çabuk!” “They want us out,” Arslan rasped. The men gathered behind the door. Burke cracked it. “Janissaries. Raise your hands and follow.” Maguire followed the priest onto the moonlit landscape. Flickering torches illuminated soldiers in purple and red with garish badges on stocking-like hats. Some brandished yatağan sabers; others, halberds. They’d surrounded the cottage, outnumbering the shore party at least twice. A halberd butt to Burke’s gut dropped him. Another soldier shoved Maguire from behind, sending him careening over the priest. He stayed down. The blunt pole thudded against Burke’s ribs again, making him grunt. Another blow. Yves exploded from the kalývia, rushing the soldier with a wild, defiant hoot, knocking him off-balance with bare hands and brute force. “Breizh!” he barked, his voice trumpeting the thrill of battle. Yves wrenched the halberd free, driving forward, muscle and momentum carrying the thrust. The pierced soldier shouted, staggering— A curved Turkish blade flashed in the moonlight, fast as an adder.
August 21, 2025 at 3:12 PM
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#WIPSnips "trap"

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“The officer—I seen betther faces on a horse. One sodger wears a Turk’s mustache. Another—red hair on his cheeks.” “Cap’n tall? No chin?” “Aye, a face to kiss a goat ’twixt the horns.” Tarlach fired a fierce glance at Noreen and Bella. Noreen dropped her voice. “Please God, don’t ye call out no trouble.” Tarlach puffed air across his lips. “Me brother’s murthered. Trouble’s out, and ’twasn’t me called it.” Noreen’s eyes brimmed. “Please—fetch Condy’s remains. Revenge blongs the Lord alone.” Tarlach’s knees popped as he stood. “Betimes, the faithful help Him bear His burthens.” Aibreán didn’t miss Tarlach’s meaning. He crossed the room with long strides, snatching his hat and coat from the hook. “We’ll need Darby’s trap and mare. And a strong drench for to cage a nettled lion—don’t want himself loose. Feen a word outta any mouth, ye hear? Scripture says a time for knowing, a time for leaving the winkers on. Dirr nor darr to Donie and the weans.” Tarlach locked eyes with each and snapped a nod. “Grand.” Bella stood. “I’ll go to Darby.” “Bring his irons.” Noreen scoffed. “Blast—they’ll hang ye yet, Maguire, and God help us then. Hannah, go with your auntie.” Tarlach cut back to Aibreán. “Ye’ll bring me to the place?” She nodded. “Grand.” Tarlach’s brow knitted as he scanned Aibreán’s length. His eyes flicked to Hannah. “Find her a habit less scampy in the longitude.” Bella donned her hooded green mantle. Noreen sighed. “By herrings, we axed for none of this.” Tarlach, choking up, spoke through clenched teeth. “The ways of the Lord, aye, are inscrutable to us mortals.” Tarlach’s grief was authentic, but a glint in his eyes prickled Aibreán’s skin from afar, betraying the roil of other emotions just below the surface.
August 19, 2025 at 2:10 PM
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#WIPSnips "bow." Since my novel is a maritime adventure, choosing a ship's bow seemed too easy.
Aibreán spun to Scarface. The corners of his mouth twitched into a leer. She read the presumption of victory. Scarface cut an imposing figure, but everybody had a weakness. She twirled to rush the occupied Warwick—too late. Scarface looped the rope over her head from behind. Aibreán’s arms shot up; she twisted free in a single, furious spin. “Tfú, blyad’,” the foreigner cursed. Aibreán kneed the man in the groin. The blow missed. She pirouetted, clawing the man’s cheek like an angry lynx, jabbing the navaja into his gut. Stunned by the counterattack, Scarface dropped the rope, grabbing himself. He staggered backward, looking at his bloodied hand. Aibreán dodged him and pulled the bolt. She tore into the alley with Ramsey in pursuit. Staggering drunks flocked the narrow lane, bouncing along the city wall. Aibreán sprinted for a knot of faction men, the tiger’s breath heavy on her heels. “Kidnappers, lads! Help us!” A faction man thrust out a foot, felling Ramsey. Further, a greasy, black-haired knuckleman lunged at her from a recessed doorway. She turned and slashed at him. Warwick’s man snapped backward as powerful arms closed around Aibreán from behind, pinning her elbows to her sides. The bearded giant in the Karakul cap lifted her off the ground. Aibreán cursed and kicked, struggling in vain against his iron grip. Greasy chuckled and disarmed her. “Molodyéts, Kazbék.” He looked Aibreán dead in the eye and grinned the grin of victory. “Nyé bespokóisya, záichik.” His lips let out a kiss-pop, punctuating his smirk. “Leetle bonnyee.”
August 18, 2025 at 4:56 PM
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#WIPSnips "crawl"

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Conall found Donagh at the cart, studying passing faces like a sentry searching for a cutpurse. “Where’s Ma?” “Making rounds.” “Han’t liked Tarlach wheeling the gladiator.” “When does she?” Conall rolled his eyes. “Cross as a bag o’ cats now—but Noreen’ll pull it off him. Dobson axed me ’bout archery—said he wouldna waste his time, were yez in.” Donagh stuck a short clay dúidín pipe in his teeth. “I’m in.” “Hope ye win it again.” “I will.” Donagh nodded. “Seen Caitlín.” “I’ll find her. Who ye screenging for?” “Fella with McSweeney’s password.” “And the market crawling with spotters?” Conall dropped his voice. “Ye’ll be gunked.” “No password—I plays the dunkey. Troth, afther we’ve done, our cut pays the gale by Lammastide.” “The half-year’s rent? Ye’re dreaming. We’ll all get the frog’s march.” “Have faith, a chiotóg. Go make your gawk-handed sketches. This bit’s mine.” Conall plopped down at his easel, hands unsteady. He could feel something coming—a storm building in his marrowbones.
August 17, 2025 at 11:31 PM
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#WIPSnips "allergic" ... big stretch today.

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Galloù looked aloft and scoffed. “Not to worry. We run shallow and fast. George’s revenue cutters cannot catch us.” He sniffed. “We will make Saint-Nazaire long before your Octavia. Our rigging is not so complicated—we can ’andle it from the deck in the dark, and we can sail much closer to the wind than the six points of a square-rigger.” He waved a hand. “You ’ave ’eard of us, non? Ya, we are owlers—trading in Ireland since before people ever ’eard of the goddamned English. They ’ail us, sometimes we give up a cruche of brandy, et bon voilà!” A comfortable familiarity was sprouting—the foreigner meant a crúiscín. Galloù clapped his hands together. “Quel oiseau magnifique! Local officials are corrupt, and the revenuers never ask too many questions for fear what they will discover.” The captain laughed. “For me, it is a beautiful bird. They go blind off Donegal, Sligo, Mayo, Galway—‍” He stifled a sneeze. “Excuse me. But further south, the English Navy guards the approaches from the Continent. The waters there are full of warships—more unpredictable—and that is where we must go.”
August 16, 2025 at 6:45 PM
jumpintraxjack.bsky.social
#WIPSnips "razor"
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“C’mere to me, Rosie—grammel up me frock. Find the secret pocket inside me shift.” The carriage pitched and rocked like a ship at sea, slamming Aibreán’s head against the door hinges. “Agh! A Mhuire!” A trickle of blood warmed her temple. Aibreán tapped the pocket. “Here.” She slid down in the seat, spraddling her knees. Hesitating, the girl dropped and lifted Aibreán’s skirts, pale flaxen hair falling in sheets as she groped under Aibreán’s clothes. “There—now up and out.” Aibreán unfolded the Spanish navaja’s clipped blade from its brass-and-walnut handle. CARRACCA. The blade ratcheted to a locked position. She pried at the knot binding Rosie’s wrists, slipping in the razor-sharp blade and sawing. A minute later, the girl’s hands were free. “Now me.” Rosie sawed at Aibreán’s knot. The coach lurched, the knife nicking Aibreán’s forearm. She yelped with a light curse. Rosie again slipped the blade into the knot, sawing upward until the gnarl fell away. Aibreán untied her ankles and sliced through a leather side panel. A bright yellow Post Chaise clattered past in the opposite direction. “Too fast to jump.” She slumped. “So what’s with the Barcelona?” “Hides me stork bite.” Rosie lowered the scarf, twisting her neck to show a palm-sized strawberry birthmark. “Does it pain ye?” Rosie pouted her lips. “Looks like it, just.” “What know yez of Warwick?” “Don’t like how he looks at yez all cutty-eyed.” “Ah, sure, he’s the Divil with a goat’s eye—oul’ Beelzebub himself.” “Has he a cloven foot?” “Right? A man who poisons, kidnaps—‍” “And your clavering gob’ll have him all nettled.” “Don’t be afeared—I know what I’m doing. And let ye never ’spect naught out of an English pig but a grunt.”
August 15, 2025 at 3:26 PM