And that’s a wrap on Bricktober 2025! It’s been so amazing seeing the creativity on all the prompts and the talent of everyone who’s participated, whether it was on a handful of prompts or the full 31 days! The art, poetry and the fics, it’s all been absolutely amazing!
So a massive thank you to everyone who’s joined in, it’s been lovely!!! I can’t wait to host this again next year! ❤️
(Also sorry for the lack of reblogs these past few days it’s been very hectic for me but everything is now queued up, if you think your post hasn’t been seen let me know!!)
When Fantine had first laid eyes on her daughter, she had known she had in her arms a little angel. Her sweet eyes, her rosy cheeks, her soft hair… it all showed what the woman had sensed since the first kick in her belly. But of course, it was not enough to know it in her soul; the people all around her, nay, the people in all of France, had to know about the miracle she had. Thus, Fantine had started collecting all kinds of clothes, from the smallest tear of silk to the fluffiest wool, dreaming to make the perfect clothing for her little girl, who grew prettier and merrier each day.
It had taken plenty of months, but when she finally had enough material to work with, all she could think of doing in her free time was just that. She would work while letting the food boil, she would work while watching Cosette play, she would work while letting her girl sleep on her lap. Each day, the costume got a tad closer to being finished; and each day, Fantine could hold her excitement less and less.
Cosette was eighteen months old when Fantine was done. Both girls were in the room that passed as a living room, kitchen and dining room; with Cosette on her lap, Fantine put the little costume on her, no matter the kicks and slaps mixed with childish laughter she had to fight before being successful.
When the baby was clothed and Fantine let herself breath after such odyssey, she let herself gaze upon her daughter. Finally, her little angel had the perfect dress to match: the whole thing was different tones of white and caramel, with tears of clothes patched together at the back to simulate wings. Cosette seemed to accept it, given how she had not started screaming and thrashing for Fantine to take it off yet.
The woman let herself smile, just a bit, and exhaled, watching her baby chuckle in her arms. She may have not had a lot, and her luck may not have been great up to this point, but she knew that none of it would matter as long as Cosette stayed with her. The world may punish her and society may hate her, but all would be alright as long as Cosette, her daughter, her baby, her angel, stayed by her side.
She really would give everything up just to see her smile.
Cuando Fantine había mirado a su hija por primera vez, había sabido que tenía en sus brazos a un pequeño ángel. Sus dulces ojos, sus rosadas mejillas, su suave pelo… todo mostraba lo que la mujer había sentido desde la primera patada en su barriga. Pero por supuesto, no era suficiente saberlo en su alma; toda la gente a su alrededor, no, toda la gente de Francia, debía conocer el milagro que tenía. Así, Fantine había empezado a recolectar todo tipo de telas, desde la tira de seda más pequeña hasta la lana más mullida, soñando con crear el traje perfecto para su niñita, quien crecía más guapa y feliz cada día.
Había tardado varios meses, pero cuando por fin había conseguido suficiente material con el que trabajar, todo en lo que podía pensar en hacer en su tiempo libre era justo eso. Trabajaba mientras la comida hervía, trabajaba mientras veía a Cosette jugar, trabajaba mientras tenía a su niña durmiendo en su regazo. Cada día, el traje estaba un paso más cerca de ser terminado; y cada día, Fantine podía contener su emoción menos y menos.
Cosette tenía dieciocho meses cuando Fantine terminó. Ambas chicas estaban en la habitación que era tanto la sala de estar como la cocina y el comedor; con Cosette en su regazo, Fantine le puso el pequeño traje, sin importar las patadas y golpes mezclados con risas infantiles con los que tuvo que pelear para salir victoriosa.
Cuando la bebé fue vestida y Fantine pudo respirar después de tal odisea, sus ojos cayeron en su hija. Por fin, su pequeño ángel tenía el perfecto vestido a juego: todo el traje tenía diferentes tonos de blanco y caramelo, con tiras de tela tejidas juntas en la espalda para simular alas. Cosette parecía aceptarlo, teniendo en cuenta que aún no había empezado a llorar y agitarse para que Fantine se lo quitara.
La mujer se dejó sonreír, sólo un poco, y suspiró, mirando a su bebé reír en sus brazos. Podría no tener mucho, y su suerte podría no haber sido la mejor hasta ese momento, pero sabía que nada de ello importaría mientras Cosette se quedara con ella. El mundo podría castigarle y la sociedad podría odiarle, pero todo estaría bien mientras Cosette, su hija, si bebé, su ángel, se quedara a su lado.
This month sure was a lot! I've had ups and downs, but I made it through it all somehow! now I'll return back to simpler stuff for awhile (I say while I'm storyboarding. Oops.), so expect more sketchbook stuff and fulfilling requests.
Hope you enjoyed these pieces, here's a collage of all of them to remind me that I was in fact productive (apparently my brain forget all the work I did unless I'm loking straight at it)
With this calm, Cosette, his sole anxiety, recurred to his thoughts. Not that he was troubled by this headache, a little nervous crisis, a young girl’s fit of sulks, the cloud of a moment, there would be nothing left of it in a day or two; but he meditated on the future, and, as was his habit, he thought of it with pleasure.
[...]
Alas, if despair is a fearful thing when the blood is hot, when the hair is black, when the head is erect on the body like the flame on the torch, when the roll of destiny still retains its full thickness, when the heart, full of desirable love, still possesses beats which can be returned to it, when one has time for redress, when all women and all smiles and all the future and all the horizon are before one, when the force of life is complete, what is it in old age, when the years hasten on, growing ever paler, to that twilight hour when one begins to behold the stars of the tomb?
The students had arrived days after the barricade had fallen, when the dust had settled and the fear of being taken had, although not disappeared, gotten silent enough. There was not a glorious remembrance, there would never be, but in the corners of the street, in the shadowed fissures no one would look at, flowers lay.
There were no roses, sunflowers or carnations, but flowers from the streets: nameless weeds people stepped on, but which remained even so, no matter the winter or drought.
They were invisible but beautiful, uncared for but fierce, just like the boys who had dreamed, shouted and fought for a future they hoped to see.
They would not be remembered by the ones on top, as important and mighty as they were, but they would stay in the hearts of the people below, the people who saw them, the people who heard them.
They would be called weeds, but the people would remember them as flowers.
Los estudiantes habían llegado días después de que la barricada cayera, cuando el polvo se había asentado y el miedo de ser perseguidos se había, aunque no desaparecido, silenciado lo suficiente. No había un recordatorio glamuroso, no lo habría, pero en las esquinas de la calle, en las fisuras ensombrecidas que nadie miraría, descansaban flores.
No había rosas, girasoles o claveles, sino flores de las calles: hierbajos sin nombre que la gente pisaba, pero que aun así se mantenían, sin importar el invierno o la sequía.
Eran invisibles pero hermosas, ignoradas pero feroces, justo como los chicos que habían soñado, gritado y peleado por un futuro que esperaban ver.
No serían recordados por los de arriba, tan importantes y poderosos que eran, pero se mantendrían en los corazones de la gente de abajo, la gente que les vio, que les escuchó.
Serían llamados hierbajos, pero la gente los recordaría como flores.
