Tomorrow begins the summer challenge for all writers and artists who love the French Revolution and want to have a little fun.
This summer, like every year, we will have several events to remember. Some of them bring us joy and others sorrow.
So, let's be creative and share with others our deepest feelings about these events.
For those who don't yet know how it works, I'll summarize it.
The challenge runs from July 14th to August 10th, which are important milestones for anyone interested in the revolution.
We've compiled the prompts you've sent me into the list above - one for each day. Choose any one of them that inspires you and write fiction or poetry, or draw a picture and post it on your blog. You can choose one prompt each day or contribute just once.
Nothing is mandatory, we want you to have fun.
To help us all enjoy it, please tag your posts with:
#frevsummer2026
If you have any questions, please message me.
I also want to give a special thank you to those who participated in any way in the preparation. You are amazing. <3
Inspired by @blufishzzz and my own thoughts of Camille haunting Robespierre during and after Thermidor.
Also added for Frev Summer 2026.
[Thermidor's Night]
Gentleness, of which Robespierre couldn't be afforded yet, haunted he truly was, haunted and taken back by the voices of the dead whispering and whimpering in his ears, turning them scarlet. Turning them to the rage inside but hiding amongst the phantoms, the victims of the revolution was Camille Desmoulins. Haunted yet, the famed and infamous journalist didn't speak to Robespierre, almost as if silence was penitence and refusal at the betrayal of the most intense kind.
Of course, Robespierre's signature was on that death warrant, the warrant which guaranteed the ultimate fate of death and soon, he would use the guise of knowing that politics changed them...changed them both since childhood, yet, what was the true reality? Did it matter? Did it matter if Camille's phantom didn't speak to him? Speak to Robespierre?
And it wasn't until the night, that fateful night in which Robespierre heavily miscalculated that Camille's phantom either from imagination or delusion spoke.
The words which left those chapped pale lips were more than most Robespierre felt deserved in his moments of greatest defeat; though he wasn't alone, though he wouldn't dare to die alone, at least, the thoughts of all he'd done made sense...at least it did, from the humble beginnings of Versailles to now in Paris only 6 years later. The revolution hardly had time to live and crawl about until it wad snatched and strangled. Strangled with Robespierre's jaw barely hanging on. Blood soaked.
Pain agonizing his bones.
Anguished with every haggard breath.
Anguished even as if Camille's phantom touched the very finer lines of Robespierre's cheek, however bloody it was, however the pain eased with those fingertips saying goodbye finally.
What had Camille said? Was it even audible?
Was it comprehensible?
Was it meaningful? Was it forgiveness? Did Robespierre seek that? Did Robespierre seek any redemption in this cruel world? Yet, those hands cupped his face, those hands warm and soft. Not a laborer for sure but surely, there was a harder spot which held the quill and wrote it all in the latest entries in that damnable journal.
Phantom Camille didn't speak again, as if Robespierre missed it all, but this was either a hallucination or worse—real and earned.
Would he be forgiven what had been done?
What had to happen?
Was this phantom just playing in the form of Camille? Was it truly him lingering in this world just to say more inflammatory words? Was this all from a dying man? A dying man that truly believe in the revolution and the Republic that they had founded so prestigiously and so earnestly, too.
Did he love him?
Could it be murmured?
Could it be that it meant more when Camille died when he was living and breathing? That Robespierre failed to realize and appreciate? Could it be that the darkness of the revolution would kill him too? Like it swallowed all good revolutionaries? Like it all did yet, Robespierre longed for that touch, that meaningful glance from a phantom he only could interact with and observe. The passerby members of the former Committee and Convention scoffed and huffed at him, while attempting to humiliate him yet, his ways, his smile was anything but that.
Longing.
Desiring more.
Wanton more.
Phantom Camille kissed both cheeks, bypassing the cloth holding against Robespierre's jaw, vanquishing the agony of knowing that death was inevitable at this point.
Hand out.
Fingers spread.
And Phantom Camille interlaced his between the spaces from Robespierre's trembling hand. The hand which didn't want anymore but to accept the final judgement.
Then memories swirled of them younger still entered in his mind and while, no tears erupted for his stern persona kept his body upright, and his broken jaw was another factor, and all the while, Phantom Camille assuaged all of this. Easement. The guillotine would be readying for them all entangled with Robespierre.
The memories of love lost, refound and reforged in moments separated by death, and only taken back by force or gentleness, by Phantom Camille, which Robespierre didn't mind. Didn't anticipate any of it even if they cut his hair, even if Saint Just was there proclaiming that they did this together but those were echoes of living that Robespierre would soon depart.
As if words were ever enough for them both. Botu words ended their lot. Both words ended their lives yet, they fought for ends that were beyond them. Yet, Phantom Camille remained through the roaring crowds and the tumbril that Robespierre endured with ongoing dignity and like all lost voices he would end with a scream of pain.
A pain and slide of the blade but before any of it, Robespierre felt something inside leave his body—as if a soul leapt out and took flight against the heat of 10th Thermidor. July 28th 1794.
A soul which Phantom Camille was awaiting for the entire time and like that, Robespierre gave up the ghost as the crescendo of the crowds reached a fever pitch and the blade made contact, slicing through.
Gave up the ghost but it all worth it all ...worth it all ..when Camille again was with Robespierre again and like children again, they could walk towards the light, hand in hand.
Your mask of ice and marble is the flame to my moth, the magnet pulling this piece of iron into your revolutionary realm. What attracts me to your frozen, hardened visage that no one can penetrate? Is it the power behind it? Is it the secrets that lie there? Is it part of your aura of mystery? Or is it something else or a combination of factors?
With this mask, you do not share yourself with anyone else and look upon me with dignity but as cold and stern. You would not concern yourself with my existence, I suspect. Should I try to access your heart, your ice and marble would spread across the rest of your body, forming an armor I cannot pierce no matter what I do.
I would weep and ask for mercy, and I still would fail. Yet I admire you so greatly that being in your presence would be enough. Despite your ice and marble, your legacy, virtue, and strength would keep me close to you.
so the play about thermidor that i’m currently writing is obviously a frev modern au, and i wanted to know if anyone on here had any ideas/hcs (saying hcs about real people feels weird but you get what i mean) about how the french revolutionaries, specifically those present for thermidor, would fit into the modern world? they don’t have to be anything special/detailed, random stuff is fine, like how they would take their coffee, or whether they’re good driver or not… especially any saint-just thoughts bc he’s rlly difficult to modernise lmao
Okay, Citizens and Neighbors, yesterday was my first exam and it went pretty well. I hope it did, at least.
I’m not going to announce any dates for my reviews yet because I need to prioritize other things but I will continue to work on “A Light in the Storm” (the short story) because writing is my form of therapy and it’s an opportunity to research more about Revolutionary Wars, Irish folklore, geography, Napoleonic era people... Etc.
And definitely better than binge eating, a less healthy way to cope that I had before writing became a part of my life...
Anyway, thanks to those who liked the first part because it means a lot. At least posting my stuff here doesn’t seem as scary anymore.
On a less positive side note, some of my family members back in Russia got sick so...yeah. Fun times, but I’ll get through this.
The time for the summer writing and art challenge is approaching
If you would like to contribute a word to the summer frev prompt list, which I am planning for the period from July 14th to August 10th, send it to me in a message by June 21st, when I would like to complete the list and pass it on to someone capable of doing the graphic design.
It would be great, I think, if this time it was a community work that would bring us together and make us all feel involved (and not just artists and writers). So, you can also send me words that you think are appropriate for this period anonymously, as the names of the contributors will intentionally not be mentioned in the list and it will be presented as a product of the frev community.
I believe that it can make those dramatic summer days, which were so eventful at the time, more enjoyable for all of us.
Please, donť forget to reblog this post. Thank you.
Together with my dear friends @saintjustitude and @stalinistqueens, we present you another dose of inspiration that should guide you through the month of February.
Valentine's Day is approaching, so we let ourselves be influenced by this holiday and bring you words full of fraternity, love, friendship and similar tender feelings.
So don't be shy to write sweet stories, create and draw with passion, or write love poems and use this list for your inspiration.
Don't forget to include the hashtag #frevvalentine2026 so that everyone can see your creations.
