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
The moon phase of his birthday (August 25, 1767) and that of his execution day (July 28, 1794) are the same and both phases are one, which means a very thin crescent moon, almost a new moon but just a day older.
The fact that the night sky held the same moon for the start and the very end of his life really kills me
[this one's because some ghosts stick around, even centuries later]
[this one's for bastille day on the year 1 of the republic]
[this one's for marat, on the anniversary of his death; and for the shattering brightness of life that persists; and for camille too.]
[this one's for marat, who isn't dead for as long as we still need him; in paraphrase of victor hugo]
Camille rushes out of the house before the coffee is served, before Lucile can walk back in from the kitchen, wrap her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder. He knows he might be hurting her, by denying her this chance at compassion, but if he remains at home for one more moment, he is going to choke, with all the words that had been piled up somewhere in his chest, and none of them rising high enough to reach his throat.
His neighbor gives him a cheery wave, but Camille cannot even return the good morning, and an emphatic, a festive one at that; a morning to be started with wine, if one so wished, a morning to celebrate their Revolution.
A morning to become a martyr on, and Camille wonders whether the history will fudge the dates a little.
A crisp, windy morning, shimmering in peach and mauve at the edge of the horizon, before turning into a clear blue, without a cloud, without even a wisp of fog; somehow even the factories have fallen silent in the city, and the streets might be deserted for all that Camille cares about them. When he sees a flag being hoisted on the pole, he starts running, and the morning turns into a blur around him, sunlit and merciless.
Camille stumbles over a rock and falls, gracelessly, limbs flying around, hitting his elbow on a hard edge; relishing how the pain spreads out. He lifts his head and the blur coalesces into shapes; he has caught the edge of a gravestone, in a cemetery that he can’t quite place. After all, isn’t it fitting, a cemetery?
Only, it won’t be a graveyard so old that you can’t even read the names. It will be the Pantheon for you; and a funeral procession; and probably not for another day or two. Nothing less, nothing less for the Friend of the People and the martyr of the Revolution.
“You’d hate it,” Camille whispers. “You’d demand the entire procession to be dismantled and the proceeds given to the people. You’d tell them to throw you into a sewer, for all you cared; and threaten to haunt them if they disobeyed.”
The wind has been lost among the houses, and there’s no one in sight.
Camille turns away from the grave to look at the entrance; the name must be engraved above the gates, but it’s not visible from inside the cemetery.
“You must be disappointed in me, too, but, well, everyone is,” Camille’s attempt at self-deprecation breaks off in what he valiantly tries to stop it from becoming a sob, “I can’t even write a proper eulogy for you; I don’t – don’t know how -”
I don’t know how to say that you are dead, the sentence is at the tip of Camille’s tongue, bright and sharp and cutting, but his voice refuses to obey.
I am not sure I quite believe it. I am not sure I ever will; whatever they end up doing with your body. We’re all dead men walking, all of us in this Revolution, only some of us have dared to defy this, and you more than all the rest. Even now.
Camille feels a slight breeze at the back of his neck. Like a touch.
Not a single leaf has moved on the tree that grows right outside the gates, and all the birds have fallen silent.
“You’d pour me another cup of coffee,” Camille has found his voice at last, but only the gravestones are listening.
“And tell me to get through the damned proofs, because the printer is waiting, and we’re late already.”
“Because we’re late already,” Camille repeats, and wipes his eyes.
He thinks: if he turned, he could see the smile, brief and sarcastic and unmistakably proud. He smiles in return.
“So if I don’t – don’t – oh, you know what I mean. You don’t get to leave either. We need you still, hell, we’ll probably need you for centuries.”
The dust swirls in the sunlight, as Camille leaves the cemetery, takes the first street out of the square, and begins the long walk home.
The moments between hostilities, the moments of serene peace between newlyweds and the budding leaves of spring left no amount of room regarding doubt that Camille had made the right decision to love and be loved in return. To allow love to enter his life, to allow the tenderness in which it all required to quell his raging heart though, he knew that he had gotten the letter from his dearest old friend scolding him playfully neglecting his duties.
The letter which lies between eternity and an everlasting moment of bliss returned Camille to the reality of the revolution. It always did. The sharpness of the tone but he couldn't forget the contents of it on his desk:
Paris, February 14, 1791
I observe to Mister Camille Desmoulins that neither the beautiful eyes nor the beautiful qualities of the charming Lucile are reasons to not announce my work on the national guards, which was handed to him and of which I send him if necessary a copy. There is not at this moment object more pressing nor more important than the organization of national guards. That’s what the citizens of Marseille think, at least, of which I attach here a decree related to my speech*. I beg Camille not to lead him astray, and to try to send me also the letters from Avignon and the answers that I handed it to him.
Robespierre.
How quaint. Yet, Camille had to put pen to paper and write again but drifting further on, his heart was occupied and recalled the love of their touches however brief sent chills through his nerves, causing his stutter to be no more in those private moments. She always knew what to say or do for him.
He ought to be better
He would for the sake of discovery of an early pregnancy — be it a son or daughter, Camille would be overjoyed, elated even to the whims of his amusement, still he pampered Lucile with care and consoled her desires and cravings as best as a new husband and father could do; as best as he could do. But reality was recklessly there and he couldn't dare forget the existence of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.
The moments of love expressing itself.
The moments of a smile gleefully attached to him—how beautiful, how majestic, how wonderfully unique this was to him. His father couldn't contend with his multiple letters sent in the beginning but like what Robespierre forgot in all this was that love was possible at the start.
Love connected Camille and Lucile. Eternally so and being eternally grateful, he'd stay, so that smile stayed. That smile stayed throughout the coming months of their early marriage life. Why couldn't it be forever this way? Why did this smile have to disappear?
No. It was always there, waiting when he got home...
You can barely catch your breath and the blood rushes wildly to your radiant face. You have a smile on your lips, while you are holding your sweetheart in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
Tonight you are all dancing and singing, even though you were fighting for your lives in the courtyard of Bastille a moment ago. The acrid smell of gunpowder still lingers in the air, and the head of Governor de Launny, impaled on a pike, looks down at you in amazement.
Smile, because today has brought the first victory to the common people, and you feel that something great and wonderful is just beginning.
IT'S A REVOLUTION! This is how they broke the news to the king.
So smile and rejoice in today's success, even if two of your neighbors lie dead nearby with a hole in their chests, even if tomorrow many more battles and hardships await you.
Smile, because the world you have known your whole life has just changed, and the oppressed have now risen as free citizens to welcome a new era of freedom.
They are buried in quicklime, their physical form irretrievably gone, and we, their remnants, are left here at the mercy of our enemies.
We are held in cells like mad dogs, beaten in the streets, murdered for fun. Paris is now ruled by madness and excess. It is as if hell itself had opened its gates (if you believe in it) and wanted to deny and erase the years in which it had to bow to the rule of modest virtue.
There is no hope for us anymore, our days have been filled with tears and dust on the things they left behind - on the ordinary little things that their murderers did not seize.
They are things like blank pages that they haven't yet had time to cover with their thoughts, or like ink in an inkwell that has already dried up. Or a dog that is still waiting for its master.
We have remained here to bear true testimony to those who will one day want to listen. When vice tires itself out, when fame turns to ashes, when envy fades and death overtakes their murderers, someone will come and ask: and how was it really?
He was awakened from a deep unconsciousness by a physical pain he had never experienced before.
Robespierre didn't remember exactly what had happened, but his mouth was now full of blood and crushed fragments of bone and teeth. He tried to spit it out, but he couldn't. He couldn't move his mouth.
At that moment he realized that he would not be able to speak for the rest of his life. His head was buzzing and he was having difficulty breathing, the wound must be swelling.
The man in uniform was looking into his face, laughing and apparently saying something, but all he could hear was the humming in his head. He looked away, which must have angered the man, so he roughly grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. Robespierre fainted again.
When he woke up the second time, he could only see the ceiling above him. There were several other guards in the room, but they showed no interest in him. They were playing cards and were obviously bored.
Maximilien touched his wounded face and almost cried out in the terrible pain that shot through him. He looked at his bloody fingers and felt dizzy. His shirt was stained with blood on his chest and stuck to his skin. He shivered as a chill ran through him. Why hadn't they killed him yet? He was already dead anyway.
He saw Saint-Just standing at the window with his hands tied. Tears welled up in Robespierre's eyes. He tried to speak, but he couldn't move his broken jaw. He could only make an unintelligible sound, which nevertheless attracted the attention of the guards. They made a few jokes at his expense, but they allowed Saint-Just to approach.
He came to the table and their fingers touched. Neither of them could speak. They just looked at each other, ignoring the fact that death was already breathing down their necks. Tears welled up in Antoine's eyes too, but he didn't let them fall either. He wouldn't let it happen in front of them.
Saint-Just asked for water, and when the guard left, Robespierre squeezed his hand. He tried to tell him everything with his eyes, even things he had never dared to say before and would never say again in his life. He was sure that Antoine understood.
“Just a few more hours. I know it’s unbearable, but please don’t leave without me,” Saint-Just said, leaning in so that no one else could hear. Maximilien shook his head gently, then faintness clouded his consciousness again.
When he woke up the third time, Saint-Just was no longer there. He must have been taken away. A doctor, or at least someone who pretended to be one, was sitting next to him. He cleaned his wound rather roughly and bandaged it with a piece of cloth. He didn't speak to him at all, and then left again.
Another wave of suffering followed when a small group of people burst in and looked at him as if he were some exotic bird with broken wings. They insulted and mocked him, but he didn't mind much. He was used to it. Even the pain in his jaw eased a little.
But his restless thoughts were troubled by those who were already writing their lies in the next room to justify strangling the revolution with him. He knew with absolute certainty that his name would be tarnished and everything good he had ever strived for would be turned upside down. He feared that even death would not stop this pain..
Today, the worst enemy no longer stands at the border in a foreign uniform, ready for open battle. No, right in the heart of Paris, under the stern gaze of the guillotine, he dares to carry out his diabolical plans.
Under the guise of patriotism today, a clever traitor hides his face. He wears a cockade on his chest and shows his false image in public. He has always fought for the interests of the people, everyone will testify to that.
He would gladly give life for the republic, but never his own. He speaks as you would speak, and promises you friendship and eternal loyalty before your eyes. But when he turns his back on you, the pretense disappears.
In the darkest corners, the cunning snake meets poisonous spiders who, following his instructions, skillfully weave a web of lies, while he lures flies to honey with his flattering words, and together they prepare your destruction.
Beware of such tricks, beware of false friends and flatterers. Shine a light on the darkness of the traitor's heart and reveal his true form to everyone today, or tomorrow your head will end up in a basket. And your dream will bleed to death on Revolution Square.
