Jules’s Writing

Commissions

Prices

notes: pricing may vary according to complexity and other possible factors

100 - 400 words: ₱150 - ₱300/ $2.43 - $4.87500 - 700 words: ₱400 - ₱600/ $6.49 - $9.471,000 words: ₱700 - ₱900/ $11.36 - $14.611,200 - 1,500 words: ₱1,000 - ₱1,200/ $16.23 - $19.482,000+ words: custom pricing

Rules

- Provide a clear idea of what you want me to write
- Provide a deadline (if any)
- first come, first serve basis
- MOP: PayPal, WISE, Gcash, BDO
- Pay the starting price to secure the commission. The additional fees will be paid when the commission is completed.
- A change of ideas is allowed, but there may be additional fees depending on:

- The amount of changes
- How drastic the change is
- How much time it took before the change was brought up

- I have the right to reject a commission

What I will Write:

Poems
Short stories
Vignettes
Most types of creative writing

What I will not Write:

Smut
(I may be open to writing some forms of NSFW/ sensitive content, but I can still choose to reject or accept the commission depending on what you want me to write)

Sample Works:

XV

His loyalty prays at every nameless grave. It kneels at every tombstone without a date. None of it was engraved, for the bodies beneath the earth have never been truly known—owned.I: Immaturity and BetrayalOne of them—a 12 year old girl—had died from the prematurity of the body, with the skull resisting the beat of her heart, and her brain caged within the ribs. She would fight against survival, and every bruise is soothed with the infection of another sick being. She came across them everywhere, and for some reason, they always sought her out. Ironic, considering her natural defect; she was hard to work with, and even easier to break. But how does a virus thrive, if not through something weak and easy to contaminate? Thus, she stops questioning it. She soon realized that in the place she resided, there was nobody who was not sick, including her.With ribs that trap the signals her brain is trying to send, she does not sense the danger; does not sense the sharpness of a knife on her back; does not sense her hands guiding another to wrap around her neck. As it all happens, her heart beats louder, faster—slamming against the walls of her skull again and again, and it aches, but she does not understand why. She does not know how to respond to pain unless it’s to prolong it.There was simply no way of saving her, not when she was made without the desire for it.II: IsolationAnother teen, this time 14 years old, feared for what had happened to the 12 year old girl. She became skeptical because of it, wary of every movement near her; of the eyes that meet hers; of the words being spoken to her. She does not trust, and has come to think there is no need for it. The most valuable thing for her was to create a bigger distance to preserve herself. Comfort is found in a space only she could fit in, and through it she discovered that she had the capacity to fall in love.She fell in love with her solitude that gave her the illusion that time stilled; how it liberated her from perceiving eyes. She loved it too much, and she found herself searching for it everywhere—places where there was nobody else. Perhaps solitude desired her too—her senses that reminded her that she was alive. It craved the subtle glint of her eyes and the warmth of her hands, and she fed it every ounce. She was slowly, unconsciously forgetting the images of faces she should have known; how their voices sounded as they sang notes that clashed, composing dissonance. She ignores the absence of her reflection on the mirror, for what her mind can only comprehend is the normality of separation, especially from the body that allows the warmth of another to reach her.She had died in silence, and the only way she realized it was through how she could no longer feel nor be touched; how she had grown comfortable in the silence of her chest, and abhorred the messy rhythm of their beating hearts.III. Wrong BodyThe next was a 15 year old who believed that God had been wrong in His making of her. She did not want to think that He could ever be wrong, but it seemed that her existence is proof of His imperfection. She thought God must’ve done it on purpose as her mother says that everyone was made from His image. If that was true, then perhaps God was also sinner who was as incorrect as her being, and there was solace in this singular similarity they shared. However, it was no more than temporary shelter for her mind against the brigade—those who use judgment as their blade, and religion as their shield.She begins to questions herself and how the curves of her body felt sharp against the surface of her hands, as though rejecting her. It is only through the layers of clothing—some too big—that she is protected from the ridges adorning her skin. The scent of flowers was too pungent on her, but the most she can do is conceal just enough that they would not discover it was hers. It may never be known unless they came too close and breathed right where the nectar was.Eventually, she denies the rib of Adam from which she was made—a rebellion against the Creator. Would this anger Him? If so, why did he create me in such a way? He was all-knowing, so wouldn’t He have seen it coming? The thoughts echo through the walls of her consciousness. She could not abate the chaos within it, and soon, it would resonate loud enough for her mother to hear. She knew that her mother’s faith—the same faith she has forsaken—would speak in her place. Her anger would dominate her rationality, and its blaze would only burn her tongue.This body she resided in was not hers; it was an imposter that betrayed her identity, and its punishment was to bleed. Nails dug into the flesh and started from the breast, drawing out blood that soon defaced it off its putridity.His soul was an intruder, and it is by killing the body that he can erase the evidence of his crime.IV. Grief and RebirthIn the present time, a 19 year old boy visited all the graves that buried what was once seen, but never known—touched, but never truly owned. They were bodies that had little time to live, and had too much to give. He grieves, but does not miss them—believes in the necessity of their passing. Perhaps that is why they haunt him. Even now, they make themselves known to him through the soft pull on his heartstrings; through things that will not reveal themselves in the light unless he watches without the fear of burning his eyes; through hands that hold without the intention of owning, and fingertips that dig deep enough to leave a mark, but never tear. They are the weight on his shoulders and every footprint he has left behind.He continues to live in the reality drawn with their ashes, and writes it meaning using his blood. He visits them, but does not remain for more than what is needed. They ghost over him, but do not possess him. They were once whole, but now have become another layer of his skin—whether it is to protect or suffocate is determined by how he deems it. He must learn to be wise.The life he lives should be one that will make him unafraid of death, because only a life worth taking can be exchanged for something new.

The Self-Preservation of Anonymity

It was around 1:54am.
The dimly lit living room was deaf to all but the zooms of cars and motorcycles racing past the neighborhood street and the mildly violent pitter-patters of the rain.His family members were asleep in the bedroom twelve steps above him. He was caged in his solitude, but he did not mind at all. He somehow felt the comfort glide itself across his skin, not missing a single inch untouched, embracing him as if it were a real being. However, he remained tense knowing it was a cheap trick to strip his attention away from the aching tightness that had long been settling within him since the day began.His fingers began to claw at the skin, his face contorting into disgust as his rawness peaked out—waiting to be revealed. He just can’t get used to this putridity disguised in such a gentle and smooth layer that when touched, one would think perfection indeed existed.Once he finally discarded himself from it, he heaved a sigh, allowing his body to wallow in the newly found liberty—the previous despondency that he felt was long forgotten. His hand appeared wilted as it stiffly reached for the palettes on the farthest side of the sofa he was situated in. Movements faltered as the laze fought to take over, but when his eyes met the mirror in front of him, it screamed. His ears were left with agonizing rings, and the sound imitated a bomb despite his certainty there were no traces of its resonance in the living room. It seemed that his reflection was far too displeased with the house it resided in.He delved the substance into him, guided by a brush to complete their amalgamation. It fused at the surface to distort his features towards sublimity and apart from their wrongful places. The paleness of his complexion was still there, but colors had replaced the remnants of parasitic shadows in his eyes and the light was no longer afraid to shine itself upon them. Heaps of materialized fantasy continued to weigh upon his face.. more, more, and more, until nothing but his veneer of beauty was visible. It was temporary, but he wished it wasn’t. If asked, he would not hesitate to choose this burden over his older skins that were vandalized with filth and a nauseating stench, and became the grave of the marks inflicted by animals’ teeth. Perhaps the only good it offered was the idea that his skin was at least satisfactory to their picky taste buds. At least he had one favorable aspect.He caught his reflection staring at him and he asked himself whether what he had done was good enough despite knowing the answer; it truly never was, no matter how tantalizing the process that needed to be done, or the disgust that would eat away at him whenever he chose his freedom for once. Maybe he could have reached beyond what his definition of beauty was, but the increasing numbness that surged in his body had become too disturbing, and the weakened state of mind only made it harder to keep himself blinded from it. He could only do so much with his lacking abilities after all.clickThrough the lens he’d prepared beforehand, he noticed the scars which loved attention were surprisingly silent. He wondered why, forcing the gears in his brain to turn despite the rust accumulating on it.Some minutes passed. He finally figured out the answer.Those lenses could only detect fraud.clickIt was a bittersweet realization. This was artificial, a mimicry of someone that does not exist..This was not him.Despite that, he felt so beautiful, and he was going to relish in this deceit.

Gardenia

He loved her.His heart obeyed the beat of her own, mirroring each rise and fall, inevitably becoming a slave to its rhythm– Inevitably becoming hers.The hands he was imprisoned within—ones that knew nothing but to ball their fists—learned that refuge existed in her warmth;
They entwined with hers, protecting something that wasn’t himself for once.His teeth never bit his tongue so long as it was her name that fell from it.
Her name which would kiss his lips—a silent plea to find rest in the palate of his tongue.In her eyes did he find all that was dear to him.
In her eyes was he able to see his reflection without the fear of it looking away from him.He loved her; he had faith in its truth.He loved her; it was easy to.He knelt before the pile of dead skin she'd once worn, knowing without judging–
worshipping without deluding.He loved her; so did the bodies she'd managed to unearth beneath his flesh.
By her right hand did they receive salvation–
a divine savior to a sinner.It was through the air she exhaled that he was able to breathe.He loved her, utterly so.He loved her.He loves her.

Multo

I have touched multiple hands, but my body only recognizes the faint chill of fingertips that merely bypass mine—owned by the ghost I love. Its fingers were the same ones that had reached past my ribs and craved the closeness that is only possible by thrusting inside the meat of my heart. They had reached, grazed, ground against the mush, seeking for the warmth it can not provide. The ministrations never ceased—desperation evident—and a ring of blood seeps out of the line separating the organ and all four fingers, daring them to pull away lest I bleed until there is nothing left. And pull away they did, but not without filling every gaping hole with parts of its flesh, which shall remain inside unless I decide I must die.It was by the inborn contamination of the heart that it was unaffected by such malpractice, and it was by this alteration that my system can no longer be sustained by my own will alone.Thus, I could not find it within me to reject the same ghost whose fingers managed to count every vein in my body and used them to tie our tongues together.I desire the ushering fingers that my greed obeys—digging itself out of my body and replacing my flesh; the ghost would savor its flavor upon me.I do not desire the warmth within reach, but the chill of being owned by what I cannot touch.