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Against the Internet

I rebel against social network sites,
Credit cards,
Loan deals,
Mobile phones,
Computers – all handheld gadgets.
All are, to me, a ruin of mankind.
They steal our money, our social lives, our shops, our romance, our whole life.
And we cannot talk

As human beings we are slaves to machines,
That run our lives for us,
One day they story mankind for good,
A rebel,
They will not brainwash me.

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Ahm no a rebel

I grew up in Coatbridge. For those who’re unaware it’s a fairly large town on the outskirts of Glasgow.

It’s commonly termed as “Little Ireland”, this is due to the very large influx of immigrants from Ireland during the 19th century who settled in the town for work in the iron and mining industries.

Jumping to the present day, the heritage has continued and Coatbridge still has a very large percentage of its population with Irish ancestry.

This is my story:

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Keywords: 
community, solidarity

Airchie - Rebel of the North

“Here we are now,” says the driver. He puts on the handbrake and switches off the engine of the furniture van.

“There you are!” shouts Fraser. “I’d given you up. This is your home now.”

And so it is that in this early spring day the Fraser’s, now in their working clothes, settle into the cottage. Here, long ago, the painted men looked south towards Finavon Hill, where they fought the Romans. But now, the children roam about all over the place, even as far as Drumlithie and the sweetie shop.

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Alan Is Screaming

Alan is screaming.

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Alice Rooney - An Intoxicating Life

Alice Rooney stood in the dock of Kirkcaldy Police Court. It was 1904, but it could have been 1879 or almost any year in between. Alice was a habitual hell-raiser, and the passing of time hadn’t tempered her rebellious nature.

The bailie appraised her, it wasn’t the first time she had stood before him, and it wasn’t the first time he had tried to guess her age. Her grey hair matted and dry, skin the colour of leather parchment, weather beaten and wearied by the trials of life, she would appear to be in the later years of her life, but in all likelihood was only in her mid-40’s.

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Am Brùnaidh/The Brownie

Am Brùnaidh

Dè an aois a bhithinn –
               seachd, no ochd bliadhna dh’aois?
A’ seasamh dìreach
nam fhroca dhonn
               le crios ùr leathar mum mheadhan
               agus taidh bhuidhe mum amhaich
                               a’ feitheamh ri bràiste.

Cha robh agam ach ri na bòidean a ghabhail
gus an t-seamrag airgid a chosnadh.

A’ togail mo làimhe deise.
Òrdag agus lùdag paisgte nam bhois
na trì meòir eile air an cumail suas
agus mi a’ tòiseachadh…

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An t-iasg nach b’ urrainn snàmh/The fish that never swam

An t-iasg nach b’ urrainn snàmh
le Daibhidh Eyre

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Anathema

Music was the air around us. Contrapuntal violin and flute danced together between my ears, filling the mindscape normally reserved for spontaneous, toxic words with a sonic perfume. The mighty sun upon my face was uninhibited in the absence of any single cloud across the azure canopy overhead. The vivid colour framed his face, only for a moment, as I looked towards him - upwards slightly, as the difference between us in height sweetly allowed.

He looked powerful; statuesque.

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Apart-heid

When ah mind back tae last century, no jist tae when a wis wee,
But neither yit had ah got a degree.
Apart-heid wis oan the news, thon kin o stuff, nae excuse.
We wur jist young, students no richt shair o wha we wur or gaun where.
But auld enough tae stert tae spier: black n white, hoo cum this fear?

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Keywords: 
apartheid, defiance

At 7PM

At 7PM (Inspired by Baudelaire’s At One O’Clock In The Morning)

Finally! I am home! Nothing matters but the glass of white wine in my hand. For the next three hours, I will read what I want, and write what I want. Finally, the burden of the job is sitting at the office and I can do what I want!

Finally, I can develop Ilse further and paint her secrets darker! I can take her to the darkest corners of the world and back and we can cry hot, gooey, black tears together.

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