Browse Rebel Stories by Title

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I am me

I have always been the one who was different; unafraid
I guess that is just the way some of us are made,
I have walked tall, whilst many fell behind
While all my beliefs stand firm inside my mind
You label me bohemian, but I am an earth child
I belong to the universe, I run free and wild
I dance naked with nature, flowers in my hair
It doesn't even bother me when people stop to stare
I am one with the earth, I am naked I am free

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I Insist

I insist

on stepping near cliffs

And in my dreams

I fly from them

One day I'll trip

or sit too long


I'll fall 


then don't say

I didn't want to

or simply didn't warn you

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I See Differently

Transgressing to conform to your brand of “good”

Not all good of course – some bad – but we should

Fake till we make, but what are we making?

Creating a space where we feel bad for taking

The time to embrace the rough with the smooth.

Feeling guilty for stealing our own time to soothe

Our aching brains and hearts. Some peace

And rest or moment of intense release.

Snuffing out the flames of the fire in my belly

All in the name of disagreeing well - we

Cannot continue to throw ourselves in

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I Was Never a Rebel . . .

I was never a rebel
Well except that time
I wore lipstick and stockings
Stayed out past my curfew well after nine
But I didn’t dare light a cigarette
Until I was at least twenty-three 

I was a rebel, there’s plenty to say
Scramming apples from trees at the big house
Catapulting stones across the wall, crack
Being sent to my room then escaping
Down scaffolding surrounding my house
And running away to play 

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I'll Cross the Stream

When did it happen? When did I get to be this grumpy old woman? It must have crept up on me slowly, surely. Or maybe it’s because I’ve had to put up with so much that all my reserves of patience have gradually been worn down.

I remember what my mother was like.

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I'm Not The Rebel You're Looking For

So you want to read about rebels? Well, you’ve come to entirely the wrong place. Sorry.

I’m about as far from a rebel as it’s possible to be. To give you an idea of what I mean, here are a few scenarios from 20th century cinema to help.

Imagine Stand By Me, but with a character who, having heard the rumour about a bloated corpse amidst the rushes, leaves his more adventurous friends to it, hot-footing it home quicker than you can say ‘valuable life lessons’.

I’m the Neo from The Matrix who takes the other pill.

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One delicious hour
Bare toes in the too long lawn
Words of wisdom gather dust on shelves
Washing moulders
While the bare line tenses in the breeze
Dinner fumes in the tins
Seethes in the freezer
Windows blink through cataracts of grime
While I tilt my face to be buttered by the sun
And wine chills my glass to a cold sweat
Make shapes of the clouds, a bearded man, a sheep?
Buzzy bees bumble
Watch an avian soap opera
Tune in to the squabbles and declarations of undying love
In the trees and verges

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everyday rebellion

Ikke mål min. = Not my language.

Eg se bø inn skriva

dað heder Broser.

Eg bresta skriva mål min.

De draga frå.


Dog må skriva i engelsk.

Dog kunnu skriva i irsk og skottenne.

Dog munu skirva ikke mål dinna.


Eg er broser

eg hevi gert skriva min

i Norn.




I see an invatation to write

it is titled Rebel.

I rush to write in my tongue.

They draw a line.


You may write in English

You can write in Gealic or in Scots

You will not write in your language.

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Dear T,

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In Between Days

A crack, and everything changes. 

Miss Coakley appears in the window, a shrunken head framed by fizzes of grey-black hair. Behind her, the girls bob in unison, ponytails twisted on the top of their heads so you can’t tell who’s who.

Mike’s giggling with the sort of glee that bubbles into your words, climbing down to find more stones, and soon I can’t hear him, only the sharpness of that rock hitting the window. It sits in the dense quiet of an afternoon that is heavy with the weight of all the summer that has passed.

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