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It was another normal day and the family were preparing for the day ahead. Sarah picked up her school bag and called from the kitchen door, "I'm away, Mum, I'll see you later."

"Bye, darling, have a good day."

Sarah's Dad was returning from his night shift and passed his daughter on the drive.

"Take care and watch when you're crossing the road."

Smiling, he saw her walk to the house on the other side of the road. 

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Sometimes I am a rebel
I get out of my shell
I have been quiet for so long
Now I found my voice and I feel strong.

I had an education, spend my life at university
Conducted my research, earned a PhD
Now I have finished and I am absolutely free
I am proud of myself and happy as can be.

I am still single, I live on my own
I am without a partner, in my comfort zone
No children, no pets, I am all alone
I am not even addicted to my mobile phone.

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everyday rebellion


When I was young I went through a hard time involving abuse. For the rest of my life I’ve been running away to find...I don’t know what! 

I used to jump out of my bedroom window all the time, climb out onto the garage roof and run away up the road. I would meet my friends and just hang around with them, having fun and a laugh. Sometimes we even went to the pub – anything to avoid going home. However, nearly always I would get found out and brought back home. I rebelled and went straight back out and did the same again! 

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identity, memories, ownership

Rebellion Begins at Home

In any family each generation throws up a rebel, someone who breaks the conventions of their tribe, who shows them a different way to live. And so it was with my sister.

Diane decided to be a rebel at the age of three. By then she was no longer the youngest child. An older brother, an even older sister and now a younger sister (me) meant she was fated to be that ‘middle child’ – a boring title with no joy in it. So she determined to be not middle, not eldest, not only boy, not youngest, but rebel – she would make her mark.

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rebel, family, sister, childhood

Rebellion in a Wasteland

I am a reader. Which means that I was brought up on rebellion, on change, on this isn’t right, on conflict, on resolution. Words on pages morphed into battle grounds as 9 o’clock and one more chapter morphed into one in the morning. Through their stories, other people’s stories, I have lived so many lives and rebelled in a million ways.

Aside from being a reader, I am already well-versed in rebellion. I had the good fortune to turn eighteen just last year. I don’t need to read fictitious stories about atrocities and oppressive systems, I only need to open a newspaper.

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Rebellion, Rocking and Reading

In the last year I’ve somehow unintentionally managed to get two mature strangers to confess their rebellious childhood antics to me. One nearly set fire to a small building aged ten, and the other ran off to another country with a friend at age fifteen. These rebellious acts were relived with some amusement and even pride. I feel my own rebellion seemed somewhat tame in comparison! However, here is my story and it begins in my birth place: Nelson city, New Zealand in the early 1980’s. I was eight years old. 

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Rebellious Old Lady

I’m NOT doing it.
I’ve had it up to here,
Washing, cleaning,
Worst of all, cooking.
Someone must come in,
Fill the pots with food,
Put them on the table
When I’m not looking.
No more making beds.
It’s like I said.
I’ve had it up to here.
All that washing-
Clothes and plates, cooker, sink-
All needing done again,
If I so much as blink. 

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Rebellious women

Rebellious Women Anne Bonny sailed the seas
And Mother Theresa tried to bring peace.
Boudicca, a queen of the Celts,
Avenged her daughters before herself.
Bonnie Parker sought love and fame,
So now, everyone knows her and her lover's names.
Mary Shelley, at eighteen years of age,
Wrote Frankenstein, and lit up nearly every stage.
Women fight for a chance, 
Against oppression, 
From the days of the Romans 
To today, 
And even in the Great Depression.
Women fight for a fair chance in life,

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Female rebellion

Rebels apo da bus

Da bus is usually quiet.

Some haes peerie plugs in dir lugs we variations on dir choice o tunes. Heads nod - occasionally banging up quickly tae see whaar dey ir fae da zeds o dir unsettled snooze.

A Wednesday is different. Dat’s Coort day. Da rebels drag demsells fae dir pits tae join wis on da ten tae eight tae toon.

Dis twa ir Coort day regulars. Followin da inevitable path laid afore dem be midders at wirna midders.

Dey nod at me whan I sit doon opposit dem.

Dey’re usually quiet but dis day dey’re a bit spicky.        

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community, solidarity

Rebels At the Seaside

'Do you remember our holiday at the beach, Jean?'

'Oh I remember it well, Amy, We were both very naughty children at the time, I was eight and you were ten. Aunt Jessica, your mother, had said “After lunchtime I will take the pair of you to the beach for a treat.

It was a nice sunny day. Jean and I said to mother “can we play outside until lunch?”

Yes you can”, said mother.

‘We went out to play, and you said after a while, “Let’s go to the beach.”’

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