Browse Rebel Stories by Title

" (1) # (1) 1 (2) A (32) B (12) C (12) D (7) E (5) F (12) G (4) H (6) I (15) J (2) K (1) L (11) M (12) N (12) O (6) P (9) Q (1) R (62) S (24) T (56) U (4) V (1) W (16) Y (4) (1)

Wicked Daughters

Daughters who stop talking to their mothers are always wicked. The family is quick to condemn, criticise and decry the actions of such an immature, ungrateful delinquent witch. ‘Why have you done this? Can’t you see how much it’s hurting her? Just give her a text.’ ‘No.’ ‘She’s your mother!’

‘Why does that make a difference?’

Continue reading

Window

When I was younger I feel as though I was a well behaved, well-mannered and in general, good wee lad. Though, I'm sure my Mum and Dad could tell me stories that would otherwise contradict this…

I have an older brother called Darren. He is four and a half years older to be exact. I love him dearly and I miss him so much now, ever since he moved to Vancouver, Canada.

However, he is coming back to Scotland to get married to his wonderful partner. I am as excited as my younger seven year old self on Christmas morning to see him again.

Continue reading

Wisconsin

It was the sixties – to be exact, the summer of 1969; the sputtering embers of that hot, fervid decade. Of course we didn’t know that at the time. The ‘sixties’ is a later invention – a social, political and cultural inferno that, safely over, has been elevated to the realm of untouchable saintliness. It's what happened to Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali and John Lennon. Now they are celebrated but ‘at the time’ they were a menace to J Edgar Hoover and all things decent. They became truly good only by being truly dead. Like the ‘sixties’.

Continue reading

Without A Cause

A Teddy Boy who’s shorn his quiff;
A cool hepcat who’s lost her purr;
A mod whose parka’s shed its fur;
A hippy who won’t smoke a spliff.

Continue reading

without knowing what a rebel is

Without knowing what a rebel is,
I stayed away from school,
smoked cigarettes and hung round
vast cities – silent and lost.

I’ve not changed –
the edges lure me,
empty, forgotten margins:
that’s where I like to play.

Come sit with me,
cross-legged and free.
We’ll share stories of the
true heroism of youth.

Continue reading

Would I? Should I? Could I?

Would I? Should I? Could I? Would I be a rebel? Should I be a rebel? Could I be a rebel? If I did, was it even rebellion?

Continue reading

Pages