At the age of twelve, I questioned my grandfather about the unfairness of the will he had drafted.

I refused to do the things that nice, domesticated girls were supposed to do, and spent all my time in my grandfather’s library.

I cut my hair short, a day before I met my future in-laws, as they were conservative people, and loved quiet girls with a fair skin and long hair.

I see the rage in my boss’s eyes, and know that it is time to quit.

The iconoclast in me lives on, defiantly.

I know I have always been hated for my rebel spirit, but never understood why.


Six Sentence Stories


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