Welcome to the Resistance (Literary Edition)
Where the Molotovs are made of metaphor and commas light fuses in silence.
**This Substack may contain radical empathy, poetic dissociation, unlicensed philosophy, and metaphors sharp enough to spark a small insurrection. Side effects include ideological whiplash and a sudden urge to read banned books. Proceed accordingly.
Some bells warn of fire; some burn so the warning is believed.
To the first 16:
Thank you.
Sixteen might not sound like much in a world obsessed with followers and algorithms—but to me, it’s sacred. It means sixteen souls tuned in. Sixteen people said, “I’m listening.” And in this noisy, numbing timeline? That matters.
I won’t pretend this has been effortless. Every single subscriber has been hard-earned. I’ve been writing like I’m building a lifeboat from matchsticks—word by word, trying to stay afloat while screaming toward the shore. What you’re reading is part essay, part exhale, part rallying cry. This isn’t a vanity project; this is survival through storytelling.
WHO I AM (AND WHAT I’M DOING HERE)
My name is Rebecca M. Bell. I write under a name that echoes like a warning and a hymn.
I am a poet, a dissenter, a former child of the empire trying to unlearn my indoctrination in real time. I believe that language can wound, heal, ignite. I believe that art is not a luxury; it’s a lifeline.
This space—The Bell Rings—was born out of the ache to do something. To say something. To make sense of the senseless. To push back against the machinery with nothing but metaphor and a match.
Here, I write resistance literature. I craft Molotovs in meter. I whisper soft revolutions into the void, hoping my manifestos are something the Universe may, one day, allow me to manifest.
WHAT TO EXPECT
Some posts will read like letters. Others will unravel like essays, or poems, or warnings.
Expect:
Subversive thought experiments
Philosophical ramblings with sharp teeth
Poetic dispatches from the edge of hope
Personal stories twisted with political clarity
Buttons, zines, rebellion made tangible
I’m building a home for all of it—soft and sharp, sacred and unhinged.
You are welcome here.
Not everyone who has watched it burn is running away.
WHAT I’M TRYING TO BUILD
Not a platform—A campfire.
Not a content stream—A community of dissenters, daydreamers, and those who’ve never quite fit cleanly into the algorithm.
I want to bridge the grief and the fury. The intellect and the instinct. The echo chamber and the open field.
This is not about me talking at you. This is about thinking together. Feeling deeply. Plotting something better.
If you believe words can move people and people can move mountains—then you’re already part of it.
HOW TO SUPPORT THIS WORK
I’ll be honest with you: I’m doing this on a shoestring, duct-taped budget and a dream. Every zine I create, every pin I press, every minute I spend writing instead of doing something more “practical”—it costs something.
If you’d like to help me keep creating:
You can become a paid subscriber (monthly or yearly).
Or, if you feel especially generous, you can become a Founding Member and help me fund the fire directly.
Your support will go toward:
🖋️ Producing resistance zines
📎 Pressing subversive buttons
📚 Publishing future books
🧠 Carving out more time for deep, meaningful writing
But more than anything, it buys me time. Time to think. To write. To imagine.
No pressure. No guilt. Just an invitation, if it resonates. 💜✨
I don’t write to be heard; I write to tilt the stars.
COME CLOSER
If something here makes your heart beat faster—or your fists clench—stick around. Invite someone you trust to join us. Share a post that stirred you. Or reply and tell me what brought you here.
I don’t want a passive audience.
I want co-conspirators.
I want whisperers and witnesses.
I want a revolution made of empathy and intellect and ink.
The bell is already ringing.
You heard it. 🔔
Now—what will you do with the sound?
Fire in the Hole,
—Rebecca M. Bell
@rmbellwrites
P.S.
Every sentence is a signal.
Every silence, a test.
If the fireflies find you,
light one
and pass it west.