Bree Beadman
Stories (59/0)
New Traditions
There must be music and laughter around, but she cannot hear it. There must be lights and joyful faces, but she cannot see them. The world around her rests beyond her view as all her focus resides within two small metal spoons. The gentle ting they make as she brings them together, tapping them over and over again, is louder for her than any part of celebrations taking place around her. The dull shine of their form stands within the spotlight of her focus, as the memories of past years flood her vision.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Fiction
Mission of 29 K
Okay, okay, we can do this. The giants lord over this land, usually watching and waiting for one of us littler people to make a move, but today is different. I’ve seen them enter, one by one. You’d think with so many more of them, so many more eyes, it would be impossible to take any chances and survive. That’s the thing about too many eyes though. When there are too many eyes, everyone thinks someone else is watching. This is our chance.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Fiction
Beyond the Veil
“Stepping cautiously over the bent and broken bodies of the now motionless undead horde, you approach the bolted chest at the centre of this underground tomb. As you all place your hands on the ancient vault and try to pry it open, a deafening shriek pierces the air. Before you rises a ghostly apparition, the spectral form of Madame Mallory Myers herself! Roll initiative.”
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Gamers
The Lonely Child
If you’re going to top the world’s most wanted list, I guess the end of the world is the time to do it. With so few people left there’s at least a chance of flying below the radar. Those of divinity still have their ways, I’m sure, but with the protection placed on my mother’s old locket, I’ve been able to avoid their gaze for now. The arcane ruins patterned across the arches of this tiny golden heart keep them from prying and scrying through traditional means, and with urban technology all but erased from this plane I am practically invisible. Most will have forgotten my face by now; only the stories remain of the one who ended it all, of this I’m certain.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Fiction
Nanny's In My Toe
Every story has its own unique origin and a purpose, meaningful to the writer and fans. As a child I wanted to create worlds that younger children could escape into and experience the magic that gets lost along the way. I wanted the wonder to endure, to take them on fantastical journeys, and help them to believe anything is possible. I would play Santa’s assistant with my invisible magic teleportation watch that harnessed the power of Santa Claus to transport me to the North Pole and back. Before any time had passed at all here, in the more mundane world, I had spent hours with Santa and was able to bring back tales of my daring adventures. I shared horror stories around an imaginary campfire within the barred depths of an abandoned aviary and took my friends along with my friends through the doors on the trampoline that only I could see, doors that led us to countless universes, almost identical to our own but always with a terrifying twist.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Families
Freyja
It’s setting in once again, that well known primal urge. Run. Run far and fast as though your life depends on it. It may very well be the case. Though living by the hospitality of strangers is often a necessity, a means of survival, no mortal may be trusted for too long. Sooner or later, they all show their hand. When resting in their homes, feeding from their tables, sharing their ale in joyous frivolity, it is important to remember one universal truth - trust is for the weak, and I am not weak.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Fiction
But Carrot Tops Are Green
Nine years old and deprived of my visual senses, I grip the rough, cold hand of an unknown man, hoping the faith I have in them is not misplaced. Gravel shifts beneath my feet as I drop from the final step onto what I assume is the street below, the rumbling hum of engines now catching my ear. The world is different when you’re young and blindfolded, everything seems so loud. I feel her presence beside me, comforted by the fact that my much older partner in crime is still with me. We’re on this ride together, just the two of us, and that, at least, is something. BG and her mini me, in it to the end. Her nervous voice breaks the white noise of the outside world, asking where they are taking us, but her pleas are to no avail. There is no verbal answer to her queries, merely a mild increase in pace.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Humans
Why do we change?
I recently revisited the gifts I gave to those closest to me in my youth, both as a child and when I was young and in love for the first time. It turns out, I did enjoy writing poems, something I had long forgotten. Though some may argue my talents at the time left much to be desired, it was surprising to discover that once upon a time it was the light and not the dark that drove my creativity. Positive emotion, rather than pain.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Poets
History's Greatest Mystery
“Congratulations”, we told them, “In your time as crime scene investigators we know you have been involved in many cases. None quite the claim to fame you had hoped, but this might just be your chance. You have before you all the evidence that has been found surrounding this individual’s death and it is up to you to solve his murder.”
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Criminal
Why does painful poetry come more easily?
When I entered into Vocal’s ‘Color is Pride: True Colors’ challenge, I was both excited and intimidated by the project. I realised quite quickly this would be the most personal and likely the most challenged writing experience of my adult life. The last time I had written a poem I was fresh out of high school and in my first real relationship. There was a clear purpose, which helped; write something cute and dumb and that’ll do. Simple enough, right? Somehow it was still surprisingly difficult. It didn’t even need to be good to get the job done. It was very much one of those ‘it’s the thought that counts’ scenarios, but still I struggled.
By Bree Beadman3 years ago in Poets