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Foster's World	By : Wendell Urth Category: +1 through F > Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Views: 4137 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.

Chapter List
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The house had been built originally in the late 19th century, the family estate of an industrialist named Franklin Foster. His son and heir had lost the house and family fortune due to bad investments (i.e. a penchant for trying to fill inside straights). In later years the mansion had become a hotel, a shelter for destitute women, a bootlegger’s hideout and a whorehouse. The mansion eventually stood empty until a decedent of Franklin Foster reacquired sole ownership and using what remained of her inheritance, reopened the house as a home for orphaned “friends”. Earlier she had worked for the owner of the whorehouse and that’s where she gained the title “Madame”.
Most imaginary friends didn’t survive being abandoned by their creators. The real world was too real for them, they disappeared, they faded. Foster’s Home existed as a place of refuge.
The house also contained magic.
The taxi slowed. Madame Foster prayed before opening her eyes. There was her home, her life. Foster’s Home. Built and rebuilt, added onto, abandoned, damaged and repaired too many times to count. Ancient timber, paint, masonry, insulation. Held together by love and fun. And magic.
Everything had burned.

There were fruit trees. “Some kind of pear”, she thought. The fruit fell into her outstretched hands and she greedily bit into the pale green skin. The juice was warm and cool, salty and sweet all at the same time. There was a tangy smell that reminded her of something… someone, but couldn’t quite remember. For a moment, just a moment, she had an insight that it was a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet. A taste, a smell… something that would become familiar. “But that’s silly,” she said, dismissing the thought.
She started to chew on a seed then spit it out. Bitter. She spit out all the seeds.
The juice dribbled down her chin and left stains on the front of her fleece jacket. “What is the matter with me, I’m acting like a kid?” she asked herself. Then “So what’s wrong with that?” She wiped her sticky juice stained lips on the sleeves. She took off the jacket and folded it carefully, placing it on the ground in front of the tree so she wouldn’t forget it. The day was growing warmer anyway.
She ate a second, then a third pear, spitting out only the seeds.
“Mac would love these fruits.”
“Mac?” she thought. She remembered Mac. Was he here too?
“Mac?” she called out and began to move through the trees. “MAC?”
She dropped the fruit and turned around. Was there something by the trees she was supposed to…? No. There was nothing. Not even the discarded seeds. Not important. She began to run. She had to find Mac.
It didn’t matter to her that she had lost her blue sneakers or her orange socks or the gold watch in the pocket of her green fleece jacket, these things no longer existed for Francis Foster. She began to run faster.

The Goddess considered the creatures of Earth and endless other worlds created with Souls. Souls that went on endlessly from generation to generation. Souls that came together to create new Souls. Souls that danced with grace & wit and capable of love. The Goddess considered these creatures among the Creator’s greatest creations. She was too small and insignificant a god to create Souls for her own world.
That made her sad.

They told the old woman that although the fire department had arrived promptly, there had never been a chance to save the mostly wooden mansion. The fire had burned too hot and had spread too quickly.
“Fortunately, no one was hurt” the fire marshal said. Then added, “No one real, I mean… Human beings.” Madame Foster’s heart broke. “But my granddaughter is all right, then? And the boy too, thank God for that…” Then looked at him with growing horror.
The fire marshal looked back at her. “Granddaughter, you say?” he asked, “And a boy?” He began speaking into the radio clipped to his helmet.
No bodies were discovered so far in the ash and rubble, leading investigators to assume this was arson for insurance. They were sure that the girl (a niece? the report was unclear) would turn up eventually to press an insurance claim. As for the boy, there had been some confusion. An adolescent male was seen in the neighborhood on the afternoon of the fire. This turned out to be a juvenile with a recent history of acting out, but no violence. No further action on the missing boy theory was taken.
Arson was confirmed when tests indicated that gasoline had been used in three different locations almost simultaneously. Investigation showed that there was almost no insurance on Foster’s Home since insurance companies are reluctant to issue policies on residences occupied by three or more imaginary beings. Foster’s Home housed hundreds… maybe thousands? No one really knew… or cared. The house was an eyesore anyway and the extensive lands were valuable. That sparked the interest of many businesses.
It wasn’t until later that the fire department became aware of a missing child police report on the juvenile’s younger brother, who was known to frequent the Foster house. A can of gasoline was found in the older brother’s locker in school. He was arrested and currently in juvenile detention. The mother was franticly searching for her missing child.
In the days that followed it was clear that at least two people had disappeared from the mansion. It was eventually presumed they had died in the fire, though no trace of their bodies was ever found. The police and fire departments did not look for the imaginary residents.

The Goddess realized that she might be able to pinch off a couple of Souls at the moment of life’s termination. This was strictly against the rules, as the Goddess understood them... but if she dared… She would only need two to put her plan into effect. Well, maybe three.

She was running now. She discarded her jewelry, the earrings, the hairbands and even her scrunchy. She found she could move faster when her hair was free. No reason for that, but it was true. The seashore and groves had changed to grasslands, wild plants grew waist high. Her bare arms and legs flowed smoothly through the undergrowth. But her skirt began to snag.
She tripped. She fell.
The need to find the boy now drove her. She wasn’t even aware of tearing off her purple skirt. She was relieved with the freedom of motion she gained. Her white t-shirt came next.
The grassland gave way to thickets, seemingly impassible. Thorns tore at her panties and bra. She didn’t even stop to remove them, they ripped free on the nettles.
Naked.
Free.
She dove into the thick vegetation; it was like flying and skiing at the same time. It was beginning to get dark. She had to find… find? Find someone. The boy. The Boy! She had forgotten his name, but it wasn’t important. She had to find the Boy.
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Foster's World