A Foster’s Fantasy. Deep Under The House
It Wasn't Always Called Foster's
A Foster’s Fantasy. Deep Under The House
No more tales of domination and submission. No more stories of mind control and rape.
Disclaimer: Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated or other characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.
Frankie, Mac & Goo find that dreams can come true.
Chapter 1: It wasn’t always called Foster’s
It wasn’t always called Foster’s, but that is the name it is known by now. We’ll continue to call it that.
Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends has had a long and varied history. A respectable mansion for an entrepreneur and his family and then a not so respectable one for a con men/thief who defrauded entrepreneurs out of their millions.
A bootlegger took the abandoned mansion and restored it in an attempt to gain respectability… which ultimately failed.
It had been a brothel in glamourous age filled with courtesans and would be starlets… and became a run-down whore house for hookers and addicts seeking oblivion.
A modern-day pirate retired to his rebuilt mansion, supposedly adding tunnels and secret rooms deep in the earth, to store his booty.
There were always tunnels under Foster’s Home. No one really knows where they came from or when they were dug. Some had collapsed, some buried or blocked off during construction.
The Home had been a place for the rich and elite, the crafty and the crooked, the lonely and the hopeless.
It has been abandoned, restored, burned, rebuilt, looted, refurbished, added on to, and demolished more times than historians would ever know.
There are secret places in that old house
In its current form, it is a refuge for Imaginary Friends.
Imaginary Friends are crafted by lonely children. Young lonely children can sometimes tap into the sparse magic still remaining in the world.
Most Imaginaries are invisible except to their creators and fade over time or disappear like popping soap bubbles when their creators pass a certain age and lose their ability to tap into the magic. It’s called growing up.
Some very, very lonely children or those unaccountably gifted with greater ability to tap into the world’s fading pool of magic, can create tangible, visible and all together illogical Imaginaries. They too can fade or disappear as their creators lose touch with magic. That is also called growing up.
Some, a very few of these tangible Imaginaries are created with the ability to tap into magic themselves to save their existence past the point when their creators no longer need them, no longer want them. They seek out places where the magic is still strong, where it pools, gathers in streams that can be tapped… at least until they can latch onto another lonely person who can nurture them.
Frances Pickle was a very, very little girl when she first came to Foster’s. A thin, ragged child with a mop of tangled red hair. She knew she needed to work very, very hard to find a place here for herself. Madame Foster was a very funny lady, who allowed Frankie to call her grandmother and eventually adopting her so she could change her name from Pickle to Foster.
She didn’t need to create an Imaginary Friend; she was surrounded by them. Sometimes she played with the nice and funny ones. She tried to stay away from the ones that scared her or were mean to her. But she spent most of her time cleaning up after all of them, cooking for them, caring for them. Trying to keep order.
No, little Frances Foster (né Pickle) didn’t need to create an Imaginary Friend. She was still a very, very lonely little girl. But she worked hard and found a place.
Frances grew into a beautiful young woman called Frankie (Pickle was long forgotten). She had friends outside the house, sometimes lovers. But she discovered that having a lover and finding love did not necessarily mean the same thing. Sex was great, for a few minutes, a few hours, even all night it was the greatest feeling in the world. Her body caught fire! Having a man inside her, thrusting, joining, being part of another person was the greatest physical sensation imaginable. Girls could be fun too. Then it was over… minutes, sometimes hours.
“Gotta’ go babe, work tomorrow.”
“Was fun, what’s your number?”
“Will call next time I’m in town… maybe”
“Ugh, sorry! It’s my kids (my ex, my mom, my wife, etc., etc.)
Alone again… still lonely.
Frankie loved her Grandmother, she loved the house; really, really loved fresh baked chocolate-chip cookies. She believed love was real. She just was never ‘in love’ with anyone. She had crushes from time to time. But she knew it wasn’t love, not really. A lonely little girl grew into a lonely woman… with a lot of rooms to clean before supper.