Heather Foster
Bio
For me, writing is just something I enjoy doing. I have written a novel and I am in the process of getting it published. Follow my on Instagram - @BottledFirefliesNovel
Stories (23)
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HiveArk
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I, for one, know that not to be true. At least, I know I heard my mother’s. The others say I was just imagining sound to match the horror and fear I saw on her face when it happened. But I swear I heard her, and the echo of the memory still haunts me.
By Heather Foster3 years ago in Fiction
One Bullet, Train
We went out for a good time yesterday so I’m not surprised that head my is throbbing. But it’s not like the normal hangover headache I’m used to. Those usually go away with a tepid glass of water, an aspirin, a greasy biscuit and a couple hours. It feels like someone has split my skull with an axe, my eyes feel like they have been inflated with air, so full that closing them hurts. But holding them open is worse because I am spinning. It feels like I just got off the tilt-o-whirl after three continuous rounds of riding. I did that ride once when I was a kid at the county fair in Nebraska and I hate to say, I barely made it to the trash can. Eyes closed, I think I am dying, I’m convinced I’m coming in and out of consciousness, and the worst part is I don’t know why.
By Heather Foster4 years ago in Fiction
Death by Chocolate
“A little chocolate never hurt nobody” said Eleanor Macklemore in her charming southern brogue as she served up a generous slice of her homemade chocolate cake to the new neighbor. Samuel Cochran had just moved in next door and despite being rather introverted, had agreed to meet Eleanor for her afternoon tea. Of course, she hadn’t left him much choice. She had been the listing agent on his new house and he had dealt with her several times. She had helped him get a deal, after all.
By Heather Foster4 years ago in Fiction
Cows Don’t Lie
The red sun was hanging low in the sky. The heat had built towering cotton candy mansions that glowed proudly with their curling golden edges. The air was thick with humidity and the sky, in all its glorious trappings threatened to dump, like summer afternoon clouds often do. The leaves of the giant oak tree in Mr. Wilson’s yard turned up to show their bellies and the wind tussled the long grass of the open field to her right. Ellie Johnson was hurrying home from visiting her Aunt Billie. Billie was short for Beatrice somehow, but Ellie, whose name was short for Elizabeth, never quite figured out how. Billie, had started tutoring Ellie on Wednesday’s during the school year, and since her mother wanted her to keep up with her academics, even over break, they continued their meetings. This would not have been Ellie’s choice of holiday activity though. She longed to join a summer camp or even just play at the community pool but her mother couldn’t afford it.
By Heather Foster5 years ago in Fiction
Nuclear Nowhere
Six months ago, Chris and I had been sitting in a cafe in the French Quarter, watching the small elevated TV set in the corner for the news while sipping lattes together. He held my hand across the small wrought iron table. He glanced at me occasionally for my reaction. The news was disturbing but neither of us could really remember a time when it wasn’t. It was easy to become anxious about these headlines surrounding the tension building with axis countries over trade disputes and sanctions but we both thought it would resolve. These things usually did resolve. We could not have been more wrong.
By Heather Foster5 years ago in Fiction
Parties in Wonderland
My mom likes to tell the story of me as a toddler, proudly explaining my art. I had apparently used the entirety of a purple crayon, just filling the page. I named it “Real Purple” which was my favorite color through much of my childhood. She would display my artwork on the refrigerator, like most moms do. But she also framed a lot of it. I can recall vividly, the finger painting that hung high above the cabinets in the kitchen with the vaulted ceilings. It was matted, behind glass and hung with loving pride for all to see. My great uncle Seymour painted incredibly, using oil pastels. His art was also displayed around our home. In seeing my own artwork displayed, similar to his, I couldn’t help but feel like this meant I was also an artist. My mother always encouraged my creativity which is probably why an adult, I still enjoy drawing, painting, scrapbooking, bedazzling, singing, dancing and writing. Of course, I still enjoy purple. Now as a mother, I also love sharing my appreciation for arts and crafts. It is rewarding to show my children how you can make something incredible using just your mind and a few simple supplies. It is also quite beneficial to be able to make something rather than to buy it.
By Heather Foster5 years ago in Families
Merlot Charming
Her palms were sweating slightly, she grimaced as she lifted her arms to allow the air under them. She was sweating there too. At least there was a breeze on the patio. The breeze, which offered a brief reprieve from the sticky humidity helped cool her, but it certainly wasn’t doing her long chestnut hair any favors. Her curls were falling already, she reached up to smooth and reshape them with her fingers. What a disaster, he would be here any second and she was deteriorating like an Alka-Seltzer tablet in soda water. She looked down at her sleek watch, 8:12. Or maybe he wouldn’t be. She hadn’t realized how late he was. Only self-absorbed or immature men are late on a first date, so this would be yet, another waste of time and effort. Why did she keep putting herself through this? Why, for the love of all things good, didn’t she just stay home in sweats, get a cat or two and settle for herself. Why not just be person who wouldn’t be repeatedly tortured with unfortunate experience after unfortunate experience? Blind dates were so stupid. Hours of time spent to style her hair, her nails, to shave, to artfully draw on her face, to pour herself into uncomfortable under-garments, and shove her feet into murderous shoes.
By Heather Foster5 years ago in Humans
