Meg Foster
Bio
Home schooling mum of 3. A teacher and fencing coach. Painting is my therapy and writing is my joy.
Stories (8/0)
The Girl in the Lake
There are stories I've been told since I was a little girl. Tales passed down from generation to generation of a ghost that haunts the lake. I used to think that my Grandma lied. In the days when she would have me trail her around her garden. Cutting down the willow to make me a broomstick or helping me hop skip and jump over the stream. I can still remember the soft gingham caress of her skirts and the cough that would always catch in her throat.
By Meg Foster3 years ago in Fiction
Beatrice
Alanna enjoyed her job. She knew that wasn't fashionable and that many wouldn't understand, but it brought her joy. The first thing she loved about it were the hours. She woke with the dawn - still fasting - so that she could walk among the Sacred Pinetum. After that was her duties at the beach and then she retired to her small, breezy hut for the duration of the scorching heat, until it was time to repeat it all again at dusk.
By Meg Foster3 years ago in Fiction
The Green Light
Have you seen the lights? The ones that no one else sees? You have to squint - really squeeze your eyes - but if you do, you can see shapes, traced in thin lines of light, all around you. For instance, right now I'm sitting in class. My Teacher is gesturing at the board and maintaining what must be his third marathon monologue of the morning. You might think I'd be bored, but I'm not.
By Meg Foster3 years ago in Fiction
The Harvest
The girls walk in pairs. Some softly, some in step and the youngest with a spring. Their handmade harvest gowns float above their ankles. Patchwork skirts sewn in strips from each of their childhood dresses. A dusk light filters through them in faint shades of gold and crimson.
By Meg Foster3 years ago in Fiction
What I have Seen
I was born as the eldest english oaks were dying. My first breath as they felt their last. A bloodthirsty king who chopped down trunks as happily as he discarded wives. The things they had seen put my own experiences to shame. I may have followed the smoky scent of Viking braids, but those trees watched the Romans leave. Drank from rivers annointed by Celtic druids and weathered storms in the company of Ursidae and Wapiti.
By Meg Foster3 years ago in Earth
