Diane Foster
Bio
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
Stories (228)
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Beneath Amber Waves
The world fractured slowly, quietly, like ice whispering beneath a winter pond. My mornings no longer began with sunlight slipping gently through half-drawn curtains but with the slow amber pour of Jack Daniels into a chipped coffee mug. One sip was survival, two, a resurrection. Without it, the weight of my bones anchored me to sheets tangled like spider webs spun from regret. I would stare at the ceiling, my eyes tracing the hairline cracks, knowing they mirrored the fissures spreading silently within my own being.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Psyche
Wildflowers and Lightning
Lena had never been a standout. Just another sophomore in a sea of students, drifting through hallways lined with lockers dented from years of teenage frustration. The only place she felt truly at ease was the meadow behind her grandmother’s house—a riot of wildflowers that bent in the breeze, kissed by the sun. That’s where she had been when everything changed.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Fiction
The Warmth of Letting Go
The gorgeous warm Mediterranean breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus through the winding whitewashed alleys of Oia. It fluttered through the bougainvillea, scattering bright crimson petals into the sky, painting the air with the soft colors of a love letter left unfinished. The glorious heat of the midday sun pressed against Clara’s skin, wrapping around her like a golden embrace. The much-needed warmth was soothing, like the gentle touch of an old friend, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, letting it sink in.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Writers
How I Defied Destiny with a Forkful of Custard
I had never planned on being swallowed by a flock of hyper-intelligent birds, but life, as I always say, is nothing if not persistently haphazard. One minute, I was sashaying into the city's most overpriced patisserie, wearing a coat so extravagant it could have caused an uprising. The next, I was being hoisted skyward by an enthusiastic parliament of rainbow-hued birds that smelled faintly of cinnamon and existential dread.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Humor
The Hourglass Veil
Time smears across the walls, thick with rusted whispers. The clock coughs forward, one second, then another, stuttering against the weight of the wind. Her space narrows, an alley ribcaged in decay, every breath steeped in the scent of scorched fabric and forgotten ink.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Fiction
