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 (227)
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Ink, Water, and a Little Bit of Bravery
I ran my fingers along the edge of the thick watercolour paper, feeling the texture beneath my touch. It was still slightly damp from the last wash of colour, but I couldn’t wait any longer. The colours had settled, and I needed to see how it looked in the frame.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Writers
The Last Echo
It’s been fifteen years, but I still hear the click of her heels echoing in the alleyway. Such pretty red shoes, expensive and classy. The sound was caught on a surveillance tape, grainy footage from a camera that barely functioned, yet somehow, it outlived her.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Criminal
Shepherd’s Pie: A Dish of Comfort
Some meals are more than food. They’re woven into family traditions, whispered about in arguments over who makes it best, and eaten at tables where stories, laughter, and the occasional flying spoonful of mashed potatoes reign supreme. In my family, that dish is Shepherd’s Pie—a bubbling, golden-topped masterpiece that has survived generations, kitchen disasters, and the occasional culinary improvisation gone terribly wrong.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Feast
Where the Wheat Still Grows
April 14, 1864 Farmstead near Winchester, Virginia My Dearest Margaret, I write to you in the dim light of early morning, before the sun has stretched its arms over the hills. The fields are quiet, save for the rustle of the wheat that has begun to green again after the long winter. It is a comfort to me, this steady cycle of the earth, though I find no such certainty in the affairs of men.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in History
Where the Wild Things Wait
The first time he saw her, she was singing. The sound drifted through the pines, light and uncertain, like birdsong after a long silence. It wasn’t a melody he knew, but the way it curled around the air made him stop in the snow, ears pricked forward, breath visible in the cold. She was sitting on the edge of a frozen stream, her hands cupped around something small—perhaps a stone, perhaps just warmth. He had never seen a human up close. He knew what they were, what they did, what they could do. But he had never seen one sit so still, singing softly to no one at all.
By Diane Foster11 months ago in Writers
