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 (233)
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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 Foster12 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 Foster12 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 Foster12 months ago in Fiction
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 Foster12 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 Fosterabout a year ago in Criminal
