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 Coal Dust Settles
The kettle rattled on the stove as Mary poured the last of their tea into two chipped mugs. Her hands trembled slightly, not from cold but from exhaustion—physical, emotional, and everything in between. She set the mugs on the table, her eyes darting toward the clock. 10:45 p.m. Jim would be home soon, his shift on the picket line ending for the night. She pulled her thin cardigan tighter around her, the damp chill of the Derbyshire evening settling into the stone walls of their terraced house.
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in The Swamp
The Room That Remembers
The first time I saw it, I thought I’d walked into a dream. It was late—the kind of late when the world feels more like a memory than a reality. I’d been wandering, the fog thick and unrelenting, when I stumbled upon the old house. The door had been ajar, its edges warped and splintered with age, and against my better judgment, I stepped inside.
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the Stars Have No Names
If I had one wish, I would hide the moon and start again. That’s not a confession, but a truth I’d kept buried beneath years of polite smiles and obedient nods. The day I was given the wish, I felt nothing. No joy, no fear, no hesitation. The weight of power rested in my palm—a small, crystalline orb that pulsed faintly with a light no one else could see. The man who gave it to me disappeared as suddenly as he arrived, leaving only the words, “Change anything.”
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the World Became My Playground
When I first realized I could teleport, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why everything felt... different. I had been dreaming about standing on a quiet beach, the kind with soft white sand and a warm breeze that carried the scent of salt and freedom. The dream had felt unusually vivid, almost real. Then, without thinking, I closed my eyes and pictured that very spot again. Suddenly, my bed vanished, and I was there.
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Fiction
Bound by the Sea
The clock ticked backward, but no one else seemed to notice. The hands of time slid in reverse, each passing second pulling the room into an eerie hush. Ava leaned closer to the antique timepiece in the tavern’s corner, her knuckles brushing its worn brass frame. A relic of another world, she thought, just like him. Across the room, a man in a faded coat of blue sat nursing his ale, the crimson sash tied at his waist out of place in this ordinary town. His face, though shadowed, bore a story Ava couldn’t shake—a tale etched in salt and scars.
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Fiction
