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 (240)
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Solitary Proofs
The morning light fell across the hallway in pale rectangles, catching the frames one by one. Each held a single face: Grandmother at twenty-three, serious beneath the brim of a summer hat; Father as a boy, squinting into the sun on the pier; Mother on her wedding day, veil lifted just enough to show the careful smile she practiced for weeks. Every photograph was solitary. No arm around a shoulder, no hand clasped in another’s, no shared laughter frozen mid-breath.
By Diane Fosterabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
Witnesses to a Gorgon's Cruel Silence
High on the flank of Mount Helicon, where the old temple to Athena clung like lichen to the rock, the wind never stopped singing. It keened through cracked columns, stirred dust along the mosaic floor, and carried the faint mineral scent of the sacred spring that still trickled in the inner courtyard. Few pilgrims came anymore. The oracle at Delphi had declared the place unclean; the goddess had turned her face away. Only one attendant remained, sent not by devotion but by decree.
By Diane Foster2 days ago in Fiction
Sunflowers in the Sink
The yellow house on the corner of Elm Street had four bedrooms, a shared kitchen with a finicky dishwasher, and rent split evenly at $800 a head. Mia, the graphic designer, handled the group chat for chore rotations. Jamal, the barista, stocked the fridge with oat milk and craft beers. Sarah, the grad student, blasted true crime podcasts during her late-night study sessions. And then there was Vincent, who paid in crumpled francs and painted the living room walls when it was his turn to vacuum.
By Diane Foster5 days ago in Fiction
Grief in the Age of Flight
I float above the chrome and glass canyon, my personal drone humming its lonely tune beneath me. Below, the morning crowds surge through the boulevards, humans in their aerial pods, weaving between the towers like schools of metallic fish. I used to find it beautiful, this ballet of flight. Now it just feels empty.
By Diane Foster19 days ago in Fiction
