Kayleigh Diaz
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Kayleigh Diaz
@kayleighdiaz.com
690 followers 700 following 4K posts
Mother, educator, bibliophile. Aspiring author with a penchant for acquiring entirely too many old books. 📚
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Kayleigh Diaz @kayleighdiaz.com · 11d
New art comm! A bit of stargazing for these kiddos in the apocalypse. 🌠

Thank you to @nushdeco.bsky.social for bringing this moment to life! 🥰❤️

#Art #DigitalArt #WritingCommunity #WriteSky
Digital art of a teenage boy and girl lying in the grass, stargazing. Dark forest color scheme. Top-down view w/ tree leaves and red berries in the foreground, flowers in the grass, fireflies in the air. The boy (shoulder-length brown hair, blue-eyed, light-skinned, wearing long sleeves and a dark vest, jeans) is smiling, looking at the girl, and pointing up. The girl (same complexion and hair color—medium length, braided—but with brown eyes, a subtle glow to them, wearing a dark green shirt & gray long-sleeved undershirt, patched jeans) is smiling slightly, gazing upward at the stars. Their hands are clasped.
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | perish vibes✨

After finding a trail of blood where a person should be…

(+Context: Shrimp doesn't speak.)

From my post-apocalyptic #WIP featuring a misfit trio of kids.

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: “Micah wouldn't leave me behind,” she said, but even as she did, a small voice inside her whispered: Unless he knew he was going somewhere you couldn't follow. Shrimp took her hand, traced GON— She pulled it away hard. “No, he ain't gone!”
February 2, 2026 at 8:53 AM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
"It is sheer childbirth,
loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia."

'A Dress For All Oceans'

One of two poems alongside a biographical essay on my mother in the beautiful Through The Looking Glass anthology - An International Portraiture of Mothers by Ballerini Book Press 🤍
A DRESS FOR ALL OCEANS Mother fell from the sky dressed in white and the scent of hibiscus and empathy as if she knew the devil’s plan before my birth. Traversing ancestry, even the rain splays like Adam’s rib. I tuck myself behind its curve, wishing for a straight path to heaven. Everything falls where Mother came from— a small empire, a vase of peonies whose heads were too heavy for another coastal storm. Everywhere, there is food we can never catch, like rice scattered in a war imitating snow on silk roads. Because the way a dress falls shifts over continents, like the shade of burning waters. The bays, small wombs — never idle, even in a bleak trade. It is sheer childbirth, loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia. En route, I inherit things she couldn’t catch on her way down: language, babies, grand pianos. Chopin’s nocturne spanning every generation of mourners. I play until windows shatter — free nightingales from their cage. Because Mother taught me how women always fit into the shape of girls. The tailor adjusting the seams until we shrink —become the wound itself. The motif fading in a foreign tongue. A body, left to occupy another unsung legend.
February 1, 2026 at 12:20 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
thecrumpet.bsky.social
BEHOLD! A roundup of all my #questpit pitches! Thanks again to all who liked/reposted/commented--you made this slobbering hack feel a little less incompetent. First up--one for my #WIP Surface Tension, wherein a brilliant young scholar makes the mistake of her life by canoodling with the wrong guy.
thecrumpet.bsky.social ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠 @thecrumpet.bsky.social · 4d
WORKHORSE x THE RACHEL INCIDENT

SURFACE TENSION: She came for a degree, not an affair. But as Jenny researches literary heroines who trade freedom for security, she starts living her thesis, all beneath the eye of a professor who prefers the only revisions to her story be his. #U #W #A #questpit
A collage of photos: John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X,” a painting of a young woman in a sleeveless black dress; a classroom with a dark green chalkboard illuminated by the sun, with several wooden desks; library books on a shelf held behind iron bars; a man and woman embracing, both in rather woolly sweaters; a picture taken over the shoulder of a woman who is holding a polaroid picture of another woman; several drooping, dying flowers against a dark background; 7 or 8 old books, lying on floorboards, and with their pages opened as if the books had been dropped; a pink and white flip phone with a heart charm on its closed cover, next to a bottle of pink nail polish and a pink lipgloss; a black and white photo of a young woman in ¾ profile with her eyes mostly closed—over this the title of the WIP “Surface Tension” is superimposed.
February 1, 2026 at 2:04 AM
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | suggest vibes✨

Amos offering MC a little food for thought…

From my post-apocalyptic #WIP featuring a misfit trio of kids.

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: “Ain't no humanity left in this world,” she muttered. “And yet here you are,” Amos said, gesturing at the food. “Sitting at our table. Breaking bread.” He bit a chunk out of the loaf and handed the rest of it to her. “What would you call that?” She scoffed. “Pity.” He stared at her for a moment. She kept her eyes down, and he shook his head. “All right then, Lennie, say it's pity. Think sharks have pity on their prey? How about a pack of starving dogs? Ever seen one turn on its master?” He leaned in. “Because I have. Starving animals care for two things only: the hunt and the kill.” “I seen people kill,” she whispered. “And I've seen starving fathers give the last of their food to their children. I've seen mothers squeeze the last drops of water from a cloth into their child’s mouth. I've seen strangers sacrifice themselves for people they hardly knew.” He sat back. “I bet you've seen some of that too.” She picked at the loaf with her fingernail, flaking off some of the burnt crust. “And maybe you're here because someone took pity on you.” He pointed to the closed cabin door. “She didn't have to take you in. She chose to. And maybe it was pity, maybe something else, but I'll tell you this. Pity is a distinctly human emotion.” He pushed a glass of water toward her and she lifted her eyes at last. “So, you being here? Hell. I'd say there's a bit of humanity left after all.”
January 30, 2026 at 9:00 AM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
nushdeco.bsky.social
Comm for @khonri.com 💜
✨FASHION ✨
e frontier magazine with naki
January 29, 2026 at 2:24 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
badlitfriends.bsky.social
We... did not know we could make clips that made us look like we almost understand marketing but you learn something every day! Listen to our latest episode on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube (when we remember to enable the episode) and all the usual places. And unusual ones. #booksky #writesky
thecrumpet.bsky.social ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠 @thecrumpet.bsky.social · 7d
People, I do not claim PR skills. But I am 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 to cajole y'all into listening to BAD LIT FRIENDS' latest episode about comp titles. I mean, agents hate this one simple comp trick... wait, no, that's not it. Listen anyway! #writingcommunity #writesky #podcast

podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/c...
January 28, 2026 at 7:07 AM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
pamelaelaela.bsky.social
Had quite a few instances of this word, thanks to a nickname my MC earns. This one’s from awfully close to the end, but what can I say, I love a little romance. Even when it’s complicated. Ah, young love. ☺️

#WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #AmWriting #AmQuerying
📚💙
A swell of music drifts out of the ballroom, the cello striking a mellow, wistful note that ambles toward us. Cyrus wordlessly offers his hand. I take it, a warm rush flooding my body as it folds against his. In the evening light, his eyes have the color and intensity of dark coffee. He smells like campfires and inky blackberries and the spruces where we walk together, and when our gazes collide, I am sure. I know what I feel, and I know what I see in his eyes—heat and desire and, yes, the bitter tang of uncertainty—but more than anything, there is longing. “You can tell me.” My eyes track back and forth between his as we sway. “Whatever’s holding you back. I want to know.” His quest over my face. “What do you think about promises, Storm Cloud?” I don’t understand. What will be the cost of my answer? No matter what I say, I suspect it’ll be painfully high. Finally, I reply. “I think they’re like cut flowers—prettiest when they’re new, ordinary when they die, small miracles when they endure.” His dimple flashes. “You and your poetry.” “Which you like to vandalize.” Our gazes snag. My fingers float to the back of his neck. “I found your drawing in my book, Cheap Shot.” His jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
January 27, 2026 at 12:46 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
For the first time in my writerly life, I'm experiencing writers block. I have a lot of projects I could be working on, but I'm struggling to choose one and put a single word on the page.

How do you overcome writers block? Wrong answers only. 😜
January 27, 2026 at 9:15 AM
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | storm vibes✨

Bit of post-apocalyptic “snow.”

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: A flurry of gray drifted over the pines, dusting the branches. She wished desperately that she could open her mouth to it, let the flakes catch on her tongue, but she knew better. That sort of innocence was best left to the withering pages of the children's books her mother sometimes used for kindling. Still. It was a quiet moment, the soot draping the woods in a cloak of silence. How could one feel so cut off, enclosed in all this wilderness? A speck of it caught on her wrist. She flicked it away. How would it feel to taste something pure? Sweet and cold, she imagined, and melting with promise. She licked her chapped lips, watching Micah set up camp under the swirl of rotten snow. Sweet like sugar, maybe. Sweet like ice cream.
January 27, 2026 at 8:44 AM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
jenmercieca.bsky.social
if we ever lose hope, may we never lose our
humanity
For Alex Jeffery Pretti Murdered by ICE January 24, 2026 by Amanda Gorman We wake with no words, just woe & wound. Our own country shoot ing us in the back is not just brutal ity; it's jarring betrayal; not enforcement, but execution. A message: Love your people & you will die. Yet our greatest threat isn't the outsiders among us, but those among us who never look within. Fear not the those without paper, but those without conscience. Know that to care intensively, united, is to carry both pain-dark horror for today & a profound, daring hope for tomorrow. We can feel we have nothing to give, & still belove this world wait ing, trembling to change. If we cannot find words, may we find the will; if we ever lose hope, may we never lose our humanity. The only undying thing is mercy, the courage to open ourselves like doors, hug our neighbor, & save one more bright, impossible life.
January 26, 2026 at 12:34 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
eliwoodsgheist.com
Thank you sososo much @nushdeco.bsky.social for this gorgeous Edie & Milo cosplaying Edie's favorite movie, The Princess Bride ❤️❤️❤️ you always deliver but this has me weepingggg LOOK AT THEMMM ❤️❤️❤️
A brunette woman in a red dress is cuddled up to a dark haired man dressed as the Dread Pirate Roberts from The Princess Bride
January 25, 2026 at 5:16 PM
kayleighdiaz.com
Gawwwd take me back to the 90s. Can we do a hard reset, please? Kthx.
January 24, 2026 at 11:42 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
ireneaddie.bsky.social
“The world needs all of our power and love and energy, and each of us has something that we can give.” -Merle Shain

#poetry #haiku #poem #writingcommunity
January 24, 2026 at 9:45 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
reaper-man.bsky.social
"You took an oath to uphold the law and defend the citizens without fear or favor,” said Vimes. "... You're an officer of the law, not a soldier of the government"

- Terry Pratchett, Night Watch
You took an oath to uphold the law and defend the citizens without fear or favor," said Vimes."And to protect the innocent. That's all they put in. Maybe they thought those were the important things. Nothing in there about orders, even from me. You're an officer of the law, not a soldier of the government. Terry Pratchett, Night Watch (Discworld,#29; City Watch,#6)
January 24, 2026 at 5:25 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
jenthorne.bsky.social
I was writing this to honour Edgar Allen Poe's birthday, but I didn't get it finished. I've picked out the best bits for #WIPSnips.

It's definitely a work in progress!

#writingcommunity #writesky
Boneyard I walked as a marionette of marrow, veiled in clinging, guilt-riddled flesh, piloted by a tyrant mind whispering pain into the abyss. Doomed to rot as time gnaws through bones, brittle with memory. The pressure of regret warps my spine, ribs become tight fists, locked around an anthracite heart. And when the final breath fled, when the battery ceased its beat, broken for a final time, I remained. A shrine of torment trapped within a cathedral of calcium.
January 24, 2026 at 8:56 AM
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | bone = skeletal

From the opening chapter of my post-apocalyptic #WIP, wherein the MC is looking for a cricket in a jar in the crawl space beneath her house and finds something…unexpected. 👀

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: Her mother was calling her name, but rather than answering, she worked her way deeper into the space, elbows and forearms slick with mud. The air was both rank and enticing, a mix of petrichor and whatever animals had chosen this spot as their last destination; a Hail Mary search for shelter in a world unraveling. She nudged a few skeletal remains out of her way, listening. And there it was. Click. How could a jar have rolled this far? The wind was fierce, but surely it couldn't have drifted through feet of mud. Lightning flashed, illuminating the space for the briefest moment, and something pale caught her eye. Just to the right, just out of reach. She paused. Another flash, longer, the tail of the strike branching out, spreading across the night sky, crackling its way through the atmosphere. Long enough that she saw the pale figure, crouched low, fingernails tapping against the jar. Long enough for her to see scars, etched like bolts across its face. Enough to see eyes wider than wide, watching her. Long enough for her to scream. She pushed back blindly on all fours, palms sliding in the mud. It was pitch-dark now and silent apart from her panicked breaths. Back, back, back—the wind nipped at the hem of her shirt, lifting it, so she knew she was close when the lightning lit up again, and she half expected to see that ghostly face inches from her own, staring her down, but the crawl space as far as she could see was empty. She reached the open air and stood, watching the dark space beneath the porch, but no one—or nothing—emerged.
January 24, 2026 at 10:16 AM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
professoremily.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #writingcommunity #writers #writesky

Mireia is dissatisfied with the eulogy given at her father's funeral 😢

From the opening chapter of my upcoming book THE GODS OF ATALANTIS, Part 1 of my #Atlantis trilogy.
It wasn’t the priestess’s fault her eulogy was so lackluster. She was relatively young, newly transferred here from the Temple of the Moon. Normally it would have been the old priest who conducted the funeral, but lately his age had been catching up to him; he would no doubt soon be carried out to sea on a funeral barge of his own. If I was the village priestess, Mireia thought, what would I say about my father? He was neither a hero nor a monster. He was neither a leader nor a follower. He did not stand out. He was not special. He ended his life exactly as he began it. “Terrible,” Aro’s voice chastised her in her head. Honest, Mireia argued. “You can do better than that.” She closed her eyes and dug deep inside herself, grappling through the numbness to find something that captured what her father was. His clothes smelled always of fish. His eyes carried with them the dance of the sun on the waves. He hated to argue, and he liked to tell the same handful of stories over and over again. His jokes were rare and straight-faced, but they always earned laughter. He died too young and too suddenly. He will not be remembered by the time my grandchildren’s grandchildren are walking this earth.
January 23, 2026 at 3:45 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
gunsmile.bsky.social
Paperback preorders for THE DEVOURING are now available at:

Barnes & Noble
Bookshop
Books-a-Million
+ a few other retailers

Join Jason and Ayana on their hunt for the truth behind his brother's murder and an impossible illness. Preorder today: books2read.com/u/mvDRWX

#WritingCommunity #Booksky 💙📚
A hand holds up a paperback copy of THE DEVOURING by A. M. Shilling. The red and black Rorschach inkblot cover contrasts sharply with the soft white and green of the window and fake tree behind it. Framing the top and bottom of the book are big white letters that say: PAPERBACK PREORDERS NOW AVAILABLE GET YOUR COPY
January 23, 2026 at 5:25 PM
kayleighdiaz.com
New art comm! A bit of stargazing for these kiddos in the apocalypse. 🌠

Thank you to @nushdeco.bsky.social for bringing this moment to life! 🥰❤️

#Art #DigitalArt #WritingCommunity #WriteSky
Digital art of a teenage boy and girl lying in the grass, stargazing. Dark forest color scheme. Top-down view w/ tree leaves and red berries in the foreground, flowers in the grass, fireflies in the air. The boy (shoulder-length brown hair, blue-eyed, light-skinned, wearing long sleeves and a dark vest, jeans) is smiling, looking at the girl, and pointing up. The girl (same complexion and hair color—medium length, braided—but with brown eyes, a subtle glow to them, wearing a dark green shirt & gray long-sleeved undershirt, patched jeans) is smiling slightly, gazing upward at the stars. Their hands are clasped.
January 23, 2026 at 3:13 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
pamelaelaela.bsky.social
Not too many tattoos in this book, but I did find this little moment. Danbi meets Hart’s family.

#WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #AmWriting #AmQuerying
📚💙
“Ayala, this is my friend Danbi. We go to academy together.” “Danbi?” she repeats. “I like that name.” “Thanks,” I say. “I like yours too.” “It means ‘doe.’ What does ‘Danbi’ mean?” “Sweet rain.” Ayala pats Hart’s arm, and he lowers her to the floor. She grabs my hand and begins steering me through the house. Framed photographs and artwork brighten each wall. Every corner harbors some intimate item—a basket of weathered walking sticks, a pair of rainboots with faces drawn on the toes. It’s the kind of house that feels alive, every nook and cranny reverberating with an excess of love and memory. What would it be like to grow up in a home like this? “Papa!” Ayala calls as she tows me up with her to the kitchen counter. A tower of a man in a frilly lavender apron stands behind it, chopping onions. His knife-wielding arm features a figure-eight-shaped tattoo. The knife nimbly taps along the butcher block as he glances up. “This is Sweet Rain,” Ayala says. “She came with Hart and has pretty hair.” She scrambles up into a chair and nibbles on a ginger snap.
January 22, 2026 at 2:31 PM
kayleighdiaz.com
#WIPSnips | tattoo

Welp, guess I prepared for the wrong word today 😅, so here's a strange tattoo on a strange boy. From an abandoned #YA #WIP.

#WritingCommunity #WriteSky #amwriting
Writing snippet: He loosens his body casually. Continues to hold her gaze. “I’m Aamon.” “Kassidy,” she says. Then she squints again at the hieroglyphics. Did she imagine it, or had they moved? She lifts her hand again. “What—” He skirts away from her, shifting so her hand grazes air. “Look, don’t touch,” he chides, but he tilts his head as he considers her; his expression hardens suddenly, and she swears, now, that the molten brown of his irises cracks, fiery red bleeding through. “Wait,” he says. “Did you… see something?” She shakes her head, snapping back like returning from an out-of-body experience. She’s lightheaded. She hasn’t had anything to eat, eager to get to her volunteer work at the shelter. Desperate to get out of the house. That explains it. She’s just hungry, blood sugar maybe a little low. She’s not hallucinating, and the stupid words hadn’t moved. Right? “Kassidy,” he says, voice low, and the tone is far too intimate. He leans into her space and repeats himself. “Did you see something, Kassidy?” “N-no,” she manages, and then she stands abruptly, edging past him. She brushes against his legs and makes her way to the front of the bus, glancing quickly over her shoulder, and then she’s hallucinating again because she swears his body ripples, like the flash of a silver-finned fish caught in the sunlight. She turns back to the driver. “Can you stop here, please?” He’s a hefty man in his fifties, body and clothes damp with Louisiana heat. “Don’t make unschedul’d stops.” “Please,” she says again, chancing a look back at the boy, and he’s standing now. Slowly. “Please,” she repeats, and he must hear the desperation in her voice because he does a double take, then checks the overlarge rearview. He mutters something and pulls over, braking hard.
January 22, 2026 at 12:54 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
reaper-man.bsky.social
Our thieves encounter one of their first hurdles during a heist: Scruffy's unorthodox spelling.
Deputy Foreman Grintz looked like he hadn’t caught a wink of sleep since the harbour was first built, thought Fia, as she and Scruffy entered his office by the private docks. Red eyes, shaky hands, wrinkles criss-crossing his forehead deep enough to park a bus in. Good. Tired men asked fewer questions. She and Scruffy approached in their stolen dockworker garb. Scruffy, who had embellished his with a high-vis vest and glasses, looked like some sort of scarecrow employed by the traffic commission. He flourished the clipboard of forged documents at the foreman with far more confidence than his disguise, or spelling, warranted. “Ah, there you are,” Scruffy said briskly, before Grintz could speak. “Terrible situation. Absolutely dreadful.” Grintz lifted the clipboard right up to his nose. Fia watched his eyebrows make the short commute from apprehension to disbelief before finally clocking in at bewilderment. URGENT MAINTENENENCE ORDER: ROOF OF WEREHOUSE 12C IN DANGER OF COLLAPSE. ALLOW INSPECTION OF ROOF TO CARRY OUT REPAIRS AND TRANSPORT MATERIALS. THESE TWO CONTRACTORS ARE IMPOTENT IMPORTANT. AUTHRORIZ AUTORIZ LET THEM USE THE CRANE. SIGNED: HARBOURMASTER FENWICK HOLT.
January 21, 2026 at 8:11 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
cfranciswrites.bsky.social
No activity in my WIP. But they're doing an activity here, so... vibes?

Ess is a con artist with forbidden magic, able to control minds through touch in a world where skin is taboo. Forced into a plot to infiltrate the forum, she finds herself drawing closer to her mark's suspicious son.

#WIPSnips
“Creative,” Caladon said, “but not quite right. May I?” He pointed at the pieces, stacked up on the table between them. The moment Ess nodded, he stretched across the table. Piece by piece he dismantled her work, returning the units to their proper places with meticulous care. “Have you played Stones before?” he asked, eyes on the board. She stared at his hand, at the way his long fingers lingered on each piece for a heartbeat before he let it go. Heat pricked across her cheeks. These counters were more than cut crystal to him; they were his friends, the men he sent to their deaths. Not toys to stack up and let fall. His hand slowed, and he glanced up, waiting for an answer. A thousand little victories flickered through her memory: sun-baked afternoons in the courtyard, Pappa’s rough knuckles and ink-stained sleeves, the battered Stones board between them. His delighted groan whenever she cornered him, his eyes lost in a sunburst of smile lines. But Galen’s notes made no mention of Praetessa Esphyra’s talent for humiliating her father at small-scale tactical simulations. In fact, they didn’t mention Stones at all. Lifting one shoulder, she said, “it’s some sort of game, I take it?” “A game?” Caladon frowned, eyes flicking between hers. “Praetessa, it’s war.” Ess dropped her gaze to the board. Three hundred squares, nineteen black, the rest white. She smothered a smile. “A very small war and… mercifully contained.” The corners of his lips twitched. Almost.
January 21, 2026 at 1:07 PM
kayleighdiaz.com
No new pictures.

Where are you at mentally?

(Me to my students...and some colleagues)
"let me ask chat gpt" Me: *Image of Mr. Rogers pointing at his head* "Did you ever grow anything in the garden of your mind?"
January 20, 2026 at 6:03 PM
Reposted by Kayleigh Diaz
reaper-man.bsky.social
Sigh, the things I do for you, sis. 😅
A semicolon wearing a trenchcoat. The comma and full stop both wear sunglasses. Text: "Should we pause and take a look?" "Yes, but not for long."
January 19, 2026 at 10:52 PM