Erin Latham Shea
Bio
New Englander
Grad Student
Living with Lupus and POTS
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
Stories (49/0)
@thewhittier6
It begins (again) as an alarm in my head. Unmistakable adrenaline. Fight or flight. There's someone in my house. I know this feeling of paranoia, this sense of entrapment, this jolt of something gone awry. Yet, I still feel my pulse quicken on instinct. Hand frozen over the coffee maker. My new Nespresso machine. Shaky hands. Mothering hands. My kids are cantankerous at the kitchen counter, smacking at an iPad. I can't remember if I took my blood pressure medication.
By Erin Latham Shea30 days ago in Fiction
Lap Cat
My nose is dripping and Delia is tracing her fingers through my hair. Her husband is shirtless by the microwave heating up leftovers from New Year's Eve. In 60 seconds I'll be shoving mouthfuls of risotto between my quivering lips like a child and picking at semi-stale dinner rolls. Then, I'll pass my plate to one of their three Tabby cats (whom I can never tell apart) and let him/her/them (?) lick it clean.
By Erin Latham Shea2 months ago in Fiction
through lust you fast
I don't care about the flowers but I care about their journey to me down a conveyor belt at the grocery store after you clocked out of work, gingerly scanned by a cashier with long unkempt hair concealing their name tag, carried up your icy steps, petals protected by a plastic casing that rustles against your beard, set in plain sight on your coffee table surrounded by acrylic paints and empty Modelo's.
By Erin Latham Shea3 months ago in Poets
sheltered space
"The medical language of illness tries to reimpose the linear, speaking in terms of the chronic, the progressive, and the terminal, of relapses and stages. But we who occupy the bodies of crip time know that we are never linear, and we rage silently—or not so silently—at the calm straightforwardness of those who live in the sheltered space of normative time." ~ Ellen Samuels
By Erin Latham Shea5 months ago in Poets
Decrescendo . Top Story - February 2024.
I'm wearing the hand-me-down leggings of a girl who got cancer and lived. Fraying and soaked at the kneecaps. I crouch by snow-sunken tires - pawing our car deeper into the hillside with ungloved hands. Futile, numb effort.
By Erin Latham Shea5 months ago in Fiction
Incurious. Runner-Up in the Whodunit Challenge.
I'm wearing a dead woman's costume. Not just any woman, I should note, but Blair Heflin - a well-connected young stage actress, newly graduated from Brandeis. You may have seen her widely circulated headshot on the news. A picture that only does her partial justice: an old Hollywood-style portrait spotlighting a versatile, oblong face and sharp collarbones. Jet-black hair in a dancer's bun. A delicate row of pearls.
By Erin Latham Shea6 months ago in Criminal
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