![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/c_fill,f_jpg,fl_progressive,h_302,q_auto,w_1512/6178ac2c3e0801001e167a65.jpg)
Erin Latham Shea
Bio
New Englander
Grad Student
Living with Lupus and POTS
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
Stories (49/0)
Forecast. Second Place in 2023 Vocal Writing Awards - Young Adult Fiction.
Picture a middling summer. Perhaps a sultry Saturday. Heavy sky. Heat that suspends time. Like most of the neighborhood kids, you're at least 3 freeze pops deep by noon. Your tongue looks positively rotted from the steady flow of dyed ice crystals. There's a half-faded glitter butterfly tattoo on your forearm from a birthday party. It doesn't matter whose party. You'll forget soon enough.
By Erin Latham Shea12 months ago in Fiction
Quietus
I felt both of my shoulder blades and wept. Caught the moment. Oh body, take care. I wished what I felt would display outward signs, would manifest in dark creeping color. Oxygenized blood. That my skin would spark. They'd touch me and then understand...no words required.
By Erin Latham Shea12 months ago in Longevity
Purple Night
"Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky." "It's an omen," I recited, crouched by Mark's grave. He could hear me better when I crouched over, whispering with my hands cupped by my mouth like a child telling a secret. I didn't want my voice to be carried away by the wind.
By Erin Latham Sheaabout a year ago in Fiction
Chronic Illness Killed My Self-Confidence
There's a common line I encounter in therapy: "comparison is the killer of joy." Five years ago, if I was handed such a line, I know I would have nodded thoughtfully and deleted Instagram from my phone for a couple of hours. How profound a lesson. How quick a fix.
By Erin Latham Sheaabout a year ago in Longevity
Grief Spiral
With a notecard and a roll of packing tape in hand, I marched my way up to the mailbox. "Cameron is dead," read my message in stark red Sharpie, which I now realize looked a bit garish. However, in the weight of the moment, I was too proud, too dedicated to my mission to retreat and revise. I was not going to stop, even for a second, until my message was fastened to the inside of the mailbox. Unmissable to the postman's eye.
By Erin Latham Sheaabout a year ago in Fiction
Subscribe to my stories
Show your support and receive all my stories in your feed.
Send me a tip
Show your support with a small one-off tip.