Erin Latham Shea
Bio
Assistant Poetry Editor at Wishbone Words
Content Writer + Editor at The Roch Society
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
Bluesky: @elshea.bsky.social
Achievements (7)
Stories (52)
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Serving Spoon
Adults look silly eating watermelon. But aren't funeral receptions inherently awkward? Fretful. Surely Aunt Rachel should have cut them into sticks (more dignified) rather than triangles. Instead of a feel-good summer snack, there's an air of humiliation in dripping rinds and wet chins. She should have known better.
By Erin Latham Shea2 years ago in Chapters
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 Shea2 years 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 Shea3 years 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 Shea3 years ago in Fiction
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 Shea3 years ago in Fiction
