![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/c_fill,f_jpg,fl_progressive,h_302,q_auto,w_1512/61cb7938a4e64c001ef18555.jpg)
Tessa Markham
Stories (6/0)
Dark Lightning
The low-lying river delta fills the horizon, reflecting the blue-green sky in its waters. Herds of massive animals move across the landscape; ferns seven feet tall tower over the smaller creatures as they dart in and out from under their cover. Dipping and flitting beneath the clouds fly creatures that look almost like birds. The buzzing of insects gently vibrates the air, overlapping white noise almost too quiet to hear.
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Fiction
When in Drought
Tropical Forest, Queensland, Australia The wind rustles through our needles, barely holding onto our fragile limbs. Some fall, down, down to the earth. Light and drying into yellow, a breeze lifts them from our limbs and together they dance. Layers of dehydrated leaves and needles blanket our floor, too thick, too dry, too much. Dust billows, like sediment rising in the ocean, up through the brush and settles in the cracks of our bark. We haven't been this parched in centuries. Vines, twisting their lengths along the full height of our trunks, loosen their grips and dust settles in their drying bark, filtering through the cracks. Void of leaves, too barren for the season, they creak and settle around us. It already feels like summer, even though spring is just beginning. Swallows flit between our branches, wingtips just a breath away. Their song carries on the breeze and echoes between our trunks. We would smile if we could. An echidna, stout nose prodding gently at half-decomposed detritus and termite mounds, shuffles between us, feet tripping slightly on our surface roots. It can't even find insects to eat. Our brittle needles snap and give away under its gentle weight. The sun warms our canopy, breaking through to our floor between our shy crowns, and speckles the too-dry shrub with shifting, dappled, winking flecks of gold. We drink in its rays while wishing instead for rain, waiting for today's solstice night to fall.
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Earth
Not Enough
Polar Bear Den, Ellesmere Island, Canada I blink furiously, eyes shimmering in the sunlight as I squint through its new brightness for the first time. The snow is soft beneath my paws and its countless flakes cling to the fur between my toepads. I turn my head, ears flicking, and look all around. It’s the solstice, the first day of spring, and the sky is so big. I thump into a sitting position, still looking at the cloud-dotted blue, and feel the breeze through my fur. Our mother said the days will only get longer from now until winter, but I can’t wait to see the stars. My brother starts to run off, kicking snow into my nose as he goes past, his head wagging excitedly from side-to-side. I respond in kind, shaking my head, and hop up to go after him. I can still barely see past the glare of sunlight on the snow. From behind, a low cuff, like an almost-growl. My brother and I skid to a stop, paws digging into the snowpack, and turn to our mother. She growls again and we return.
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Earth
Floods
Puffin Colony, Maine, USA The wind rushes past, ruffling along the back edges of my feathers and stinging my eyes. My partner flies beside me, her wingstrokes almost in tandem with my own. We dip and glide between the ocean’s updrafts, flying in earnest towards the coastline far ahead, just below the horizon. The breeze shifts into warmer currents as we approach the shore, the one we see every year. Just a slope of green before the larger rocky coastline behind it, this island is where we come to breed; this is the island where I was born. We come back every year on the solstice, nesting before summer starts to come. Other pairs land first and latch their feet onto the land, one in front of the other, as they put their beaks to the ground, wings still outstretched. Some of them bump against one another and they part their beaks in momentary annoyance. Then their wings fold and they duck their heads into their burrows. My partner lands just before me and I follow. As she goes to inspect the outer edges of our burrow, the one we’ve used each year, I dip my head inside it.
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Earth
Rising Seas
Iron Age Village, Orkney, Scotland Ocean waves crash to my left against ragged cliffs of stacked sedimentary rock only a few feet tall. Speckles of salty foam breach the too-tall berms and shower the yellowing marram grasses. Short blades fade into moss and then lichen along the rocky shore, stone and sand mixing in a gradient along the inshore berm. The lapping of waves on the beach melds with the whistling of wind across the island. Green hills tinged with fragmented yellow stretch out before me. They look flatter than I thought they were. A low wall stands to my right, sweeping through the grass in a rounded square, almost a circle. It’s rough and worn and doesn’t come up past my knees. I pivot and lean down over it, looking into the central indentation and the stone structures within. Small rectangles of packed earth bordered with thin stones line two walls and a doorway stands in the third, topped with the earth and grass that surrounds me. Dew gathers at the upper edges of the walls, teasing its droplets between the stiff grass and cold stone. There’s a half-open structure built into the wall farthest from me, and a hearth, empty and void of ashes, sits squarely in the middle of the room.
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Earth
Battle Scars
“They’re not,” disbelieves Sadie, her small hands partly submerged in the warm, soapy water. “They are, I swear. These are battle scars.” I run my left finger down and up my opposite forearm, fingertips trembling as they skim over its rows of ridges. Anxiously, my cheeks flush hot and my palms bead with sweat. “When I was younger, about how old your brother is, I—” pause for dramatic effect—“was kidnapped.” I lean down towards her and make a show of looking shocked. “Kidnapped—” pause— “by these goblin-slash-faerie creatures from another world,” I whisper, dishcloth slack in my grasp as I turn off the faucet. “I was in bed, in my bedroom. It was the dead of night and they came for me. They pinned me down and put a sack over my head and tied me up just like the Christmas goose.”
By Tessa Markham3 years ago in Psyche