Skirt Underworld, and other stories

by Summer Morrison

SKIRT UNDERWORLD

The biting first frost of autumn has laid the valleys to rest, my sheep tarnished yellow in contrast to the pale ground. An early chill has ended their grazing and sent them to the barn, allowing me to find salvation from my loneliness and a pint of that dark liquid. 

Entering the inn, I am flushed by dense heat. My exposed skin burns and cheeks brighten. Lead by my reddened nose, that is steadily dripping, to the bar where the landlord is welcoming me back. When, from the corner of my lowered gaze, the stool next to me pulls out and the lacy bottom of a dress swings down. 

“Sorry but did you come into this pub the summer just gone, to sell wool?”

I look up to see a woman with broad shoulders and painted lips, I explain how I have not any wool. Yet, she is unbothered by this and instead confesses that she has a secret to tell me. When I ask what it is about she replies ‘Even a whisper would be too loud’ and drags me upstairs into the inn’s humble room. The softness of her hand making me hope that this secret is a confession of affection. 

And there, drenched in candle light, she starts to lift up her skirt. I watch, excited for the reveal of her stockings; imagining lace and frills of the most tempting textures. However, as her skirt climbs higher, no well-polished shoe or silky stockings are displayed. Instead, valleys of verdant green line the inside of her dress. 

“Caught in an eternal summer, your home is displayed under my skirt.”

As I stare at the perfect image of my barn projected below, a wolf slips under the door. Supernatural sickness takes hold and I throw myself out the room, fear warming me as I make my way with haste back to the barn. 

In the darkness, I struggle to see what is trailing out in front of me, the ice melted and ground stained. Panting, I follow this trail to my barn where my sheep lay with their bellies open and bleeding.

Betrayal when hunting

You wanted a swan for dinner, I put your obscene palate to blame. Revolting, I think at your every request. How you’re always hungry for something that does not wish to be eaten. My apron is stained with cat milk, frog’s eggs and torn by many creatures’ claws, tainted by all the foul things you pervert into delicacy. Even though I warned you ‘swans are proud creatures that are hard to catch and even harder to pluck’, your stomach still growled and I knew that this would be the only way to keep you satisfied. 

My hair doesn’t curl anymore, I realise as it’s thrown around by the breeze. Fragile artificial tangerine flickering up while I search the river for a swan. In the next field a horse’s tail whips from side to side, scaring the smoke thick clouds of flies away. Its tail reminds me of how I wore my hair as a teenager, when I used to write your name in hearts and save my money up for underwear I thought would impress you. Conversely, I was always self-conscious about how my ponytail would sway as I walked.  

Skimming across the river lands a shockingly bright swan, pleating the water with deep waves. Adrenaline pouring as I lay a trail of crumbs down, crouching waiting for the swan to come close. Curiously the swan stretches its neck to see the trail and slowly eats its way over to me. With each flashy smack of its orange feet my anticipation builds until I forget whether I wanted to hunt a swan or not, all I know is how to be the person who satisfies your hunger. So when it eats the last crumb I pounce, taking it by the neck. I stand with this slowing creature whose wings do not fight anymore. As the swan hangs from my hand a gust of wind throws up my skirt, my arm feels heaver now in this moment of shame. 

Later that evening I watch from across the table, your knife and fork flashing. You move them with so much speed the pulsing of the light makes me squint. ‘Delicious’ you proclaim, leaving an empty plate of bones, beak and feet. I wonder if now would be an appropriate time to tell you about the brooding shame I feel.