A review of “(Skin)” by Chelsea Sutton, published in Diabolical Plots

There are plenty of short stories that center on miracles, but few stories feel like actual miracles themselves. And that’s true of Chelsea Sutton’s “(Skin),” published in Diabolical Plots in October 2025. 

In “(Skin),” Sutton, a self-described writer of “gothic whimsy,” does something remarkable: not only does she juggle a novel’s worth of points of view over the course of 3,000 words, but she manages to wrap up a bizarre fable in a bold and experimental style. It should be too much for so few words (or even one writer), but Sutton pulls it off gracefully.  

“(Skin)” tells the story of Estelle Irby (or more precisely Irby’s skin). In the opening lines, Irby passes away at home in front of her wife, daughter, and doctor. But when the last breath leaves Irby’s body, something strange happens. Like a soul rising up to heaven, her skin peels away from her body and starts walking around. While Irby’s wife and daughter grieve and recall those special, private moments with Irby, the doctor sees an opportunity. Recognizing this as the scientific discovery of a lifetime, the doctor—who has no interest in the miracle’s meaning or usefulness—believes it can make him very rich. Before the skin can be restrained, he’s already lining up buyers for portions of Estelle Irby’s sentient skin. Of course, it all ends up very bad for the (good) doctor, and the story’s conclusion brings us back to the family at the center of it all in a satisfying and emotional final paragraph.

What’s most striking throughout “(Skin)” is Sutton’s use of parentheticals. What might be a gimmick in a lesser writer’s hands becomes an integral part of the story’s style and form. This choice infects nearly every line, including its title, and Sutton lets this choice communicate so much of what cannot be said. The parallels between the mark of punctuation and the central metaphor of skin are obvious: both serve as a boundary, a fence designed to enclose. Yet what we find inside those parentheticals is as varied as the various plot threads woven into the story. Sutton manages to include moments of tenderness (“clicking and puckering her mouth in all sorts of strange sounds meant to withhold Estelle’s true (always proud, always warm) feelings”), cynicism (“Dr. Rannow made a list of the many ways he could retire on this discovery (the whole business of dying was tedious, boring, and certainly he couldn’t spend another thirty years doing this)”), and humor (“The nurse, oblivious to what was happening with the Skin (though knowing Estelle Irby was bound to expire any minute, and hoping it would be soon, as she had a pre-paid Zumba class to go to that evening and did not want to lose that $30), was a bit confused”). The language throughout is beautiful and precise, made up of the kind of winding sentence structures expected from a 19th-century novelist, but Sutton’s use of parentheticals makes the journey to each full stop feel like an innovative (and modern) voyage rather than a struggle. 

And while the overall story coheres well, there might be a bit of sag in the middle as we take an extended detour, following the (good) doctor’s capitalistic pursuits. The writing, unsurprisingly, is consistently brilliant, but the doctor subplot, though it provides for an interesting contrast in perspective, might distract from the story’s emotional core, which centers Irby’s wife and daughter and their shared (and unshared) grief.

Nonetheless, I think it’s a story that demands reading. Sutton somehow crams “(Skin)” full of chaos, and yet, it never feels chaotic. Her control and restraint are excellent, and she’s clearly a writer to watch–and fortunately, you can. Her debut novella Krackle’s Last Movie launches February 10th.   

Gewgaws:*

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*Gewgaws are like Michelin stars, but better cause they're for short fiction. They are determined by the editor with input from the reviewer.
1 is great; 2 is exceptional; 3 is perfect.