Skin Thief
Suzan Palumbo
Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9781952086427
Neon Hemlock, September 30, 2023, 167 pgs

Because I love short fiction, I often end up reviewing anthologies for this column. I was drawn to Suzan Palumbo’s debut collection because I’ve encountered her fiction out in the wild and found that her stories consistently speak to me. There are many, many anthologies and collections¹ out there, and each author or editor will have their variations, their preferred approach. One thing I’ll note up front is that Palumbo’s book gathers a fair number of stories, but most of them are free to read online. I have commented occasionally that I really appreciate when anthologies and collections bring material to the fore which might otherwise be hard or even impossible to access, books which shine a light on works that might have otherwise been missed. It is perhaps the case with Palumbo, as it is with many newer writers, that the bulk of her publications to-date happen to appear in online magazines². But don’t make the mistake of thinking that this book isn’t worth the money. There are gems in here which are not free to read online, including “Kill Jar,” which is original to this book. So I’ll discuss some of the pieces which appeared in print, beginning with this original work.

“Kill Jar” is on the longer end of the short story spectrum, landing somewhere over 9,600 words, and could be seen as Suzan Palumbo’s gift to folks who purchase this collection. The opening is fascinating, elegant, and just strange enough: Adelaide is a child growing up around a garden of poisonous plants. The prose is carefully written and deliberately evocative, working on the reader in multiple ways. In one of the more memorable scenes Palumbo juxtaposes a serious father obsessed with these lethal plants and Adelaide’s play. Subtle word choices and phrases embellish this dichotomy, creating something absolutely marvelous. Palumbo takes the emotions a step deeper, sketching Adelaide as lacking even basic affection in her life, as her father treats her somewhat like an experiment. Adelaide grows, and her father brings her into his work even more, trusting her to help with measurements, experiments, and so on. He says she’ll be fine as long as she does what he tells her to do—but this is moments after she has demonstrated to the reader some of the ways in which she has trouble following his instructions. Which is fair, because, dear reader, part of the creepiness here is that the father is kind of sketchy. Then again, he’s her father, and “working together” just might be the only kind of affection he will afford her. Add to all of this Adelaide’s vivid nightmares, plus the drugs Dad makes her take. And, just as Palumbo has pulled you into this dreamlike setup, she drops in a little bit of mystery about who Adelaide might be, and what might have happened to her mom—a perfect flicker of shadow to make the reader curious, but not so much that we can outright guess exactly what the outcome of the story will be. I mean, yes, you will probably have an idea or two, but trust me, you’ll still feel the need to keep reading to know exactly how it all plays out. And you won’t be disappointed in following that curiosity.

For folks looking for an action-driven plot, this is not the story for you. Many who love horror or generally darker stuff will gravitate towards gritty tales, jarring images, and acts of outright violence. This one is also not for you. But a line from deeper within the story is telling: “Violence is more than laying hands . . . .” Adelaide’s story is told mostly through internalization. Think vibes, atmosphere, and wonderfully rich subtext. The narrative is as much about the emotional journey of a young girl discovering who she is as it is about setting and ideas and mystery. Part of that journey is about grappling with what you are, and what that means to the people around you, which isn’t always pleasant. A sneakier bit of theme, by my read, is about what I’ll call personal colonization—someone taking an individual as a child and alienating them from their cultural heritage. It’s also just . . . a perfectly messed up story, and beautifully told. The climax is rewarding, visceral, striking. Many readers may see a few things coming, but ultimately, the story does everything it should: it’s a great piece which is well worth the price of admission. For readers out there familiar with Palumbo’s work, it delivers those deeper meanings, those cathartic notes that we really love to see in fiction. If that sounds like your kind of story, then just stop here. Go get this book immediately.

“Her Voice, Unmasked” originally appeared in issue one of Michael Kelly’s Weird Horror magazine. While I haven’t kept up with the publication, this story makes me wonder what other fantastic works might appear in those pages. The piece is told from the perspective of Justine, an automaton built to sing. But we encounter Justine as someone who has been built expressly as a conduit for an inventor’s “genius”—we meet Justine and immediately feel a sense of profound discomfort at the complete and ruthless control he exerts over her body. And if we want to use the word “genius” properly, then let’s apply it to Palumbo’s storytelling, which can evoke this discomfort in the space of a few lines. If you won’t allow “genius,” then let’s at least call it a quick bit of impressive work by Palumbo, a narrative delivery which is unsettling, effective, and again, immediately rich in subtext. Justine must sing at the opera, and the inventor wants her to move the audience, not just imitate the sounds. But the perspective, the pressure expressed, the narrative focus, all come together to make this tale superb.

When she is not training, Justine is used as a teaching device, similar to a plaster model, a dummy, a prop against which dancers can compare their form. The duality here is the dehumanizing of someone sentient and the ways the actual humans can be both alive but crammed into restrictive types and roles and behaviors. There is also an irony at play in having a “real” person obsessively imitating an automaton in their search for “perfection.” Justine has a conversation with one of these girls who was passed over for an important performance, and there is something really wonderful that Palumbo brings out in their encounter, something which is seriously skillful but hard to explain here.

There are many things a reader (or reviewer) could look at and discuss in this story. The sense of “otherness” for example, of being out of place, which thrums quietly between the lines, but which Palumbo brings to the fore when Justine is dressed for her performance, her alloy body a contradiction to the cloth finery designed for flesh. A major theme of the piece is autonomy, and it may seem like an obvious direction, to tell a story about autonomy via an automaton. But it’s a breathtaking telling, with nuanced elements of the theme thoughtfully played together, allowing careful readers to consider everything from unusual angles; particularly through mirrored and overlapping circumstances—all making for an excellent story. More than this (at least on my read), it’s about embracing yourself, your entire self, for all your horror and wonder, and the power you can find in doing so.

“The Bride” originally appeared in Neon Hemlock’s original anthology Unfettered Hexes, which was edited by publisher dave ring, and was one of the books that made me start to consider Neon Hemlock as a purveyor of truly great fiction. Palumbo, as usual, delivers lovely prose and some great lines right at the start, creating mood and, importantly, distinctiveness—personality. Alice likes being independent, and in a situation that many will find relatable, she is under pressure from folks around her to find a husband. Palumbo is an expert with irony, and here Alice makes wedding dresses for a living. Of course, she’s very good at it. One night, she sees something on the side of the road, perhaps “someone,” who is clothed in a gorgeous, shimmering dress. As a skilled dressmaker, Alice is curious. Not long after the sighting, people–well, bad men—start dying mysterious deaths. Meanwhile, Alice feels drawn to find the ominous figure she’d glimpsed before, which the reader instinctively knows is connected (but trust me, you’ll feel eager to keep reading to find out where it’s all going). It’s familiar and fun, but Palumbo consistently breathes new and interesting life into familiar things, utilizing depth of character, and infusing narratives with layered meaning, not to mention sly characterization and deft emotionality. This one is about loneliness, uniqueness, and not quite being seen, not quite being accepted. For me, it’s about finding your place in the world, as told through a horror lens.

Suzan Palumbo is a consistently great writer. Even if many of these pieces can be found online, she’s doing you a favor by making it easier for you, gathering them together into a convenient package. Frankly, in my opinion, the original piece alone is worth the money. If you like dark, literary, thought-provoking fiction, make this book your next read.

¹. You’ll find the terms “collection” and “anthology” vary greatly depending on the source, genre, or even the country. Here I am following the Locus Magazine definitions, where “collection” signifies a book gathering work by a single author, and “anthology” signifies a book gathering stories by multiple authors.

². Here is her publication history according to the Internet Speculative Fiction Database, but please note that they are not always exhaustive; they are a great starting point but you can’t assume they are always complete: bit.ly/3FDhdcX.