Author Archive

Silver Blade’s Fiction Editor

Alvin Burstein is a Professor Emeritus of Psychology at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville and a former member of the faculty at the New Orleans-Birmingham Psychoanalytic Center. He writes a monthly movie review for The Psychology Times, A Shrink At The Flics. He has been on the staff of Silver Blade for a few years, and we have benefited greatly from his presence.

Please enjoy his choices of talented writers for our Fall 2018 issue:

Reflections of You

I was in a coma,
I dreamed a world much like this one,
in it, we were married,
we had eight kids,
we lived in a house so big
we had to post maps
with arrows showing You are here
so the children could find their way,
in this dream world,
sometimes you got so drunk,
you were lost for days.
We had a dinner party with 100 guests,
only 80 made it home that night,
two were never seen again,
no one ever visited after that.
Finally, I came out of the coma,
you are not my wife,
we don’t have any children,
we live in a two-bedroom apartment
above a Chinese laundry,
with only our pet zebra (a pygmy variety)
for company,
just as before my injury.
And yet, some things seem off,
didn’t I have an old Mustang,
and you a sewing hobby?
and the park across the street,
smaller than I remember,
sometimes I wonder
if I am still in a coma,
so tonight I propose to you,
I’ll tell you I want six or eight kids,
that we’ll have to move,
but you can keep the zebra.
We’ll see what happens,
oh, but I hope you say yes.
— David C. Kopaska-Merkel
David C. Kopaska-Merkel edited Star*line in the late ‘90s, and later served as SFPA President. His 29th book, a speculative-poetry collection entitled Metastable Systems, has been nominated for the Elgin award. Kopaska-Merkel edits and publishes Dreams and Nightmares, a genre poetry zine in its 32nd year of publication.
Editor’s Notes: About the poem, the author said, “How do you know this is reality? This poem doesn’t answer that question, but it takes a stab at it.” For the image, Demiart and a zebra are worked in together.

The Change

by Mike Murphy

It was the morning of the 12th when 34-year-old Simon Baker first noticed The Change.

He was sitting on the toilet in his cramped upstairs bathroom when he saw a sudden flash of yellow in the vanity mirror to his left. He leapt to his feet, thinking a bumblebee had gotten into the house. He and his wife, Loretta, had been having problems with them lately. What he saw in the mirror stopped him in his tracks. For nearly a minute, he stared at his reflection.

The yellow he had seen was his own hair.

But how? His hair had always been black. He had never dyed it. Whenever Wendy, his stylist, suggested putting various lotions and potions on it, he always politely declined. “As long as it stays on my head,” he’d say, “just cut it.”

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and ran his fingers through his hair. Yup, definitely blond. Even the stubble on his face was blond. His arms, his chest. . . everywhere . . . blond. Frightened, he ran down the hall to the bedroom. “Honey!” he called.

Loretta grumbled and pulled the comforter over her head. “Let me sleep,” she pleaded. “I told you that I don’t have to be at work until ten this morning.”

“But, sweetheart –”

“Go take your shower. I’m not ready to face the world yet.”

“But it’s important!” Simon pleaded.

Loretta unhappily poked her head out from under the comforter. “What?”

“Is that all you have to say?” he asked incredulously.

“What, honey?” she replied, sitting up in bed.

“Look at me!” He gestured at his entire body with his hands.

Loretta did so. “Yeah?” she asked.

“Don’t you see?”

“Simon,” she answered, after a yawn, “I’m in no mood for games.”

“I’m a blond!” he exclaimed.

“You just noticed this?” his wife replied.


“You’ve always had blond hair,” she returned. “Now let me sleep!” She settled down on the mattress and pulled the comforter back over her head.

“Loretta, please,” Simon pleaded.

“You’re talking to the dead,” she replied. “You’d better get ready for work.”

“But –”

“Go!” Loretta exclaimed, her right index finger jutting out from under the covers like The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

Defeated, Simon gave up and shambled back to the bathroom. On the way there, he passed the series of pictures hanging on the wall, including the one from his and Loretta’s wedding day – when he had blond hair.


“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Dr. Manderson said, opening Simon’s file and flipping to a certain page. “Look here,” he continued, pointing at a particular line. “Hair: Blond.”

“Are you saying I don’t know what color my own hair is?” Simon asked, squirming on the examining table.

“Are you saying my records have been wrong all these years?” Manderson countered.

Simon sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been a patient of mine since your twenties,” the doctor went on. “Don’t you think I would have noticed that mistake by now? Something simple like that. . . well . . . it’s Doctoring 101.”

“Can we assume for a moment that I’m right?” Simon asked.

“On a medical point?” Manderson replied.


“OK,” the doc answered after a pause, “but just to play devil’s advocate.”

“What could cause something like this to happen?” Simon asked, gesturing at his hair.

“Nothing I’m aware of.”

“How about that alo. . . Oh, what is it called?” Simon fumbled. “A guy in the office had it.”

“Alopecia?” the doctor suggested.

“That’s it!”

“Alopecia makes your hair fall out,” Manderson explained, “not change color.”


The next morning, The Change had continued.

“Honey,” Simon began, stomping into the bedroom.

“What is it this morning, dear?” Loretta asked, completing her work outfit by putting on her earrings in front of their dresser mirror.

“My eyes,” Simon continued, pointing at them.

She paused and turned to her husband. “What about them?”

“What color are they?”

“More of this?” Loretta said, getting exasperated.

“Come on!”

“They’re blue,” she answered. Ready for work now, she took a few steps forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Blond hair and blue eyes,” she continued seductively, giving him a peck on the cheek. “What girl wouldn’t have fallen for you?”

“But have my eyes always been blue?”

Loretta sighed and released him. “Honey,” she said, “you have nothing to worry about but, if you are concerned, maybe you should go see the doctor.”

“I saw Manderson yesterday.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“Then who. . . You mean Segal, don’t you?” Simon asked.

“He could help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me upstairs!”

“If you say so.”

“And I refuse to visit a psychiatrist,” Simon said adamantly.


After Loretta left for work, Simon started poking around the house. In every picture he found of himself – even from the days before he and Loretta met – he had blue eyes, not, as he recalled, brown. Even on his driver’s license, it said “Eyes: Blue.”

He grabbed a Coke out of the fridge, sat down at the kitchen table, and tried to think about his problem like it wasn’t his problem. If one of his pals came to him and mentioned that he had this weird problem, what would he advise him?

It occurred to him that The Change must be happening overnight, while he slept. Everything was as he remembered before he fell asleep: He had black hair; he had brown eyes. If he just stayed awake. . .

But how long could he do that? One night, maybe.

It turned out to be less than that and, when he awoke, he was taller.


He went to his toolbox and got out the tape measure. Measuring his height with the cranky metal thing wasn’t easy, but his best guess was six-foot-three. No one in his family had ever been over six feet tall.

Even stranger, when he got dressed without giving another thought to his new-found height, he discovered that all of his clothes still fit! How could they? He bought them for someone five-foot-ten. Had they grown with him? The tags on the clothing proved him wrong. They were all in sizes he had never purchased. . . sizes that would have been swimming on the five-foot-ten him.

Maybe he did need to see Dr. Segal after all.


“It’s like looking in a mirror.”

From his tattered clothing, dirty appearance, and the bedroll he was sitting on while leaning against the drugstore’s outside red brick wall, Simon assumed the grizzled old man was homeless. He approached him carefully. The old guy noticed his cautious footsteps and, amused, motioned him over with a cupped hand. “I won’t bite ya!” he said with a chuckle.

“What did you say?” Simon asked, standing in front of him at what he deemed a safe distance. “Something about a mirror.”

“I looked like you once.”

Many years ago,” Simon added.

“Not as many as you’d think,” he continued. “Blond hair, blue eyes.” He looked Simon up and down. “I see she made you taller though,” he added.

“She?” a confused Simon inquired.

“The Mrs.,” the old man explained. “Loretta.”

“How can you –” Simon began, surprised.

“That is her name.”

“Who are you?” Simon asked.

The old man stood to face him. “Harold Dixon,” he answered, holding out his hand for Simon to shake. “I’m Loretta’s previous husband.”


Simon started laughing. “Did I say something funny?” Dixon asked, withdrawing his ignored hand.

“That’s a good trick.”


“To get money out of me.”

“I don’t want your money,” Dixon told him.

“Right!” Simon replied with a chuckle. “And that bit about being her first husband. . .”

“I didn’t say first,” Dixon clarified, pointing at Simon. “I said I was her previous husband.”

“Oh,” Simon continued, amused. “How many husbands has she had?”

“I’m at least number 4, that I can prove,” he went on. “There may have been one or two more around the time of the American Revolution, but I couldn’t nail down those facts for certain.”

Simon laughed. “You are nuts!”

“I was married to your wife.”

“You’re more than twice her age.”

“I’m 37.”

“And I’m 18,” Simon replied sarcastically.

“Does she still have that heart-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder?” Dixon asked. Simon was shocked. How could anyone else know that? “She did this to me,” Dixon continued. “I displeased her, and she did this. I swear,” he went on, “I’m not much older than you.”

“Loretta’s never been married before.”

“She told you that too, huh?” Dixon continued. “She never admitted it to me either, but, once I started doing some research, I learned the truth.”

“Which is?” Simon asked, prompting the old man to speak.

“That’ll cost you a cup of coffee,” the old man said after a pause.

“I knew it!” Simon replied, starting to pace. “You are trying to get money out of me.”

“Not money. Coffee.”

“Which costs money.”

Shaking his head, Simon stopped pacing and turned to walk away. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Dixon called after him.

Simon stopped in his tracks and turned to face the old man. “About?” he asked.

“How I knew your wife’s name, for one. How could I guess a name like ‘Loretta?’” he inquired. “It’s not like she’s named ‘Mary.’”

“OK,” Simon responded, taking a few slow steps closer to Dixon. “You got me there.”

“And the birthmark?”

“Yes,” Simon replied. “That too.”

“There are some other things that you really ought to know. . . things that could save your life.” Dixon motioned at the doughnut shop across the street. “Coffee?”


Simon returned to the table carrying two large, black coffees. Dixon thanked him as he put one down in front of the old man. Simon didn’t really believe him, but he was curious to see how far Dixon would carry on this charade and to learn what was behind it.

It reminded him of the old joke where the man invites two Jehovah’s Witnesses into his home. He makes them a nice lunch and then asks them what they want to talk to him about. The two Witnesses look oddly at each other. One of them replies, “I don’t remember. We’ve never gotten this far before.”

“So,” Simon said, sitting down across from Dixon, a small circular table between them. “Spill it.”

“I asked you here,” Dixon began, “for some privacy too. I didn’t want to tell you what I need to tell you out in the open.”

“Very considerate,” Simon said, amused.

Dixon took a big swig from his cup, as though to steel himself. “Loretta’s. . . a succubus,” he said.

“Is she?” Simon replied, smiling.

“Yup,” Dixon continued. “A demon who thrives on the strength and souls of young men.”

“Uh huh,” Simon continued.

“Is the sex good?” Dixon asked nonchalantly after a beat.

Simon practically spat his coffee. “What?” he said incredulously.

“Is the sex good?” Dixon repeated.

“That’s none of your goddam business.”

Dixon chuckled. “Yeah,” he said wistfully, “it was good for us too.”

“Mr. Dixon –”

“Some of the best I ever had,” he continued wistfully, though Simon didn’t want to hear. “A strong woman. Insatiable. Every time we finished, I felt like I had been hit by a truck! That’s how she first gets to you – saps your energy. . . and your soul.” Simon began to rise. “She’s everything you ever wanted in a woman, isn’t she?” Dixon asked quickly.

“She is,” Simon answered, sitting back down.

“It’s like God Himself made her for you?”

“Damn right.”

“And now, she’s re-making you for herself – making you into what she wants – her ideal man: Blond hair, blue eyes, tall. Every morning, it’s something different, isn’t it? I call it The Change.”

“You’re quite a storyteller.”

“That’s when she’s best able to take your life force. . . when you’re asleep. You’re the most vulnerable then.” Dixon reached forward and grabbed Simon by the shoulder. “Think about it, man!” he stressed. “These changes you’ve been going through, what’s the common element?”

Simon shook his head. “You’ve lost me.”

“You’re not changing yourself, right?”

“Hell no!” he answered.

“Then all that’s left is. . .”

“Loretta?” Simon offered.

Dixon took a big drink. “She can assume any shape she wants – whatever her victim finds attractive.” He removed his hand from Simon’s shoulder. “She’s using you and, eventually, she’ll drain you dry.”

“Then how are you still around?” Simon asked.

“I recognized what she was doing. I ran, but not fast enough. She was able to take some of me permanently.” He touched a hand to his chest. “This is all that remains,” he sadly said.

“Why would she have stopped?”

“I don’t know,” the older man continued after a sigh and a swig. “Maybe she figured she might need me again. Maybe she had you in the on-deck circle and saw no reason to kill me. Why waste energy, right?”

“Or,” Simon went on, “maybe you’re full of it.”

“You can think that if you like,” Dixon said, peering down sadly at the table. “I felt an obligation to tell you, and I’ve done that.” He drained his cup, rose from his seat, leaned on the table, and continued. “If you wake up tomorrow a. . . a ‘changed man,’” he said, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“If what you’re saying has the slightest bit of truth to it,” Simon asked, looking up at Dixon, “and that’s a big if, what would you have me do?”

“Run!” Dixon answered, slamming a palm down on the table and speaking a bit too loudly. “Run fast and far. Forget how good the sex is and run. . . before you end up old before your time – like me.”


Simon was glad Loretta wasn’t home from the market yet. He quickly Googled “succubus” on his laptop. A lot of what Dixon had told him was there; some of it wasn’t. He was reading the Wikipedia entry when he heard his wife’s car in the driveway. He quickly shut down his computer and went to the front door to meet her.


The last of the groceries put away, Loretta asked Simon, “So, what did you do today?”

“Nothing much,” he replied, closing a cabinet door. “Just some errands. The drugstore, stuff like that.”

She seductively walked up to him and slung her arms around his neck. “Your nurse is right here,” she whispered. “I’ve even got the uniform. Remember?” She started planting several small kisses on his chest.

“N-Not tonight, honey,” Simon stammered.

“I thought you’d liked my nurse’s uniform,” Loretta went on, pretending to be hurt.

“Oh, I do, I do,” her husband continued, chuckling uneasily. “There are a lot of good memories in that outfit!”

“Then what?” she asked insistently.

“I’m. . . just not feeling too well.”

“What is it?”
“A cold coming on, I think,” he answered, throwing an errant sniffle in for good measure. “Achy and sniffly. Feeling. . . blah.”

“Anything I can do?” Loretta asked, concerned.

“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” Simon answered. “I’m gonna take a couple of aspirins and call it a night.”


Simon awoke with a start in the early morning light. He knew he’d had one of those can’t-get-away dreams. He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and looked at the blankets-covered sleeping form of Loretta beside him.

His wife. His love. How could she be anything but the woman he had fallen for? Why did he allow himself to even think otherwise? He spooned into her, which always calmed him, and waited for sleep to return.

In an instant, he realized that something was very wrong. Loretta felt. . . different – hard and wrinkly. He boosted himself up on one elbow and slowly pulled the covers from her shoulder. “Honey?” he said, shaking her gently.

He had never screamed so loudly.

What he had been spooning to were the very dead remains of Harold Dixon.

All the “air” had been let out of him. He looked like one of those “Happy Birthday” balloons several days after the big event. His deflated face was contorted in the agony he must have felt at the moment of his death. Afraid to touch the man’s remains anymore, Simon kicked it from the bed with his bare feet. It landed with a squish on the hardwood floor.

Loretta walked calmly into the bedroom from the hall. She appraised the situation for a few seconds and looked pleased. “You really should delete your browsing history,” she said.

Simon sat up nervously, glancing alternately at Dixon’s corpse and his wife. “You mean

it’s. . . it’s. . .” he stammered.

“True?” Loretta suggested, walking toward their bed. “Yes.” She sat down on the corner of the mattress and reached out for him. Simon pressed himself against the wooden headboard. Loretta chuckled. “Are you afraid of me?” she asked.


“You should be,” she said.

“Why did you. . .” Simon began, looking down at Dixon’s remains.

“Covering my tracks,” she explained. “When I saw what you were Googling, I knew you must have run into Harold. He was my only living ex-husband.”

“But you let him live.”

“Only because I had found you, and you could do whatever I needed. . . and more. . . better than he.” She sighed and added, “I’m not happy with what you did, sweetheart.” Her words visibly frightened Simon, who tried unsuccessfully to push back beyond the limits of the headboard. “But I’ll forgive you. . . this time.”

“Where. . . Where do we go from here?” he asked nervously.

“Just a few minor tweaks should be enough,” Loretta explained. “If I say ‘jump,’ I want you to say ‘how high?’”

“Of course,” Simon quickly answered.

“If I have some womanly needs to be satisfied, I’ll expect you to be there.”

“You got it.”

“You should know,” she went on, “that I don’t have anyone else lined up. If you’re not good to me, you’re gone. I won’t be as lenient as I was with Harold here.”

“Not to worry.”

“I prefer to make the changes overnight,” Loretta continued. “But I can make them while you’re awake too. I’ve made you handsomer, lover. I can also make you uglier.”

“I’m. . . I’m sure you can.”

“How would you like to be the size of a garden gnome, to be covered in warts, to be a hunchback?” She reached out and cupped his blond, stubbly chin in her palm. “You’re so pretty now. Don’t make me angry.” She stood quickly and, looking down at Dixon’s deflated remains, said, “Now get out of bed and clean this place up.”


There has been no trouble at the Baker house for many months. Simon believes that his eyes have become bluer and his hair blonder, but he can’t be sure. There’s no sense in asking anyone. He’s begun doing little things for his wife that he never did before, especially if she doesn’t seem too happy in the morning when she leaves for work.

Loretta doesn’t have to tell him to be good. The slightly stinky garment bag hanging in his closet, which holds the decomposing remains of Harold Dixon, is reminder enough.


Regarding Flash Fiction

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.


Mr Bulwer-Lytton would have not fared well writing flash fiction. In flash fiction every word counts and superfluous verbiage does not work. No meandering phrases. When you have less than 1000 words to tell a complete story, you must choose your words well. How many times have you finished a book and thought: “That would make a very good twenty page essay.”

For the reader, when time is limited and you do not have time to read a 10,000 word story, you probably do have time to read a 250 or a 1000 word story.

For the author, writing flash is good exercise, a place to work on technique. It is also a good place to test ideas. It can also help with mild writers block. Who, knows, maybe writing some flash fiction would have tightened Bulwer-Lytton’s language and made his books more readable.

Flash fiction can be a good antidote for those school classes where you were forced to produce ten pages of essay, even though there is only two pages of ideas. If the academics were forced to practice flash fiction writing, maybe the writing coming out of our universities would be more readable.

Here are two short examples. In the first the title helps set the time and the first line recalls the massive death toll. The next takes it to the personal level and ends with the irony of the cause of it all–all in less than 100 words.

In the Time of Black Death

“Bring out the dead. Bring out the dead.”

The cry came faintly to the cellar. He sat in dim candlelight, resting before a pile of displaced floor stones and a half dug grave. Unwilling to surrender the body of his beloved to the dead wagon, he picked up his shovel and resumed digging.

A large gray rat ran across the huge center beam, eyes reflecting pink in the candlelight. For a moment it stopped and watched the man. The rat reached up and scratched behind its ear with a back paw and then continued on, into the dark.

In the second example, again less than 100 words, the author creates a setting, yanks the reader to another time, and presents the reader with two different generational outlooks.

Peotone Airport

Yellow flame curled around glowing logs, toasting a marshmallow golden brown. Tony sandwiched the gooey blob between a Hershey bar and a graham cracker and savored sweet perfection with eyes closed. Across the field, coyotes yipped at each other.

Crackling logs echoed off pine trees, and sent fireflies skyward. Crystalline stars winked overheard in a cloudless sky.


The airport intercom squealed an unintelligible string. Johnny had his nose pressed to the window, watching turbines wind down on a 737.

“This is awesome.”

Tony dropped his stale McMuffin into the garbage.

“It was magical, not long ago.”

The economy of words. Although some stories may require more than one hundred words, many can be told within the confines of a thousand. Do you have it in you to spin a good yarn with few words? If so, we would like to hear from you. Beginning December 1, 2015, Silver Blade will begin accepting Flash Fiction.

The rules are pretty basic:

Size range: 250 to 1,000 words.
Wow us. We want characters and stories readers will remember long afterward.
Submit only one (1) flash fiction per file, and upload only one file at a time.
Accepted Document Types: pdf, doc, docx, rtf
Follow this link to make your submission.

Silver Blade looks forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,

Les Weil, Fiction Editor
Karl Rademacher, Publisher

Winter 2016 – Issue 29


Novellas and Flashes

Spring 2016 – Issue 30


Novellas Stories and Flashes

Summer 2016 – Issue 31


Introduction to the Summer 2016 Selections

Morning Song — Kimberly L. Becker (NC)
The Faltering — Sue B. Walker (Mobile, AL)
Cuckoo — Sue B. Walker (Mobile, AL)
Persephone — Deborah L. Davitt (Houston, TX)
stationed on a gas giant — Lauren McBride (Baytown, TX)
The Poem from the Future — John Sexton (Carks, Kenmare, County Kerry, Republic of Ireland)
Thirsty — Rohinton Daruwala (Pune, India)
In the Museum of Lost Sounds — Celeste Helene Schantz (Fairport, NY)
et in Arcadia ego — Celeste Helene Schantz (Fairport, NY)
Love in the Time of Apocalypse — Ann Thornfield-Long (Norris, TN)
The Raven Mockers — Kimberly L. Becker (NC)

Novellas Stories and Flashes

Fall 2016 – Issue 32

Introduction to the Fall 2016 Selections

Novellas, Stories and Flashes