Editor's Page
YM Artists' Page
"Skeeter", the Official YM Mascot
YM Guidelines
Contact Us & Links to Other Sites
Lisa's Revenge-Fiction by Janet Hatwell
Her Passion-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Threes-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Ruby in the Red Hoodie-Fiction by Ryan Priest
No-Fiction by Bruce Costello
Fat Trucker, Hot Wife-Fiction by Matthew Copes
Between the Sheets-Fiction by K. Marvin Bruce
Hearts in Retrograde-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
From a Buick-Kind-of-Place-Fiction by Darrell Petska
The Map-Fiction by Jan Christensen
Old Mules-Fiction by Mickey J. Corrigan
The Right Tool for the Job-Fiction by Roy Dorman
The War Against Stuff-Fiction by Fred Andersen
The Handyman-Fiction by Bobby Mathews
Till Death Do Us Part-Fiction by Justin Swartz
Deadville-Fiction by Gary Clifton
Huggermugger-Flash Fiction by Gay Degani
Mortuary-Flash Fiction by Doug Hawley
Inside Room 107-Flash Fiction by Dustin Walker
Gatophobia-Flash Fiction by M. A. De Neve
Daybreak Over I-15-Poem by C. W. Blackwell
Confetti and Juicy Fruit Gum-Poem by Kenneth James Crist
Night in Cumming's Cove-Poem by Michael Keshigian
Scar-Poem by Otto Burnwell
Graveyard Love-Poem by John Grey
Plan but No Really Plan-Poem by Joe Balaz
Audible Sigh-Poem by John Tustin
Erica-Poem by John Tustin
Heartbreaker-Poem by Meg Baird
La Guitare-Poem by Meg Baird
Parking Garage-Poem by Joel Matulich
Vintage Trade Paperback-Poem by Joel Matulich
Perpetual Motion-Poem by Stephen J. Golds
The Best Ones Are the Crazy Ones-Poem by Stephen J. Golds
Black Widow-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Out of My Skin-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The Terrible Shadows-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Lucky Number Seven-Poem by Bradford Middleton
The Old Routine of Dreaming and Blasting-Poem by Bradford Middleton
F**K It, Let's Listen to the Ramones-Poem by Bradford Middleton
Our Open Window-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Wandering Woman-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Winter's Twilight Sky-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
You, I, Together-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Each Day-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Ghost Dance-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
He Paid For-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Winter Woman-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by A. F. Knott 2021

Her Passion


Kenneth James Crist


She had a passion for emasculation. She loved to make guys love her and then, slowly, ever so slowly, reduce their manhood until they were the ones crying and blubbering on the phone, tears and snot running, gulping, gasping with their pain, as she whispered, “I know, I know, Sweetheart…but this is the way it has to be…”

She used every kind of story on every kind of man, once she had so thoroughly locked them into her web of hot sex, both “normal” and “abnormal” and lies that she so skillfully manipulated.

She’d lured men from every social stratum and every walk of life. She’d driven the homeless crazy with passion and caused the suicides of several Wall Street high-rollers and at least one member of the local mob hierarchy. Families had been broken apart and lives ruined that were only distantly related to her victims. And victims they were, even though, in her twisted mind, she was always “the victim of love gone wrong.”

She came by the greatest part of her looks naturally. Just good genetics. The creamy skin that took a great tan, the blonde hair that looked even better with a little “tune up” at the salon, the flat stomach, round firm breasts and shapely, strong legs were all given her as her natural inheritance, and she used them to her full advantage.

She was an accomplished liar by the time she was six and had gotten away with an actual murder when she was nine. It was just a little kid from the neighborhood, accidentally backed over by his Mommy’s car. The cops never suspected the boy had been dead of a crushed skull for twenty minutes when Mommy failed to check behind the car as she backed down the driveway.

Her name was Carla Mae Price (a pseudonym) and emasculation was her game. And that was where I came in.


The Club Venus De Milo was where I was working at the time Carla came into my life. I was working the door, not as the actual bouncer, at least not most of the time, unless a big brawl got going, then I would jump in, but I hated to do that because it was much too easy for me to kill some redneck asshole. That sort of thing fell within my wheelhouse, as the saying goes.

At Club VDM, women were only charged a cover if they were ugly or clearly slithering, snaky street whores. Fair is fair, and if they wished to ply their trade at our place, they should at least pay the cover.

Carla never paid a cover. She started coming around in the dead of winter and I have to confess, she looked daisy-fresh whenever she came in that door, giving a hint of spring soon to come. Never drunk and sloppy, never bitch-hot horny, just cool and fresh, that’s how she looked. Under the veneer, beneath the luscious exterior, now there was a different story. Oh, my yes. And I knew it the first moment I laid eyes on her. She set off a klaxon in my brain like those in the old, World War II movies about submarines. “Ah-woo-gah! Ah-woo-gah! Dive the boat!” Fuck, yeah. And right then, I knew what would be happening to old Carla. Just a matter of time. Sound General Quarters, Bo’sun, this shit’s gonna get ugly…

To say she attracted attention from the get-go would be an understatement of the first degree. When she strode confidently to the bar in her platform heels, those tanned, sleek calves bunching below a mid-length skirt, firm boobs bouncing just a little, it was like someone screamed, “Tench-hut!” on a Marine base. Yeah, fuckin’ heads turned. New meat. That’s what was going through half the heads in the place. The male half. And that’s what was going through Carla’s head, too. And I knew eventually she’d get around to me. Because I was the only guy in there that wasn’t impressed. And that wouldn’t do it for Carla. I could feel that first date looming on the horizon. Far, far in the background, down where I live in the darkness, I could hear a familiar chuckle.

I was amazed that it took her so long to hit on me. I’d seen her leave with a couple different guys, but from talk overheard, none of them got to first base. Not challenging enough, I assumed. Taking down the average geek would not afford her enough pleasure. She needed someone tough and nasty. A week after I first saw her come in that door, she stayed until closing one night. Made her approach as we were clearing out old Guffey, and Sam-the Gimp, our resident lushes and closer-downers.

Came up to me and said, “Hey, Dickie, you suppose you could help me get my car started? It’s crankin’ pretty slow and it may need a jump. If we can get it goin’, I’d buy ya breakfast.” Sure, Sweetie, why not? Tonight’s as good a time as any.

Of course, when we got to the lot, her little Toyota fired right up, but she still felt like breakfast and did I wanna go? Like I said, Gorgeous, tonight’s as good a time as any.

She picked the Red Ball Diner over on Taft and Eleventh and I followed her there. Old chrome and stainless steel thing, made to look like an actual dining car. Pink and green neon and big windows steamed with condensation. She picked the last booth in the back and, as we had our eggs and pancakes, she set about pushing all my buttons. Made sure she hung on every word coming outta my mouth, made sure she touched my hand once in a while. Kept one leg pressed against mine under the table. Showed me a mile of cleavage and managed to sneak an extra button undone when I was looking elsewhere. Yeah, she knew the game and played it well.

Back outside in the cold, she slipped once on an icy patch and by the time I got her stabilized, we were locked up in a pretty good clinch. Her face was right there, her breath on my cheek, one breast pressed out of shape against my chest. And then the kiss. Tongues sliding and tasting, teeth grazing each other, her breath shuddering with contrived passion. “Would you like to stop by my place for a nightcap?”

Sure would, Little Girl. Let’s see whatcha got…

I would have never expected a double-wide mobile home. I really expected more class from ol’ Carla, but that was it. It was in a nice park on the south side, but it was still a bit tacky. Nine minutes in the door, and half a Bloody Mary and we were wrestling out of our clothes on the sofa.

Hafta give her a nod, she was pretty good in bed. Turned on all the hot stuff, used her mouth, tongue, fingers, whatever it took. This was just the warmup, but she didn’t know that. The main show would come later. I’d give it a couple days. Might as well enjoy myself with the little tart. One of the perks of my job. Not the doorman at VDM. The other job…the dark and dirty job that I’d been doing for so long, I could scarce remember when it started.

A week into the affair, she had me wrapped around her little finger. I was panting like a dog every time I got a sniff of her, and I got lots of sniffs. She was pretty sure she had me. She was also pretty sure we’d performed every imaginable sex act that two heterosexual people could make happen, but she was wrong. She was about to get an education.

We closed VDM at 2 A.M. just like always and Carla was ready to party. We had done her place practically to death and she was eager by now to go to my digs.

She was impressed with the building. Seven stories, all brick, valued at 19.1 million dollars. I had the entire seventh floor penthouse complete with roof garden. I didn’t tell her I owned the building, but when you’ve got a boss like mine, and you’re good at what you do, you get the perks.

The elevator was almost completely silent as we glided to the top. The doors opened onto a foyer finished with a mirrored glass floor. Yeah, it’s a little disconcerting the first time you walk on it, but you learn to ignore it. Further in, we stepped into Bacchanalian luxury. The decorator’s fee had been ninety thousand, and it showed. Carla was agape, literally, her pretty mouth hanging open. It snapped shut when I picked up a $200 box of French chocolates. After all, it was Valentine’s day. I opened the box and said, “For you, Sweetheart. I hope you can find something you like.”

She was into the candy like a duck on a bug and I had to feed her some champagne to keep her from eating too many. They were laced with barbiturates and I didn’t want to kill her. Not just yet.

In fifteen minutes, we were rolling naked in my super king bed and in spite of the carnal activities going on, Carla was having a tough time keeping her eyes open. As she experienced a slow, lazy orgasm and dropped off to sleep, my phone rang. Not my cell phone. The red scrambler phone on my desk just a few steps away in my study.

“Dickie!” The voice was hollow-sounding and echoey, just like always, because of the electronics.

“Yeah, Boss…”

“How’s that little project going?”

“Going good, Boss.

“When will you take care of the fucking little problem?”

“She’s sleeping right now, Boss. But she’ll wake up in a couple hours and we’ll get this taken care of.”

“Good. You understand, she has to know it’s because of Anthony, right?”

“Understood, Boss. No problem.”

“She has to suffer, Dickie, okay?”

“She will, Boss. Consider it done.”


The acts of vengeance began ten minutes after Carla woke up at four A.M. By that time, I had restrained her with what hospitals call “hard restraints.” They are made from space-age nylon and adjust around the wrists and ankles, then they are secured to the bed with thick leather straps.

At first, she thought it was kinky and we were just playing another sex game. I had laid out an array of dildos and vibrators that would put a Swedish sex shop to shame. There were plenty of lubricants, too, all the way from regular Vaseline to a “hot-shot” kind that had Habanero pepper in it. Let the fun begin…

Carla was into orgasms and she was one of those women who could come almost continually with the proper stimulus. I made sure the stimulus was proper until her energy level was flagging and she began to whine and thrash around every time I approached her.

When I brought out the car battery and saline solution, I saw real fear on her pretty face for the first time. I let her watch me hook up jumper cables to the battery. Struck an arc across the cables, just to show her it was for real. Fastened one of the clamps to her breast and that was the first time she cried out. When I redid the penthouse level, I installed great soundproofing. Good thing, too. It was gonna get loud pretty soon.

Fastened the other clamp to a pad of steel wool and drenched her with the salt water. She was gasping and crying when I came close to her already sore crotch with the steel wool pad.

“This is for Anthony F______________,” I said, and hit her with the current. It knocked her out, and I’m sure the pain was tremendous. Did you know you can actually weld metal with a car battery and a coat hanger wire? Yep. Lotta amperage in a car battery. I waited for her to come around.

Once she was back and fully awake, I said, “You remember Anthony, right, Carla? You knew who his father was, right?”

Her eyes were so big I thought they were gonna pop right outta her skull. All she could do at that point was whimper and roll her eyes.

“Pay attention, Carla! This is because of what you did to Anthony. Not to mention however many other guys you fucked over. This is the part where you pay, Sweetie.” I hit her with the current again, this time a quick shot to her belly. The muscles contracted and she screamed. I briefly touched the steel wool to her opposite nipple. Another good long scream. Now we were getting somewhere.

Now she broke into a sobbing chant, “PleasepleasepleasepleaseI’m sorrysorry sorrysorry nonononono, don’t—yahhhhhhhhhhh…” as I hit her with the current again. She bawled, she cussed, she pissed the bed. She screamed. The video cameras mounted on the ceiling and the walls picked it all up on six channels in living color and sent it direct to Don F____________’s mansion over in Jersey.

Carla and I were into it for almost an hour, when suddenly the red phone rang again. I picked it up on the second ring.


“That’s enough.” The Boss actually sounded a bit disgusted. “Finish it.”

“Kay, Boss, you got it.”

“Leave the cameras on…”


While Carla thrashed and squealed, I carefully pushed an icepick into her chest, right beside her heart. Then I hit the icepick with the car battery. And her heart simply stopped.

There are two trash chutes in my building. One opens into the hallway on each floor and services the whole building. The other opens into my apartment alone and it does not stop in the building’s basement. It goes much deeper. So deep in fact that when I dumped Carla’s violated remains into that special chute I never heard her hit bottom.

       Two days later a special courier brought me a package. Inside was a lot of money and a bottle of Dom Perignon. There was a card, too. All it said was, “Well done…”

Kenneth James Crist is Editor Emeritus of Black Petals Magazine and is on staff at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998, having had almost two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from Skin and Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly fond of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and adventure tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992 and from the security department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016. Now 76, he is an avid motorcyclist and handgun shooter. He is active in the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard, helping to honor and look after our military. He is also a volunteer driver for the American Red Cross, Midway Kansas Chapter. He is the owner of Fossil Publications, a desktop publishing venture that seems incapable of making any money at all. On June the ninth, 2018, he did his first (and last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his bucket list.

A. F. Knott is a self-taught collage artist focused on book layout and book cover design as well networking in conjunction with Hekate Publishing, one of its missions, bringing together artist and writer. Sometimes seen selling in New York City's Union Square Park. Work can be found on 

flickr.com/photos/afknott/ Any exchange of ideas welcome: anthony_knott@hekatepublishing.com

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2021