This little story was my response to a flash fiction challenge from Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch a few years back. Her prompt was “sweet jam”. I don’t usually write horror. Except when, apparently, I do…

Everything Tastes Better With Jam

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder before slipping into the alley. Her stilettos clicked against the cracked pavement as she shifted the mason jar tucked in the crook of her arm.

A lone streetlight flickered against dark windows and the dead end ahead. The man behind her stepped into the light, his knife gleaming like Mama’s Sunday silverware.

He thought he’d cornered her. Bless his heart. She turned and smiled.

From the shadows, figures emerged, slow and silent, surrounding the man.

One reached past him for her jar. “How’s your mama, sugar? Is that her homemade jam?”

“Of course it’s Mama’s homemade. We’re not monsters.” She waited until the screaming stopped. Good manners were important, especially when folks were eating. “Mama’s just fine. Sends her love.”

“Oh, and I’m sorry I’m late, y’all.” She smoothed her blouse. “Had to pick up takeout on the way.” A wet slurping rose from the darkness. Everything really was better with jam.

One of the many things I love about our little village is the scary-talented knit bomber who decorates the mailbox with the most incredible scenes.

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