Fiction
Honey In Her Hands
Flash Fiction by Devan Barlow
It had been years since Margot could read a book without it turning to honey in her hands. Like she was some sort of incorrectly shaped bee. She could at least still read books, though she had to be fast, and there was no turning back the pages to reread. No savoring the words for her. Despite reading widely, trying every genre she could find, honey always seeped up from the words, and the margins collapsed beneath the weight of sweetness.
She was an expert at nodding along when someone mentioned a plot point they had only noticed upon rereading. Almost as expert as she was at positioning herself with a jar placed just so beneath her book so that as she read, the honey dripped into the jar instead of onto the couch or the table or herself.
She had never intended to cultivate the swarm of book lovers who now gathered in her living room once a month. It had started as an invitation to a few friends, and somehow, it had spiraled ridiculously. Even though she wouldn’t allow anyone to come who hadn’t been vouched for by a trusted friend, she had gotten a few emails from total strangers asking to be informed if space ever opened up. It was wild.
They did have great discussions, as they literally consumed the book spread upon fresh bread. Margot always baked a loaf on book club day, and put it out alongside the honey that had resulted from her read of the month’s book.
The random emails from strangers always mentioned the honey. Occasionally, a new guest would creep around her house, “lost on the way to the bathroom,” but actually in search of the hives they were convinced Margot was hiding, no matter how often she insisted it came from a friend who kept bees. She never let someone return if they tried that nonsense.
The truth buzzed in her head, along the back of her throat and the skin of her lips. Like she was nothing more than a hive for bees who were desperate to go searching for pollen. But she had never told anyone.
Clara — a historical fiction devotee and one of the nicest people Margot had met through the book club — had invited Margot to a party.
But even now, as she stood on Clara’s front stoop, Margot was conflicted as to whether she should have come. A strong argument against was Clara having followed up the invitation with, “I want you to meet a friend of mine! I’m not sure why, but you two have a similar…vibe.” Her words had held a definite matchmaking edge.
Margot didn’t date much. She couldn’t read in front of anyone else, and it was unthinkable that she would just stop reading.
Clara, of course, had asked her to bring a jar of honey to the party, so Margot had chosen one of the many jars in her pantry. A small taste had confirmed that it was once a mystery novel, familiar suspects and clues rolling across her taste buds.
When Margot arrived, there was no trace of Clara or anyone else she knew. She placed her honey on a table among other mismatched containers and plates and thought once more that she probably shouldn’t have come. But it had been nice of Clara to invite her, and there were already people trying the honey, and once Clara saw the jar she would know Margot had come, so she should at least stay to see her. To look busy, she put a few items of food on a small plate. Some pita and a scoop of an olive tapenade. She took a bite, enjoying the chewy, briny olives —
She was racing down the train platform, pulse pounding. She had to get the briefcase to her contact, but they were watching even now —
Margot started, nearly dropping her plate as she pulled herself out of what was so obviously a spy novel. She looked around, seeking a television playing, listening for someone else’s conversation about a recent read…
Nothing even close.
She took another tentative bite and confirmed the impossible.
Someone else at this party could turn books into food.
“Clara!” She finally spotted the host and hurried toward her through the swarming guests. “Do you know who brought the tapenade?”
Clara looked briefly surprised, but then grinned triumphantly. “Oh, I think that was you, wasn’t it?”
Margot realized Clara had her arm linked through that of another person, who she shoved toward Margot. Clara said, “Perfect! Ben, this is Margot, the one I’ve told you about from book club, with the honey!”
This story is part of our 2024 focus on flash fiction, with stories selected by Guest Editor Annika Barranti Klein. To read an interview with the author, check out our Patreon.
About the Author
Devan Barlow is the author of An Uncommon Curse, a novel of fairy tales and musical theatre. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in several anthologies and magazines, including Solarpunk Magazine and Diabolical Plots. She can be found at her website https://devanbarlow.com/ or on Bluesky @devanbarlow.bsky.social. She reads voraciously and can often be found hanging out with her dog, drinking tea, and thinking about sea monsters.
Interstellar Flight Magazine publishes essays on what’s new in the world of speculative genres. In the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, we need “writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine real grounds for hope.” Visit our Patreon to join our fan community on Discord. Follow us on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram.
