Honeypot/Urn by Emily Steiner

The Potter, The Grandson, and the Urn

There is an old tale—its beginnings lost to the brutal wear of time—which tells the story of this old pot with origins unbelievable to most. Within the soft cracks of uneven kilding marks and brown glazing, there lies a curse encased in the aroma of honey—one that can cause a pot to become an urn. The body that once laid inside was never properly cremated.

The story begins with a humble creation, an old woman now only known as The Potter made this pot with the intention of storing the daisies from her garden. She crafted it carefully, making sure the color matched her drapes and cushions. But her skills were lacking due to a chronic case of arthritis and cataracts. This caused there to be an unevenness to the glazing effect, the bottom overheated. Once The Potter had finished her little display, the pot made its home in her open kitchen window, soaking in sunlight and attracting different walks of life—more specifically bees. Every morning she witnessed them working upon the daisies, gathering pollen for their queen—each bee scrambling to provide for the hive. The Potter soon grew close to these bees, and claimed she could tell each of the fuzzy creatures apart.

After months of caring for the flowers in the clay pot—which inevitability became her last creation—The Potter lost her long fight to the jaws of life. She died peacefully in her bed, at the end of it, her only relative—a grandson. He was in charge of her assets—though she didn't have many. He cared not for her or the house, he only cared for the inheritance death brought in hand with his scythe. He cleared everything out, the couches and chairs and pictures and decorations were all thrown into the trash. Once The Grandson reached the kitchen, he began implementing a similar regimen, tossing anything that seemed incapable of selling. His greedy escapade brought him to the window, where the old pot sat, newly cut daisies residing within. He went to grasp the pot but was greeted with the vexing pain of a bee sting. He cried out in irritation and grabbed a towel, swinging at the bees there for daily pollination—he killed one, two, three. The little carcasses twitched, decorating the base of the pot.

After collecting himself and pulling out the small stinger imbedded in his thumb, he went to grasp the pot again—except this time the sting that greeted him was agonizing—in fact the one sting became two, then three, four, five—until The Grandson was wrapped within the violent caress of more than thirty bees, each stinging him—their lives disassembling with each insertion. With each new sting The Grandson’s vessels burst and bled golden honey some of which dripped into the pot he held. His screams became drowned by the golden liquid, his tears cursed with the touch of Midas. Once every bee had surrendered itself to the murder, The Grandson was gone, his only remains floating in the newly established honeypot.

The urn sat on the floor for days, months, years—until the house was sold along with the pot. The remains were emptied and the urn switched owners through many years until the only remaining memory of The Potter and Grandson lay in the lingering scent of rancid honey. The pot moved owners until it was eventually posted to Ebay—where its next victim would eventually claim it.

Emily Steiner is a senior studying criminal justice and creative writing at the University of Arizona. Her short story “Holy Mother of Mud” won the title competition at the Henderson Writing Awards. Between her long nights of playing Animal Crossing and indulging in random Bo Burnham-dominated dance parties with her roommates, she enjoys writing disturbing stories of horror, gore, and weird instances.