Hello, I'm Liseran, and I wrote this like last month for a class. I wouldn't say its the best thing i've ever written, but it was the best i did for a class. so please, tell me what you think of it.
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Honey
By Liseran Thistle
I created the idea of Love about 5 months before you humans were ever even thought of. My creation is regarded as something cruel, and useless. For millennia I have heard Love being ridiculed and mocked by edgy, unassuming teenagers to inept in the art to be any good at it. It pains me to see so many people look at me, and only see some novelty to put on the front of valentines cards. My creation is a weapon of inner destruction. If humans just knew how to use it, they could crumble nations and build up empires they never thought capable of bringing into existence. My creation is a humble brag in comparison to something like the atom bomb, or mechanical arms.
I have often queried whether I am the same as my creation, or if I have become the essence of my creation. Love was never even really meant to go to you pitiful humans. I created it to take over the whole of Heaven. I made it for reasons the Seraphs would not agree with. I made it to destroy the Principalities. I made it for a lot of reasons. When I first showed it to Pharsuph, he took one look at it, and shook his head in disagreement. “It’s too dangerous, Chamuel.” He had told me. “Do you know what could happen if-” I knew very well what could happen “If.” That’s why I made it. But I didn’t tell Pharsi this. I told him not to worry about what “If” and to just pass it along for inspection.
The reason I had changed my mind about who would be gifted with my creation was because I thought there was actual potential in you humans. I thought you, as the untapped wellsprings of innovation that you are, would take advantage of it as it was meant to be used. But I should have known better. Humans are incapable of using anything of godly status how it is meant to be used. I have never understood why the Principalities decided to make you, or why the Seraphs pride you as an amazing accomplishment. You all seem like useless meat bags to me. There was only ever one human who did strike me as not as useless, though. She was a woman with certain assets that she knew how to use correctly. Someone who knew how to play the universe like a harp. I remember her very vividly, she was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted the moment the Seraphs thought of her. And she knew exactly how to use Love the right way. She was a tall brunette with shapely lips, a round face, and hazel eyes. The Principalities placed her soul in the year 1956, a time of revolution and heated civil battles. She was a woman of color, with the brains of a genius, and the tongue of a rogue. She was truly a special type of woman, one that was meant to repair what we, The Angels, had miffed up a few centuries earlier.
She is not a woman that you know. Her name was never cemented into any of your historical documents or books. She wrote about things, though. She wrote about the affairs she had with other men, how she used them to her advantage, and the scornful looks that other women gave her when some man dared to take her out in high society.
“Oh it was magical, seeing the seething rage of all those alabaster belles in perfect trim and lace dresses, gloves as white as their skin. It was truly an experience to watch them watch him twirl me around that ballroom floor like I was some kind of Lady. But they all knew. They didn’t have proof but my skin and their own guesses, but they knew nonetheless. I weren’t no lady. I weren’t no southern belle to be showcased like a show pony.”
She wrote that on the night that her first man took her out to a society gala in Georgia. A place where they would rather see her hang then in linen and lace. I will name this woman “Honey” as it was the name she gave the men she used to play. Honey was never a reserved or quiet lady, but she was also never very outgoing either. I remember there was a time when she was very young, and not sure what political side she was actually on. It was right around when she had just settled into her first home. It didn’t matter to her whether she ended up being a republican or a democrat. She wanted to join the one that was actually beneficial to herself. And money was quite the benefit in Honey’s eyes.
“Each day, I wake up, I go to my mailbox, and I avert my eyes from Mrs.Crawford across the street who likes to peek from behind her polka dot curtains. I can feel her old, blue eyes following me to my mailbox, and if I could, I’d swear on a bible I could feel the cat eye glasses she wore poking me in my back, and my legs and my hair. I could feel the judgement she laid from behind those polka dot curtains, and I hadn’t even spoken to the lady yet. The atmosphere on the block has been tense without reason, and it’s only been a week. It seems like they’re all wondering who I am or what I’m doing in their white, pristine neighborhood. When all I’m really doing is settling in, the same as them. I’ve been careful to only go out when I need to. I buy groceries to last for the month, not just a week. I’m a recluse with money, and no job, but a fortune to spend. A turtle with a shell of gold. I feel like going out today, but I know it’ll drag eyes to me.”
Honey did eventually venture out. And unbeknownst to her, with my creation in hand. That day, in the park by the grocers strip, with all the locals out and about buying their needs and wares, Honey met him. A tall, gangly sort of fellow, with blonde hair like a birds nest, and crooked teeth. He was not a nice sight, that’s to be sure. He wore a blue blazer, and yellow ascot. He was the type you see in offices, and firms, a real businessman sort. He asked for her name, and being the captive she was in this neighborhood, she answered with vigor hoping to dispel any thoughts of unease or escape from this man’s mind (Not that she wanted to keep this young man for herself, rather she didn’t want him to think that she was planning on running from him, screaming rape for the hills.) The man introduced himself as Hank Hilton, the owner of a very wealthy hotel and inn company. They talked about their futures and the people in the town around them. And halfway through the interaction, Honey knew she had something to gain from this experience. She saw something in this interaction that she knew was different from all others, a ledge she could desperately cling onto that screamed opportunity. She talked to this man about the things that troubled her, and he shared his own problems in kind. It wasn’t until she laughed at one of his silly jokes, that she knew she had snagged him for certain. She did the smart thing. The right thing. Hank Hilton asked her to a dance next weekend, and she of course, snagging the opportunity with vicious claws, said yes. I look back on that moment with a gleam of pride some days. Because it was the first time in a long line of “Love is Virtuous” stories that someone was actually using my creation how it was always meant to be used.
Honey went home with Hank Hilton on her arm. She had a man with money who was already willing to come to her beck and call, who already wanted to spend more time with her. And really, that’s all it ever came down to. See, what most humans fail to understand is that Love takes time much the same way a cannon takes time to load and fire. Trying to start a relationship with someone you just met an hour ago is akin to firing a cannon with no ammo. And even still, you need fire power to even make sure the cannon fires properly, and you need a fuse, and a lighter. You need all these things to fire a cannon, not just some ammo. And Honey knew this well. Hank walked her up to her porch that night, and Mrs. Crawford peeked her head out. It was the first time I saw that missing glimmer of inspiration that the rest of humanity lacked. It was the first time that I knew Honey was a different kind of human. She turned her head at the house across the street, and winked. She said goodnight to him, and the two of them parted ways, though Honey’s perfume stayed with Hank for the rest of the night.
If I had only been there to help her, I would’ve helped her get to places she wouldn’t have thought possible. How I would’ve rejoiced at seeing her in the White House on someone’s arm. I would’ve jumped up in glee to see her on the red carpet with some foolish celebrity. I would’ve helped her get to a place so high, that she wouldn’t need a man to help her get anywhere else. She would’ve soared above them all, yet it was not to be. Honey, as you may have guessed by now, dies as all humans die. But I would rather not dwell on her passing. I want to remember her for how she used to be. Azriel is always spouting nonsense about moving on, and grief, so I’ve decided to listen to him, however reluctant I am to take his advice. To start, my favorite part of Honey’s story is her first time out on the town with Hank. It was nowhere near as fanciful as the gala in Georgia she attends in the future, but it might as well have been the same for all of the angry stares she got. It was a nice, warm June night. They were at a park, one of those family occasions with the stringed lights and the picnic tables. Everyone was all dressed up as if it were Easter Sunday, perfectly crisp suits and ties, and nice pressed dresses with pink lace. The women laughed and giggled, their arms strung across their husbands or their fiances. Everything about the party was a startling shade of white and blonde. Honey had never been in a place that made her feel so excluded before.
Hank patted her on the arm gently, reassuring her, whispering something about how they were “different”. How they “wouldn’t mind at all.” Honey nodded her head, eyes like a soldier ready to do battle, and equipped the brightest smile she could muster. The minute Mrs.Stanley of the local Herman Elementary PTA spotted her, she gave her the most confused look Honey had ever seen on a white woman. Other’s noticed her, and the man on her arm, and adopted the same confused stare, as if they had stumbled upon a newly discovered animal. Hank walked up to a man and a gaggle of his society friends. The man grabbed a hold of his wife, and pulled her closer, uneasy. The woman looked at Honey as if she were a rare breed of human. “Who...Who is this?” The man asked. Honey introduced herself. “They call me Honey.” She didn’t stretch her hand out for him too shake, she knew he wouldn’t take it. And she didn’t feel like pretending to be courteous to a man who already thought she was some kind of floozie. Needless to say, her speaking was a dangerous move, and one I applaud wholeheartedly.
In their entire time spent together, Honey never let Hank speak for her, or over her. She had a voice, and she used it to every means possible. To see a small, black woman dolled up, at a society gala on white man’s arms was grounds enough to be either arrested or killed. But my creation, as I have said before, is a very wonderful gift to the human heart. It truly is the most wonderful thing you humans have, and it astounds me how you haven’t figured out all of its many uses. Honey made the people at the party love her. The women talked about their kids, and the trouble they got into. The men would tell stories about work and politics, and they were always trying to make the women laugh at their jokes. She laughed at all the right moments. When Barry Josephen of the light company made a joke about power lines and stray cats, she gave the right amount of laughter to evoke a beam of pride in the man. She cracked a few of her own, gave the most wonderful advice about cooking to the women, and was even allowed the privilege of sharing her political opinions. (Though she remembered to keep it vague, she didn’t want to over shadow the men’s own perspectives of how the country should be ran, for fear of damaging their ego’s and begetting thoughts of “Why didn’t I think of that?”) This all changed how they saw her. Suddenly, they were all asking her questions. Like where was she from, and how did she get to this tiny old dustbowl of a town? Honey answered all of them, though not truthfully. The Principalities graced her with both looks and wits it seemed. When the party was over, Hank drove her home as she waved goodbye to the men and women of the party. She had about 10 new friends. 10 new rich friends who already considered her as close family. That’s when she realized the power she wielded. She could make people love her, and have them wrapped around her brown, little finger and they’d be none the wiser. She rested her head against Hank’s shoulder, and smiled dreamily to herself. When Hank asked her what she was so happy about, she lied and said she was just happy that he had been right. Everyone did love her. Poor fool never realized what he unleashed by bringing her to the party.
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“I’ve been talking to Mr.Hughes of the Jackson town newspaper committee. He’s a new catch that I found at a bar in upper Manhattan. He owns the paper, or so he claims. But it don’t matter to me. I got a story he’ll love. I wonder what he’ll think when he finds out that Hank Hilton, owner of the Hilton establishment, is one of those money printers the media’s been spooked about lately? I found out that Hank, Catch #1, was printing hundred dollar bills last month when he came for a visit. I hadn’t seen him since the society gala when I broke it off with him. I hadn’t really wondered what he’d been up to. I never really cared. But I can’t deny my love of snooping. I went with him to his house, expecting the usual. I snuck around, and found one of those printing presses they have in factories and warehouses. I also found the money it's been printing. Hank found me looking around, and smiled. He wanted me to apart of this little escapade he had. He said we were gonna score big if it worked out. I agreed, and went to Manhattan the instant Hank’s back was turned.”
Honey’s escapades with Hank were not what you would quite expect. She never collected any of the money that Hank tried to deposit toward her. She gave it all back to him discreetly without his knowing. When it was all said and done, it looked like she hadn’t gotten a cent of the money. She brought the news to Harrin Hughes of the paper, and the story brooke loose. Hank lost everything that week. The papers were a riot with his story, tossing and turning it different angles, never letting up on the way he reacted to the story breaking loose. He was livid with Honey, but know one really found out who it was that broke the story to the press.
Honey made sure that Hughes kept quiet about the exchange, and in return she’d let him take her out to a few parties. This is the part of the story where we finally see Honey in all of her glory. This was the height of her power. Of my power. To say that I was proud of her here is an understatement. Harrin Hughes brought her to this fancy new art gala that was showcasing in Brooklyn. By now, Honey had amassed more money from her catches, and was richer than any black woman living in 1956. She had already bought herself a collection of high end society ball gowns, and was thankful that there was a stylist in the entirety of New York who would gladly cater to a rich black lady, without casting some suspicious thought on where she got her money in the first place. She threw on this wonderful blue and gold lace ball gown with ruffles, and nice gold satin gloves to go with them. When Harrin saw her, he couldn’t help but smile foolishly at her, and Honey who was so great at playing the game, knew exactly what to say to him when he saw her. “Close your mouth, or you’ll get drool all over that nice suit you’re wearing.”
“Harrin took my arm, and the whole time he had a big, stupid grin on his face while we walked down the street. There were, of course, cursory glances given to us, as we made our way to the art gala. But it didn’t bother me. I was used to the eyes that followed me and my riches. It was not a greedy look they gave me as I walked, that I knew. It was a look of purebred hatred and jealousy. I could feel white men stare at me during that Gala. They would’ve rather seen me dead then in that building, but I had an invitation to the man who was throwing the party. My Harrin was the one who was throwing this exquisite party. And he told them he would rather shut the whole thing down, including their precious auction, then see me out on the street while the party commenced inside. He’s not too bad. For a Catch that is. If I didn’t feel like dumping him the next day, I’d probably stick around. But staying on one man’s arm is not what Honey is good at. Honey will do a lot of things, but stick around ain’t one of them.”
The Art gala that night was as Honey described it. It was full of toxic stares from every man and woman Harrin twirled her past. She thought about excusing herself to the restroom, but on second glance that plan was a sure fire way for her to get killed by one of these party goers. Particularly Mr.Burbank of the FizzlePop industry. If I remember correctly, he sold soda’s and other types of drinks to the young people of upper Manhattan. He stood in the corner of the party, drinking wine from a glass chalice that Harrin had special ordered for all of the guests, staring angrily at the “Traitor.” Now, I feel like I should stop Honey’s story for a bit and tell you more about Mr.Burbank.
Terry Burbank was a fat, despicable little man of white descent. His family used to row and ship cargo up the Mississippi on the soggy bayous of Huntington, Louisiana. That is, before they struck gold in there backyard, and became as rich as kings. Burbanks father, who I remember being just as terrible as his son, swindled some poor family out of their soda and wine, and began to sell it as his own. The Burbanks never were a very honest sort of folks. Terry had, unbeknownst to Honey, been guzzling money from Harrin. Which is also why she hasn’t been getting as much from him as she had been from her other Catches. Burbank hated Honey, because he knew that all of Harrins fortune was being given to his sweet, gentle Honey who could do no wrong. I despise Mr.Burbank, not only because of how he inevitably brought down my one prized pupil, but because of his ideals on my creation. Mr.Burbank hated love for the same reason a child hates an unfair game, because he can never win. I spoke earlier about how it pains me to hear people lament about their love life, and the failures that came along with multiple lovers. I hate it when people spurn my Creation because they cannot use it properly. Hope is an aspect that Love needs most, and to lose that is to quit playing the game all together. Mr.Burbank gave up years ago, after his wife died. He has tried many a time to find his own catch like Honey did, but failed. He has spurned love for his failures, and for that I cannot forgive him.
Mr.Burbank was going to find a way to bring Honey down, but at the moment he didn’t know how to get rid of her. To him, she was a tiny, black leech filtering out the riches he could be collecting from Harrin easily. His business was not doing so well at the moment, and his sole customer at the moment was Harrin. Honey hated soda, so she didn’t invest in the company. Burbank had tried futilely to get her interested in the business, but it didn’t work. The stunt he pulled to bring Honey down, though dirty, was the perfect way to end someone without outright killing them.
“I fear this shall be my last journal entry forever. I won’t be able to write in prison I’m afraid. Apparently sleeping around, and taking money from rich, lovely men is ‘embezzling’ in a company. Or at least that’s what Burbanks attorney’s say it was. I, as a beautiful, negro woman with charm, obviously used my wits to advance in a place I had no business being in anyway. The court was less than pleased with my verdict. Death never escapes their minds. How ‘barbarous’ of me to sleep with a white man. Clearly, my friend Hypocrisy is at work like she always is in the courts. I can’t seem to escape her, no matter how much I try not to stick around, I always end up tangled in it. I have been sentenced to jail for at least 50 years. That’s not the standard amount of time for white people who embezzle. They get a tap on the nose, and a ‘please don’t do it again’. Negro’s get the biggest boot, and maybe a noose if the warden feels like tying something that day. Here’s hoping the warden’s an ideally idle loafer.”
Such a bittersweet way to end a wonderful Love story, don’t you think? She used such a powerful tool to advance her lifestyle, and was almost on top of everything. There are times when I think “What if I had presented myself to her?” I could’ve lied and said I was her Guardian Angel or something, though it would’ve cost me my halo. I think about how I could’ve done her story differently, how I could’ve helped write it. Azriel is also always going on about how the ones left behind are the one’s regretting the most things. Dead people almost have no regrets, he says. Even if they’ve forgotten to do something they always wanted, they ultimately don’t care about it anymore, because the prospect of Heaven and what awaits is almost always so overwhelming for them. I wonder if that’s what this feeling is. This feeling of missing and wanting to try to do better for other people. I never even got to meet her, it’s such a shame. The only thing left of her is her Soul. We’ve placed it with the others, and it’s about as good as lost in there. I think by telling you this story though, it has helped Honey in some way. The humans who imprisoned her thought her diary would be lost to time, and they were right in a way. But I’ve managed to write it all down here for you to read, so hopefully you appreciate that enough to take my creation seriously. My sole dream is that someone reads this and does what Honey did. I would love to have another pupil like Honey, someone experienced and just as smart as she were. It would make me happy knowing I made the perfect little manipulator, and I didn’t even have to move to do it.
- Chamuel, the Angel of Love
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Honey
By Liseran Thistle
I created the idea of Love about 5 months before you humans were ever even thought of. My creation is regarded as something cruel, and useless. For millennia I have heard Love being ridiculed and mocked by edgy, unassuming teenagers to inept in the art to be any good at it. It pains me to see so many people look at me, and only see some novelty to put on the front of valentines cards. My creation is a weapon of inner destruction. If humans just knew how to use it, they could crumble nations and build up empires they never thought capable of bringing into existence. My creation is a humble brag in comparison to something like the atom bomb, or mechanical arms.
I have often queried whether I am the same as my creation, or if I have become the essence of my creation. Love was never even really meant to go to you pitiful humans. I created it to take over the whole of Heaven. I made it for reasons the Seraphs would not agree with. I made it to destroy the Principalities. I made it for a lot of reasons. When I first showed it to Pharsuph, he took one look at it, and shook his head in disagreement. “It’s too dangerous, Chamuel.” He had told me. “Do you know what could happen if-” I knew very well what could happen “If.” That’s why I made it. But I didn’t tell Pharsi this. I told him not to worry about what “If” and to just pass it along for inspection.
The reason I had changed my mind about who would be gifted with my creation was because I thought there was actual potential in you humans. I thought you, as the untapped wellsprings of innovation that you are, would take advantage of it as it was meant to be used. But I should have known better. Humans are incapable of using anything of godly status how it is meant to be used. I have never understood why the Principalities decided to make you, or why the Seraphs pride you as an amazing accomplishment. You all seem like useless meat bags to me. There was only ever one human who did strike me as not as useless, though. She was a woman with certain assets that she knew how to use correctly. Someone who knew how to play the universe like a harp. I remember her very vividly, she was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted the moment the Seraphs thought of her. And she knew exactly how to use Love the right way. She was a tall brunette with shapely lips, a round face, and hazel eyes. The Principalities placed her soul in the year 1956, a time of revolution and heated civil battles. She was a woman of color, with the brains of a genius, and the tongue of a rogue. She was truly a special type of woman, one that was meant to repair what we, The Angels, had miffed up a few centuries earlier.
She is not a woman that you know. Her name was never cemented into any of your historical documents or books. She wrote about things, though. She wrote about the affairs she had with other men, how she used them to her advantage, and the scornful looks that other women gave her when some man dared to take her out in high society.
“Oh it was magical, seeing the seething rage of all those alabaster belles in perfect trim and lace dresses, gloves as white as their skin. It was truly an experience to watch them watch him twirl me around that ballroom floor like I was some kind of Lady. But they all knew. They didn’t have proof but my skin and their own guesses, but they knew nonetheless. I weren’t no lady. I weren’t no southern belle to be showcased like a show pony.”
She wrote that on the night that her first man took her out to a society gala in Georgia. A place where they would rather see her hang then in linen and lace. I will name this woman “Honey” as it was the name she gave the men she used to play. Honey was never a reserved or quiet lady, but she was also never very outgoing either. I remember there was a time when she was very young, and not sure what political side she was actually on. It was right around when she had just settled into her first home. It didn’t matter to her whether she ended up being a republican or a democrat. She wanted to join the one that was actually beneficial to herself. And money was quite the benefit in Honey’s eyes.
“Each day, I wake up, I go to my mailbox, and I avert my eyes from Mrs.Crawford across the street who likes to peek from behind her polka dot curtains. I can feel her old, blue eyes following me to my mailbox, and if I could, I’d swear on a bible I could feel the cat eye glasses she wore poking me in my back, and my legs and my hair. I could feel the judgement she laid from behind those polka dot curtains, and I hadn’t even spoken to the lady yet. The atmosphere on the block has been tense without reason, and it’s only been a week. It seems like they’re all wondering who I am or what I’m doing in their white, pristine neighborhood. When all I’m really doing is settling in, the same as them. I’ve been careful to only go out when I need to. I buy groceries to last for the month, not just a week. I’m a recluse with money, and no job, but a fortune to spend. A turtle with a shell of gold. I feel like going out today, but I know it’ll drag eyes to me.”
Honey did eventually venture out. And unbeknownst to her, with my creation in hand. That day, in the park by the grocers strip, with all the locals out and about buying their needs and wares, Honey met him. A tall, gangly sort of fellow, with blonde hair like a birds nest, and crooked teeth. He was not a nice sight, that’s to be sure. He wore a blue blazer, and yellow ascot. He was the type you see in offices, and firms, a real businessman sort. He asked for her name, and being the captive she was in this neighborhood, she answered with vigor hoping to dispel any thoughts of unease or escape from this man’s mind (Not that she wanted to keep this young man for herself, rather she didn’t want him to think that she was planning on running from him, screaming rape for the hills.) The man introduced himself as Hank Hilton, the owner of a very wealthy hotel and inn company. They talked about their futures and the people in the town around them. And halfway through the interaction, Honey knew she had something to gain from this experience. She saw something in this interaction that she knew was different from all others, a ledge she could desperately cling onto that screamed opportunity. She talked to this man about the things that troubled her, and he shared his own problems in kind. It wasn’t until she laughed at one of his silly jokes, that she knew she had snagged him for certain. She did the smart thing. The right thing. Hank Hilton asked her to a dance next weekend, and she of course, snagging the opportunity with vicious claws, said yes. I look back on that moment with a gleam of pride some days. Because it was the first time in a long line of “Love is Virtuous” stories that someone was actually using my creation how it was always meant to be used.
Honey went home with Hank Hilton on her arm. She had a man with money who was already willing to come to her beck and call, who already wanted to spend more time with her. And really, that’s all it ever came down to. See, what most humans fail to understand is that Love takes time much the same way a cannon takes time to load and fire. Trying to start a relationship with someone you just met an hour ago is akin to firing a cannon with no ammo. And even still, you need fire power to even make sure the cannon fires properly, and you need a fuse, and a lighter. You need all these things to fire a cannon, not just some ammo. And Honey knew this well. Hank walked her up to her porch that night, and Mrs. Crawford peeked her head out. It was the first time I saw that missing glimmer of inspiration that the rest of humanity lacked. It was the first time that I knew Honey was a different kind of human. She turned her head at the house across the street, and winked. She said goodnight to him, and the two of them parted ways, though Honey’s perfume stayed with Hank for the rest of the night.
If I had only been there to help her, I would’ve helped her get to places she wouldn’t have thought possible. How I would’ve rejoiced at seeing her in the White House on someone’s arm. I would’ve jumped up in glee to see her on the red carpet with some foolish celebrity. I would’ve helped her get to a place so high, that she wouldn’t need a man to help her get anywhere else. She would’ve soared above them all, yet it was not to be. Honey, as you may have guessed by now, dies as all humans die. But I would rather not dwell on her passing. I want to remember her for how she used to be. Azriel is always spouting nonsense about moving on, and grief, so I’ve decided to listen to him, however reluctant I am to take his advice. To start, my favorite part of Honey’s story is her first time out on the town with Hank. It was nowhere near as fanciful as the gala in Georgia she attends in the future, but it might as well have been the same for all of the angry stares she got. It was a nice, warm June night. They were at a park, one of those family occasions with the stringed lights and the picnic tables. Everyone was all dressed up as if it were Easter Sunday, perfectly crisp suits and ties, and nice pressed dresses with pink lace. The women laughed and giggled, their arms strung across their husbands or their fiances. Everything about the party was a startling shade of white and blonde. Honey had never been in a place that made her feel so excluded before.
Hank patted her on the arm gently, reassuring her, whispering something about how they were “different”. How they “wouldn’t mind at all.” Honey nodded her head, eyes like a soldier ready to do battle, and equipped the brightest smile she could muster. The minute Mrs.Stanley of the local Herman Elementary PTA spotted her, she gave her the most confused look Honey had ever seen on a white woman. Other’s noticed her, and the man on her arm, and adopted the same confused stare, as if they had stumbled upon a newly discovered animal. Hank walked up to a man and a gaggle of his society friends. The man grabbed a hold of his wife, and pulled her closer, uneasy. The woman looked at Honey as if she were a rare breed of human. “Who...Who is this?” The man asked. Honey introduced herself. “They call me Honey.” She didn’t stretch her hand out for him too shake, she knew he wouldn’t take it. And she didn’t feel like pretending to be courteous to a man who already thought she was some kind of floozie. Needless to say, her speaking was a dangerous move, and one I applaud wholeheartedly.
In their entire time spent together, Honey never let Hank speak for her, or over her. She had a voice, and she used it to every means possible. To see a small, black woman dolled up, at a society gala on white man’s arms was grounds enough to be either arrested or killed. But my creation, as I have said before, is a very wonderful gift to the human heart. It truly is the most wonderful thing you humans have, and it astounds me how you haven’t figured out all of its many uses. Honey made the people at the party love her. The women talked about their kids, and the trouble they got into. The men would tell stories about work and politics, and they were always trying to make the women laugh at their jokes. She laughed at all the right moments. When Barry Josephen of the light company made a joke about power lines and stray cats, she gave the right amount of laughter to evoke a beam of pride in the man. She cracked a few of her own, gave the most wonderful advice about cooking to the women, and was even allowed the privilege of sharing her political opinions. (Though she remembered to keep it vague, she didn’t want to over shadow the men’s own perspectives of how the country should be ran, for fear of damaging their ego’s and begetting thoughts of “Why didn’t I think of that?”) This all changed how they saw her. Suddenly, they were all asking her questions. Like where was she from, and how did she get to this tiny old dustbowl of a town? Honey answered all of them, though not truthfully. The Principalities graced her with both looks and wits it seemed. When the party was over, Hank drove her home as she waved goodbye to the men and women of the party. She had about 10 new friends. 10 new rich friends who already considered her as close family. That’s when she realized the power she wielded. She could make people love her, and have them wrapped around her brown, little finger and they’d be none the wiser. She rested her head against Hank’s shoulder, and smiled dreamily to herself. When Hank asked her what she was so happy about, she lied and said she was just happy that he had been right. Everyone did love her. Poor fool never realized what he unleashed by bringing her to the party.
..........
“I’ve been talking to Mr.Hughes of the Jackson town newspaper committee. He’s a new catch that I found at a bar in upper Manhattan. He owns the paper, or so he claims. But it don’t matter to me. I got a story he’ll love. I wonder what he’ll think when he finds out that Hank Hilton, owner of the Hilton establishment, is one of those money printers the media’s been spooked about lately? I found out that Hank, Catch #1, was printing hundred dollar bills last month when he came for a visit. I hadn’t seen him since the society gala when I broke it off with him. I hadn’t really wondered what he’d been up to. I never really cared. But I can’t deny my love of snooping. I went with him to his house, expecting the usual. I snuck around, and found one of those printing presses they have in factories and warehouses. I also found the money it's been printing. Hank found me looking around, and smiled. He wanted me to apart of this little escapade he had. He said we were gonna score big if it worked out. I agreed, and went to Manhattan the instant Hank’s back was turned.”
Honey’s escapades with Hank were not what you would quite expect. She never collected any of the money that Hank tried to deposit toward her. She gave it all back to him discreetly without his knowing. When it was all said and done, it looked like she hadn’t gotten a cent of the money. She brought the news to Harrin Hughes of the paper, and the story brooke loose. Hank lost everything that week. The papers were a riot with his story, tossing and turning it different angles, never letting up on the way he reacted to the story breaking loose. He was livid with Honey, but know one really found out who it was that broke the story to the press.
Honey made sure that Hughes kept quiet about the exchange, and in return she’d let him take her out to a few parties. This is the part of the story where we finally see Honey in all of her glory. This was the height of her power. Of my power. To say that I was proud of her here is an understatement. Harrin Hughes brought her to this fancy new art gala that was showcasing in Brooklyn. By now, Honey had amassed more money from her catches, and was richer than any black woman living in 1956. She had already bought herself a collection of high end society ball gowns, and was thankful that there was a stylist in the entirety of New York who would gladly cater to a rich black lady, without casting some suspicious thought on where she got her money in the first place. She threw on this wonderful blue and gold lace ball gown with ruffles, and nice gold satin gloves to go with them. When Harrin saw her, he couldn’t help but smile foolishly at her, and Honey who was so great at playing the game, knew exactly what to say to him when he saw her. “Close your mouth, or you’ll get drool all over that nice suit you’re wearing.”
“Harrin took my arm, and the whole time he had a big, stupid grin on his face while we walked down the street. There were, of course, cursory glances given to us, as we made our way to the art gala. But it didn’t bother me. I was used to the eyes that followed me and my riches. It was not a greedy look they gave me as I walked, that I knew. It was a look of purebred hatred and jealousy. I could feel white men stare at me during that Gala. They would’ve rather seen me dead then in that building, but I had an invitation to the man who was throwing the party. My Harrin was the one who was throwing this exquisite party. And he told them he would rather shut the whole thing down, including their precious auction, then see me out on the street while the party commenced inside. He’s not too bad. For a Catch that is. If I didn’t feel like dumping him the next day, I’d probably stick around. But staying on one man’s arm is not what Honey is good at. Honey will do a lot of things, but stick around ain’t one of them.”
The Art gala that night was as Honey described it. It was full of toxic stares from every man and woman Harrin twirled her past. She thought about excusing herself to the restroom, but on second glance that plan was a sure fire way for her to get killed by one of these party goers. Particularly Mr.Burbank of the FizzlePop industry. If I remember correctly, he sold soda’s and other types of drinks to the young people of upper Manhattan. He stood in the corner of the party, drinking wine from a glass chalice that Harrin had special ordered for all of the guests, staring angrily at the “Traitor.” Now, I feel like I should stop Honey’s story for a bit and tell you more about Mr.Burbank.
Terry Burbank was a fat, despicable little man of white descent. His family used to row and ship cargo up the Mississippi on the soggy bayous of Huntington, Louisiana. That is, before they struck gold in there backyard, and became as rich as kings. Burbanks father, who I remember being just as terrible as his son, swindled some poor family out of their soda and wine, and began to sell it as his own. The Burbanks never were a very honest sort of folks. Terry had, unbeknownst to Honey, been guzzling money from Harrin. Which is also why she hasn’t been getting as much from him as she had been from her other Catches. Burbank hated Honey, because he knew that all of Harrins fortune was being given to his sweet, gentle Honey who could do no wrong. I despise Mr.Burbank, not only because of how he inevitably brought down my one prized pupil, but because of his ideals on my creation. Mr.Burbank hated love for the same reason a child hates an unfair game, because he can never win. I spoke earlier about how it pains me to hear people lament about their love life, and the failures that came along with multiple lovers. I hate it when people spurn my Creation because they cannot use it properly. Hope is an aspect that Love needs most, and to lose that is to quit playing the game all together. Mr.Burbank gave up years ago, after his wife died. He has tried many a time to find his own catch like Honey did, but failed. He has spurned love for his failures, and for that I cannot forgive him.
Mr.Burbank was going to find a way to bring Honey down, but at the moment he didn’t know how to get rid of her. To him, she was a tiny, black leech filtering out the riches he could be collecting from Harrin easily. His business was not doing so well at the moment, and his sole customer at the moment was Harrin. Honey hated soda, so she didn’t invest in the company. Burbank had tried futilely to get her interested in the business, but it didn’t work. The stunt he pulled to bring Honey down, though dirty, was the perfect way to end someone without outright killing them.
“I fear this shall be my last journal entry forever. I won’t be able to write in prison I’m afraid. Apparently sleeping around, and taking money from rich, lovely men is ‘embezzling’ in a company. Or at least that’s what Burbanks attorney’s say it was. I, as a beautiful, negro woman with charm, obviously used my wits to advance in a place I had no business being in anyway. The court was less than pleased with my verdict. Death never escapes their minds. How ‘barbarous’ of me to sleep with a white man. Clearly, my friend Hypocrisy is at work like she always is in the courts. I can’t seem to escape her, no matter how much I try not to stick around, I always end up tangled in it. I have been sentenced to jail for at least 50 years. That’s not the standard amount of time for white people who embezzle. They get a tap on the nose, and a ‘please don’t do it again’. Negro’s get the biggest boot, and maybe a noose if the warden feels like tying something that day. Here’s hoping the warden’s an ideally idle loafer.”
Such a bittersweet way to end a wonderful Love story, don’t you think? She used such a powerful tool to advance her lifestyle, and was almost on top of everything. There are times when I think “What if I had presented myself to her?” I could’ve lied and said I was her Guardian Angel or something, though it would’ve cost me my halo. I think about how I could’ve done her story differently, how I could’ve helped write it. Azriel is also always going on about how the ones left behind are the one’s regretting the most things. Dead people almost have no regrets, he says. Even if they’ve forgotten to do something they always wanted, they ultimately don’t care about it anymore, because the prospect of Heaven and what awaits is almost always so overwhelming for them. I wonder if that’s what this feeling is. This feeling of missing and wanting to try to do better for other people. I never even got to meet her, it’s such a shame. The only thing left of her is her Soul. We’ve placed it with the others, and it’s about as good as lost in there. I think by telling you this story though, it has helped Honey in some way. The humans who imprisoned her thought her diary would be lost to time, and they were right in a way. But I’ve managed to write it all down here for you to read, so hopefully you appreciate that enough to take my creation seriously. My sole dream is that someone reads this and does what Honey did. I would love to have another pupil like Honey, someone experienced and just as smart as she were. It would make me happy knowing I made the perfect little manipulator, and I didn’t even have to move to do it.
- Chamuel, the Angel of Love