Flash the Court

Tag: Objective Correlative

  • “Beard” by Eric Machan Howd

    “Beard” by Eric Machan Howd

    In the prose poem “Beard,” Eric Machan Howd explores the very concept of the contemporary ubiquitous beard: what it reveals, and what it conceals. As an objective correlative, the beard represents both living and dying. Through historical touchpoints, the revered beard is placed upon a continuum of irreverence.  —Court Harler

    He lets it grow, curling around dimples and smirks and the places where his father slapped regret into his cheeks. Whorls of silver strands gleaming in the few days of sunlight left before the cold and dark. To be healthy it must be fed regularly; almonds, avocado, carrots, pumpkin seed, spinach, broccoli, and salmon keep it strong, while various oils and balms save the skin beneath and coax new growth. Sleep makes for strong roots. Hair is dead. He hides behind it, covers scars and pox left by shingles and a father who roofed too much. The mouth is grown over. He parts his lips, strokes aside gray flyaways and blond wisps with thumb and index and makes way for fork, cup, and spoon. How difficult eating becomes. A bowl, for instance, must be held outstretched from chin to avoid dipping; it demands attention with soup and cereal, and faith in the steady hand. Pope Honorius III, to disguise his disfigured lip, let his grow, and Saint Peter’s was dedicated to the name of Lutheran churches. Leo the III was the first shaved Pope. He avoids plastics and statics, the electric charge that kills what is already dead. Thomas Edison used beard hair when searching for the strongest filament for his bulb. Someone’s hair brightened the room then burnt out. Combs of wood and horn smooth growth, a natural progression. Soon his lips will disappear. His beard will cover his heart and reach for ground and grave. He is already invisible to some, seen and not heard. Doors are not held for him. He grows it because he doesn’t want to be seen while speaking, because he wants to forget his bugler lips, rusty embouchure, what connects him to his father’s strict rhythm. Small seeds of protein gather in little pockets below the surface, form roots that steep in blood vessels. Hair breaks the skin, passes glands that soften and shine, and by the time it emerges the hair is dead. By the time it reaches his knees he will be alone and sing to the many shipwrecks sunk in it and speak to the dead that rise from its darkness at soul’s midnight. The story of hair growing after death is a myth, it is the skin that retracts from the follicle that gives the illusion of growth. He finds Saint Peter’s beard is now a fabric pattern, Warhol repetitions of His Holiness, dead but in stock across the world. Friends ask if he grows it for religious purposes. He answers: Somewhat, masks don’t work.

    ERIC MACHAN HOWD (Ithaca, New York) is a poet, musician, and educator. Their work has been seen in such publications as SLANT, SLAB, Cæsura, The Scop, and Nimrod. Their fifth collection of poetry, Universal Monsters, was published in 2021 by The Orchard Street Press.

    Featured image by Joshua Harris, courtesy of Unsplash.

  • “Fifteen Shades of Pink” by Christine H. Chen

    “Fifteen Shades of Pink” by Christine H. Chen

    In this sweet satire of a flash fiction, Christine H. Chen asks her readers to rethink the color pink. Put yourself in the “Pink Panther heels” of the “Chinatown girls,” and then ask yourself why society asks young women, especially young women of color, to be so cutely monochromatic? Chen poses this serious question in a way that playfully demands an answer.  —Court Harler

    Chinatown girls dream of poster Barbie Pink in a mermaid emerald skirt who whirls on her Hot Pink seahorse with bobbing Baby Pink jellyfish, carpets of jade waves weaving on her Blush Pink seafloor; China Rose pearls caress her Salmon Pink skin, her chest twinkles with Flamingo Rose cockles oh how Chinatown girls pine for Barbie Pink’s blond curls, how Chinatown girls bleach their black hair to yellow goldfish, how they nibble on white rice to carve curves, paint eyelids and cheeks Barbie Pink, line lips Neon Pink, how they squeal oh-my-god to each other when they wear tiaras of Crêpe Pink cloudy beads with plastic Piggy Pink peonies, how they strut imaginary catwalks on Pink Panther heels, Peach Pink conch and Punch Pink jingle shells jiggle on bony hips, their footprints like Ballet Slipper Pink limpets clinging to evanescent TikTok dreams wind blowing on sand, oh how Chinatown girls dream of Barbie Pink who gazes on from her Pastel Pink poster until paper turns to puffs of planet dust.

    CHRISTINE H. CHEN was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before settling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist. Her fiction has appeared in CRAFT, SmokeLong Quarterly, Space and Time Magazine, as well as the Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions anthologies.

    Featured image by Girl with red hat, courtesy of Unsplash.