Frostwriting

The Price of Humidity

by Marc Vincenz

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We’ve hit stone and the front right is flapping: a real live plucked chicken.
Yet, apparently unfazed, he still drives on; strangely, he leans to the left,
as if his scrawny body weight might balance the load.

The five of them, piled in behind, jumbles of sweaters, and musty tweed
and ties that lie like stethoscopes, banded eels, liquorish twizzlers, entrails,
and I daren’t say, even one like a hangman’s noose.

Now we’re stopped again, not from the flap of rubber, but there’s a fight,
right in the middle of the road.  Cars, trucks, motorbikes, jumbles of produce
perched, ready to spill; still, they weave their way round, sputters,

throw a glance, toss an occasional butt, gravel, carbon monoxide gust,
grumble, hoot, but the scrap ensues; fisticuffs.  One has a swinging Shaolin kick.
Ooo—crack straight to the jaw.  Backseat basket crowd of five applauds.

A gold tooth clinks along the fender rail.  Anyway, there’s nowhere to go.
The fat one has the thin one pinned, flat foot of sole grinding, oozing rust. 
Evening scrapes in, and headlights pop on in relay.  Eyes glint.

Behind me they’re calling bets: five to one on the Skinny, three to one
on Humpty, fresh notes are crackling, and there’s nowhere to go;
full school bus straight ahead, passes, wheedling the barrier, taxi left.

Skinny spins to hands, flips back, kick straight to the nose. Humpty stumbles,
two hands cupped like an avian flu mask, cracks, swings forth in chops.
Skinny steps on his shoe.  Humpty reels, hops on one toe.

Again, the crowd applauds.  Someone’s raised the odds on Skinny,
paper changes hands.  Guy with a tie like a noose, screams from the window:
Onward Shaolin Master!  Strike him down now!  Squash him like a frog!

But the thin man, bends over, coughs three days of cigarettes, hacks,
then somehow catches his thick air in short bursts, stands, walks calmly.
Steps into his taxi and rumbles off.  Great boo and sigh behind:

Money goes back to where it started, full circle.  Humpty too is vanished,
and soon, rumble of asphalt resumes, and we bump on, chuffing, slopping,
cropping onward until we’re blue.

Marc Vincenz was born in Hong Kong, but has lived in England, the US, Spain, Switzerland, and worked for over ten years in China. His first novel, Animal Soul, is forthcoming by Shanghai Wen Hui in Mandarin. Currently based out of Iceland, he writes a bi-weekly column on the occult for the Reykjavik Grapevine, Iceland’s English-language newspaper. His recent work has appeared, or is forthcoming in various journals and magazines including Prick of the Spindle, Danse Macabre , and FRiGG .

Issue 12 contents

Featured

Fiction

Poetry

Postcards