Holding On

Flash fiction Friday


Well I said I was back, and that FF Friday would stay, so here we are. This weeks post is unprompted but sees the return of Poseidon, last seen in “Poseidon’s Hell”. His problems continue…

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Holding on

Poseidon frowned.

How could he be finding this so hard? He was a god for God’s – for his sake, humph, it is tough finding someone else to blame when you are a god.

But there are people to blame aren’t there? That cow Athena and her mates. That damned stupid poker game and whoever the hell it was that invented Sambuca.

They were to blame for this.

Oh and Mrs. Pilkington.

It was her stupid rule about guests not being allowed into the house for three hours every Wednesday afternoon, so that she can deep clean and tidy the place without “…you bunch of idiots bustling about under my feet!” as she had so delicately put it, that had left him here in this mess right now.

Yep – it was definitely her fault.

Poseidon hated Mrs. Pilkington.

The coldness seeped further into his numbed backside and he sighed. Slowly he reached up, grabbed the rail and pulled himself back to his feet. The wet patch on the seat of his trousers clung desperately to his pride and refused to let him have it back.

Oh he had seen ice before, of course he had. Great rolling oceans of ice had been at his very command – once. Poseidon had no fear of cold water, no fear of anything. Except failure.

Failure was not an option.

Yet here he was, for the third week on the trot, completely unable to let go of the side of Oxford’s cunningly disguised ice rink, with its hefty mast, and nautical look that had fooled him onto the ice in the first place. Poseidon’s sense of nostalgia for the good old days of the ocean, when sailors were properly respectful and the mermaids were easy, frequently got him into these scrapes.

What was the point of these stupid shoes? When he’d ridden the glaciers across Europe he had never slipped once – not once. His trusty polar bear boots had stood him firmly in his place, and it had felt good.

But these stupid things – what was the point? One long blade down the middle that you could chop a carrot on – utter madness! How was anyone supposed to walk on them?

And yet they were.

All around him people were walking very, very fast on them; and not just men either but women too, women who could easily see his discomfort. Babies! Literally, babies for crying out loud. One little creature just whizzed past him now, laughing and spinning as his Buzz Lightyear cape flapped mockingly past the god’s knees.

And still Poseidon stood there, fixed to the rail; unable to move.

In desperation, the great man closed his eyes tight and concentrated with a fierceness that should have sunk ships and created chaos. His ears buzzed, his fists gripped the wall so tightly he left finger marks, but no matter how much the god willed it the ice would not melt, and the Rapture did not fall upon the people of Oxford. All that happened was that he got a headache, and one small boy’s cape blew over his head, causing him to momentarily lose balance.

Poseidon’s head hit the rail as he silently cursed the whole of Oxford to Hades, before slowly, and with the determination only an immortal can embody, the huge man raised himself to his full height and turned away from the wall. With a grunt and a silent agreement that this would be the very last attempt, he pushed himself off and slid gracefully away from the edge of the rink and straight into the path of Jenny Fatass, a nurse from Abingdon.

They spun around a couple of times before landing in a crumpled heap on the ice.

Poseidon frowned.

Jenny frowned. Then she smiled.

Poseidon frowned; but not quite as much.