Principal Ares: A Sandcastle, A Food Fight, A Talent Show, and Unicorns

I stood on the stage in the gymnasium of Olympus Heights Elementary.

My perfectly tailored suit felt like a straitjacket.

This was it.

My new domain.

My new war zone.

See, a few months back, after a particularly spirited disagreement with Athena about the proper way to conduct a siege (she insisted on “strategic withdrawal” while I favored “indiscriminate slaughter”), Zeus, in his infinite, infuriating wisdom, decided I needed a “time-out.”

Not just any time-out, mind you.

A mortal time-out.

And not just any mortal time-out, but a “character-building experience” in the most soul-crushing environment he could conjure: elementary education.

“Ares,” he boomed, his voice rattling the very foundations of Olympus, “you are to become Principal of Olympus Heights Elementary. You will learn patience. You will learn empathy. You will learn the true meaning of ‘conflict resolution’ without resorting to disembowelment.”

I tried to argue.

I ranted.

I threatened.

I even tried to disembowel a particularly persistent cherub.

Nothing worked.

Zeus merely chuckled and waved his hand.

The next thing I knew, I was staring at a job offer written on a cheerful yellow flyer, complete with a smiling cartoon sun.

So here I was, Principal Ares, standing before a sea of expectant, mostly snot-nosed, small humans.

Among them, in the front row, I noticed a tiny blonde girl with bright blue eyes and pigtails that bounced with barely contained energy.

Their parents, a mix of overly enthusiastic, vaguely suspicious, and deeply terrified individuals, filled the bleachers behind them.

The banner above my head, declared:

“Welcome Back, OHES Falcons!

Soar to New Heights!”

I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life.

“Good morning, future titans!” I bellowed, my voice, echoing oddly in the acoustic nightmare of the gym.

“I am your new principal, Mr. Ares. And let me tell you, I am absolutely thrilled to be here!”

A few polite claps. The little blonde girl in the front row beamed at me with a big smile.

It was a good start.

Recess Duty

My initial foray into “recess duty” was particularly memorable.

I’d envisioned myself patrolling the grounds, a stern but fair figure, ensuring order.

Instead, I found myself refereeing a dispute over a sandbox shovel that escalated faster than a Spartan phalanx charging into battle.

“He took my shovel!” shrieked a diminutive redhead named Barnaby, tears streaming down his face.

“Did not!” countered a surprisingly sturdy blonde girl, Esmeralda, brandishing the offending implement like a mace.

“It was on my mound!”

Suddenly, a soft, rainbow-colored projectile arced through the air and landed squarely on Barnaby’s head. It was a small, plush unicorn.

Sarah, standing a few feet away with an innocent look on her face, giggled.

“Maybe Barnaby needs a friend, Esmeralda!” she chirped.

Barnaby, momentarily stunned by the unexpected unicorn assault, stopped crying. Esmeralda, however, looked less than impressed.

“Hey! That’s my spot for building!”

I sighed.

“Children,” I boomed, channeling my inner Zeus, “this squabble is trivial! And what in Hades was that, youngling?”

I pointed at the unicorn.

“That was Sparklehoof!” Sarah announced proudly.

“He brings happiness!”

“Happiness is not achieved through launching mythical creatures at your classmates!” I countered, though I had to admit, the unexpectedness of the attack had been… strategically disruptive.

“Settle this with honor! First to conquer the sandcastle, wins the shovel!”

A collective gasp from the parents on duty.

Mrs. Henderson, a woman who looked like she’d spent her entire life crocheting doilies, rushed forward.

“Principal Ares! We encourage sharing, not… hostile takeovers! And… projectile unicorns?”

I blinked.

“Hostile… what? This is how conflicts are resolved! Through decisive action! A swift victory! Though I admit,” I eyed Sarah thoughtfully, “the element of surprise with the… ‘Sparklehoof Maneuver’ was… intriguing.”

Mrs. Henderson looked like she was going to faint.

“Perhaps a game of rock-paper-scissors?” she suggested weakly.

Rock-paper-scissors?

What kind of barbarian ritual was that?

I stared at the children, then at the shovel, then at Sarah, who was now attempting to launch another unicorn using a suspiciously bent ruler.

My instincts screamed for a well-placed kick to the sandcastle, sending it crumbling and teaching them all a valuable lesson about the futility of material possessions in the face of overwhelming power.

But then I remembered Zeus’ mandate.

Patience.

Empathy.

No disembowelment.

And apparently, a tolerance for airborne equines.

“Fine,” I grumbled.

“Rock-paper-scissors it is. May the most… strategic… hand gesture win. And young Sarah,” I added, my gaze fixed on the small blonde, “perhaps we can reserve the… ‘happiness deployment’ for moments of extreme emotional distress. Understood?”

Sarah nodded, her blue eyes wide.

I had a feeling “extreme emotional distress” was a far more flexible term in her vocabulary than in mine.

The Great Food Fight

The cafeteria, I quickly learned, was the closest thing to a battlefield I had. The sheer volume of noise, the projectile food items, the unpredictable movements of hundreds of small, sugar-fueled bodies – it was a sensory overload even for a god of war.

One Tuesday, during the weekly “Taco Tuesday” extravaganza, the unthinkable happened. It started innocently enough. A stray tortilla chip, a misaimed glob of guacamole.

Then, young Kevin, a particularly aggressive kindergartner, launched a full-sized taco across the room. It splattered against the immaculate white shirt of Mrs. Peterson, the notoriously prim and proper librarian.

A hush fell.

A defiant shout erupted: “FOOD FIGHT!!”

Chaos.

Absolute, unadulterated, glorious chaos.

Tacos flew like winged chariots. Nacho cheese became liquid fire.

Grapes, surprisingly effective projectiles, whizzed through the air.

And then there were the… softer assaults. Small, brightly colored objects were being launched with surprising accuracy.

I soon identified the culprit: Sarah, her pigtails flying as she wielded a spoon like a tiny catapult, sending a steady stream of mashed peas and carrot chunks across the room.

Mixed in with this vegetal volley were, of course, several miniature stuffed unicorns, leaving a trail of bewildered silence in their fluffy wake.

The cafeteria staff, usually stoic veterans of countless lunch rushes, scattered like panicked civilians.

My first instinct was to join in.

This was it!

This was war!

But then I saw Mrs. Peterson, her face a mask of horror, looking like she was about to call down a plague of locusts on the entire student body.

I saw the pure, unadulterated joy on the children’s faces as they reveled in the anarchy, Sarah chief among them, her innocent glee somehow making the flying food seem almost… whimsical.

And then I remembered Zeus.

Conflict resolution.

“CHARGE!!” I roared, my voice cutting through the din.

The children froze, their arms mid-launch. They looked at me, bewildered, none more so than Sarah, a spoonful of applesauce hovering in mid-air.

“Not at each other, you dolts!” I clarified.

“At the mess! You made this battlefield! You will clean it! Every last crumb! Every last drop of… congealed bean dip! And every last rogue unicorn!” I added, pointedly looking at Sarah, who quickly stuffed a small, cheese-covered Sparklehoof into her pocket.

A few children giggled. Most stared blankly. This was not the battle cry they were expecting.

“Discipline! Order! Teamwork! The side that cleans their section fastest will be victorious! And… uh… earn extra recess!”

The word “recess” was like a magic spell.

Suddenly, the chaos transformed into a frenzy of cleaning.

Children, initially bewildered, began to scramble, picking up food, wiping down tables.

Even Sarah, with a surprising diligence, began collecting stray peas and carrots, though I did notice her occasionally tucking a particularly appealing piece of broccoli into her pocket. The food fight had become an exercise in communal tidiness.

I watched, utterly flabbergasted, as the cafeteria went from a disaster zone to remarkably presentable in under ten minutes.

When it was all over, a small, sticky-fingered girl named Lily approached me, her face smeared with something suspiciously green.

“Principal Ares,” she said, her eyes wide, “that was the funnest principaling ever!”

Sarah, standing nearby, nodded vigorously, a smear of applesauce on her cheek.

“And Sparklehoof helped!” she added with a bright smile.

I just stared at them.

“Fun… principaling?” I muttered, a strange, unfamiliar sensation bubbling in my chest.

It wasn’t the thrill of battle. It was… something else.

Something disturbingly close to a grudging respect for gleeful, innocent mischief.

The Talent Show

The annual Talent Show was a psychological operation. I had to sit through hours of questionable performances.

Then, Mrs. Rodriguez announced, “And now, please welcome our very own Sarah, who will be demonstrating the advanced art of… unicorn wrangling!”

I blinked. Unicorn wrangling? This was new.

Sarah skipped onto the stage, not with a lasso or a whip, but with a large, brightly colored net and a bag that jingled with what sounded suspiciously like small, plastic jewels.

The music started. It was upbeat and whimsical. Sarah began to move with surprising agility, twirling her net and occasionally tossing the glittering objects into the air. There were no actual unicorns present, of course.

The “wrangling” seemed to consist of Sarah pretending to chase invisible, magical creatures, occasionally trapping them in her net with a triumphant giggle.

The audience, initially confused, was quickly won over by Sarah’s infectious enthusiasm and the sheer absurdity of the act. Parents chuckled, and even the other children seemed captivated by her imaginative display.

When she finished, to a wave of enthusiastic applause, I stood up.

“That,” I announced, my voice booming across the auditorium, “was a display of remarkable… strategic capture techniques!”

Mrs. Rodriguez looked like she was about to have a full-blown glitter-induced seizure.

“The cunning! The precision! The unwavering determination to subdue the… unseen foe!” I continued, warming to my theme.

“Young Sarah has demonstrated the vital skill of… preparedness! One must always be ready for any eventuality, even if that eventuality involves the acquisition of mythical beasts!”

Sarah beamed, clutching her net.

“She has taught us,” I declared, gesturing dramatically, “that even in the realm of fantasy, there is a place for… tactical engagement! For anticipating the movements of the enemy, even if that enemy is a figment of our delightful imagination!”

The audience, thoroughly entertained and completely used to my bizarre interpretations, clapped even louder. Sarah took a deep bow, her pigtails nearly knocking over a nearby potted plant.

Later, Mrs. Rodriguez approached me, shaking her head but with a smile on her face.

“Principal Ares,” she said, “I have absolutely no idea what you just said, but the kids loved it, and Sarah is over the moon.”

“It is about finding the strategic value in all endeavors, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I explained sagely.

“Even in the… strategic acquisition of imaginary unicorns.”

She just smiled and walked away.

Parent-Teacher Conferences

Parent-teacher conferences.

I used to dread these. They were like endless peace treaties, fraught with unspoken tensions and passive-aggressive maneuvers.

But I’d found my rhythm.

I’d learned to identify the “helicopter parents” (who hovered like Furies), the “disengaged parents” (who were practically Muses, inspiring nothing), and the “Tiger Moms” (who were clearly descended from Amazons).

One evening, I sat across from Mr. and Mrs. Peterson.

Their daughter, little Sarah, was a quiet, unassuming child with big blue eyes, blonde hair usually in slightly lopsided pigtails, who, in my estimation, possessed the tactical genius of a well-placed siege engine, albeit one with a distinctly whimsical flair.

She rarely spoke, but when she did, it was always with devastating cuteness.

“Sarah is doing… adequately,” Mrs. Peterson began, her voice brittle.

“But she seems to have developed a fascination with… launching things.”

Mr. Peterson nodded gravely.

“She built a contraption out of cardboard tubes and rubber bands and has been launching her stuffed unicorns across the living room. Nearly knocked over Grandma’s porcelain cat.”

My ears perked up. Launching things, you say? Now that was a topic I understood.

“Fascinating,” I mused, leaning forward.

“A natural inclination towards ballistics. An understanding of trajectory, force, and projectile motion. These are the building blocks of engineering, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson! The very essence of strategic deployment!” I paused, considering the unusual ammunition.

“Unicorns, you say?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Peterson sighed.

“Fluffy, rainbow-maned ones. She calls her launcher the ‘Happy Catapult’.”

My eyebrows shot up. A “Happy Catapult”?

This was either brilliant camouflage or utter madness. Either way, it demanded further investigation.

“She is not merely ‘playing’,” I declared, my voice rising with enthusiasm.

“She is conducting early-stage aerial deployment simulations! She is mastering the principles of trajectory with… morale-boosting payloads! This is not a hobby; this is a burgeoning logistical genius, albeit one focused on the whimsical!”

Mr. Peterson slowly adjusted his glasses, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “So… we shouldn’t discourage her… happy catapult?”

“Discourage her?” I scoffed.

“You should be nurturing this! Provide her with stronger elastics! Expand her testing range! Perhaps a trebuchet designed for larger plush creatures next? Or a ballista for exceptionally grumpy-looking teddy bears?”

The Petersons exchanged a look. It was a look I’d seen before on the faces of mortals who were simultaneously horrified and charmed.

“Perhaps we could… encourage her to launch… friendly things?” Mrs. Peterson suggested, a nervous smile on her face.

“Things that promote… joy?”

I pondered this.

A catapult that launched joy.

It was an intriguing concept.

A weaponized delivery system for positive emotions. A tactical dissemination of… fluffiness.

It was unorthodox, to say the least.

But then I remembered Zeus.

Empathy.

And Lily’s surprisingly insightful comment about “fun principaling.”

“A joy-delivery catapult,” I repeated, a strange glint in my eye.

“Yes… a non-lethal projectile launcher of pure, unadulterated… sparkle.” I focused on the underlying principle.

“A fascinating tactical challenge in psychological well-being. Very well, Sarah. Your next mission: refine your Happy Catapult. And ensure maximum joyful impact upon deployment.”

The Petersons left my office that night looking utterly bewildered, but also, surprisingly, a little less stressed.

I realized then that my “lies”—my dramatic interpretations of mundane school life—were actually working.

They were making the bizarre world of elementary education make sense to me, and, in a strange way, making it more engaging for the mortals around me, even if that engagement involved airborne mythical creatures.

Field Day

The pinnacle of the school year was Field Day.

A day of competitive events, athletic prowess, and the inevitable skinned knees. For me, it was the closest I’d get to the Olympic Games.

I approached it with military precision. I had designed obstacle courses that would challenge the toughest Spartan, timed races that would test the endurance of a marathon runner, and a tug-of-war that would shame a team of giants.

I even added a special “Strategic Deployment Zone” to the far end of the field, where children could test various contraptions.

Sarah, naturally, was already there, meticulously setting up her “Happy Catapult,” a slightly larger, more elaborate version of her home-built launcher, complete with a small quiver of stuffed unicorns.

“Welcome, young warriors, to Field Day!” I boomed.

“Today, we test your mettle! Your courage! Your willingness to push past your limits! And for some,” I added, glancing pointedly at Sarah, who giggled and gave a small, conspiratorial wave, “your ability to spread… positive emotional ordnance!”

Mrs. Henderson, who was in charge of the “beanbag toss” station, winced.

The day was glorious.

Children stumbled, scraped their knees, but then, surprisingly, got back up. They cheered for their teammates. They learned the bitter taste of defeat and the sweet triumph of victory. I even saw young Barnaby, the shovel-dispute victim, offer a hand to Esmeralda, who had tripped during the sack race.

And from her designated zone, Sarah was a whirlwind of activity, launching unicorns not at specific targets, but seemingly just into the air with pure joy, causing ripples of laughter wherever they landed.

One even hit me square on the head during the three-legged race.

It was surprisingly soft.

It was during the final event, the “capture the flag” game, that I saw it.

The pure, unadulterated passion.

The strategic thinking.

The chaotic scramble for victory.

This was war, distilled into its purest, most innocent form.

Young Kevin, the same kindergartner who started the food fight, was a surprisingly effective scout, darting through the chaos.

And Sarah, from her “deployment zone,” was a one-girl morale squad.

Whenever a team looked dejected, a fluffy unicorn would arc over, landing near them like a fuzzy, encouraging missile.

It was disarmingly effective.

I stood at the sidelines, a rare smile gracing my lips. This place, this strange, glitter-glue-infused domain, had changed me.

Or perhaps, I had changed it.

I had brought the principles of war—discipline, strategy, courage, even a strange form of empathy—to the playground.

And in return, I had learned that even the most fearsome warrior could find a peculiar kind of joy in a well-aimed dodgeball, a strategically launched kindness projectile, or the gleeful giggles of a five-year-old launching stuffed unicorns.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the field, the exhausted but exhilarated children gathered around me.

Sarah, her pigtails slightly askew, ran up and tugged on my suit pant leg.

“Principal Ares,” she said, her big blue eyes sparkling, “Sparklehoof says we won the happiness battle!”

“Indeed, young Sarah,” I said, a genuine warmth in my voice as I resisted the urge to pat her head.

“You fought bravely. You strategized brilliantly. You spread joy with impressive… delivery metrics. You all showed the true spirit of… well, of Olympus Heights Elementary!!”

And as I looked at their shining faces, covered in dirt and sweat, I knew, with absolute certainty, that the biggest lie I had ever told—the one about being “thrilled” to be here—had, in the most unexpected way, become the absolute truth.

I was Ares, God of War, and I was, to my eternal surprise, Principal of Olympus Heights Elementary.

And frankly, I was having a blast.

Just don’t tell Zeus.

He’d never let me live it down.