Siege of Sweetness

The morning sun, usually a cheerful beacon, felt like a spotlight intensifying Ares’s mounting panic.

At five years old, Ares, god of war and kindergartener, was intimately familiar with deadlines.

The snack table cleanup, the swift transition from playtime to circle time, the agonizingly slow wait for the swings – his days were a relentless series of ticking clocks. But today, this particular deadline, loomed larger and more terrifying than any before: Show and Tell.

His project?

A meticulous, historically accurate (or as accurate as a five-year-old could make it) diorama of the Siege of Troy. And the centerpiece, the crowning glory, the very lynchpin of his artistic and strategic vision, was the Trojan Horse, crafted painstakingly from sugar cubes and toothpicks.

But the horse wasn't finished. Not even close.

Ares hunched over the dining room table, a battlefield strewn with spilled sugar, splintered toothpicks, and an open tube of glitter glue that threatened to engulf the entire operation.

His usually neat hair was mussed, his brow furrowed in a perpetual state of intense concentration. His little tongue, usually reserved for licking lollipops, now protruded slightly from the corner of his mouth as he meticulously tried to insert a toothpick into a crumbling sugar cube.

“Just… hold… still!” he grumbled, his voice a tiny growl.

The sugar cube, damp with his frustrated breath, dissolved slightly, refusing to cooperate. It was a betrayal of epic proportions, a treachery on par with Paris stealing Helen.

His mother, a mortal woman blessedly unaware of her son’s divine heritage but acutely aware of his dramatic tendencies, peeked in.

“Everything alright, sweetie? You’ve been very quiet.”

Ares merely emitted a strangled sound, half-whimper, half-roar, as another sugar cube disintegrated. His mother wisely retreated, understanding that some battles were best fought alone, even if the general was still in pajamas.

The clock on the kitchen wall, a cheerful yellow sun with smiling rays, seemed to mock him, its hands spinning at an impossibly fast rate. Six o’clock. Seven o’clock. Show and Tell was at nine!

He surveyed his miniature Troy. The walls, fashioned from sturdy cardboard, stood resolute. The little plastic soldiers, salvaged from his brother’s discarded toy box, were strategically positioned.

Even the tiny blue felt “sea” rippled convincingly. Everything was perfect, except for the gaping hole where the magnificent horse should have been.

He remembered the genesis of this grand project. Mrs. Davison had announced the Show and Tell theme: "History Comes Alive!"

While other children eagerly declared their intentions to bring in dinosaur toys or their grandmother’s antique teacups, Ares had felt a divine spark.

Troy! The grandest siege, the most cunning stratagem! And he, Ares, god of war, would recreate it.

He'd spent days meticulously planning, sketching out blueprints for the horse, envisioning its sugary glory. His mother had helped him gather the materials, gently dissuading him from using real horses (a brief, but intense, argument ensued).

The first few sugar cube blocks had gone smoothly. But then the intricate details, the legs, the head, the hatch for the hidden soldiers, had proven… problematic.

Each sugar cube, a potential building block, became a frustrating obstacle. They were too crumbly, too sticky, too eager to fall apart.

The toothpicks, once envisioned as sturdy structural beams, were now tiny spears of betrayal, poking through his fragile architecture.

Ares slammed his tiny fist on the table, sending a tremor through his miniature battlefield. A plastic soldier toppled over. He righted it with a sigh.

This was worse than a thousand Spartan spears. This was a war of attrition against granulated sugar.

He remembered stories of great generals facing insurmountable odds.

What would Achilles do? Probably just smash everything.

What would Odysseus do? He'd build a better horse!

Ares took a deep, shaky breath. He needed a new strategy. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He looked around the kitchen, his gaze falling upon a bowl of cornstarch. An idea, wild and brilliant, sparked in his mind.

He remembered his mother using it to thicken sauces. Perhaps… perhaps it could solidify his sugar cubes! With newfound determination, he mixed a small amount of cornstarch with water, creating a thick, murky paste. It wasn't elegant, but it was pragmatic.

Carefully, he began to apply the cornstarch paste to the sugar cubes, molding them, coaxing them into the shape of a horse’s body. It was slow, messy work, but the cubes held! A glimmer of hope, like a distant camp-fire on a dark night, flickered in his young heart.

He worked with furious intensity, his small hands moving with surprising dexterity. The clock continued its relentless march, but Ares no longer heard its ticking.

He was in the zone, a tiny warrior battling against time and dissolving sugar.

The horse’s body took shape, then the sturdy legs, then the long, elegant neck.

Finally, with a triumphant flourish, he crafted the head, complete with tiny toothpick ears.

The Trojan Horse stood, proud and magnificent, if a little lopsided and distinctly lumpy. It wasn't the pristine, architecturally perfect horse he’d envisioned, but it was his. And it was made of sugar cubes and toothpicks, just like he'd promised.

He quickly glued it into place on the diorama, the cornstarch mixture acting as a surprisingly effective adhesive. He added a few more plastic soldiers, hidden inside the horse’s belly (a secret compartment, of course, for maximum dramatic effect).

He even managed to sprinkle a little more glitter glue around the base, giving the impression of battle dust.

Ares stepped back, his chest swelling with pride. His Siege of Troy, complete with its sugary, lumpy, glorious Trojan Horse, was finished.

He looked at the clock. Eight forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare.

A victory! A glorious, hard-won victory!

He carefully carried the diorama to the living room, setting it on the coffee table. He then sprinted to his room, pulling on his favorite warrior-themed shirt (a gift from his grandfather, adorned with a roaring lion) and his sturdy blue jeans. He even managed to brush his teeth and comb his hair, albeit hastily.

When his mother called out, “Ares, time to go! We don’t want to be late for Show and Tell!” he was already waiting by the door, his backpack clutched in one hand, the diorama carefully balanced in the other.

At school, the classroom buzzed with excitement. Children proudly displayed their treasures: a pet rock, a collection of seashells, a very old, very dusty teddy bear. Mrs. Davison, her smile as warm as ever, called out names one by one.

Ares watched, his heart pounding a battle rhythm against his ribs. He felt a familiar surge of anticipation, the kind that came before a great skirmish.

Would they understand the strategic genius of his horse?

Would they appreciate the painstaking detail of his sugar-cube architecture?

“Ares?” Mrs. Davison’s voice cut through his thoughts.

He walked to the front of the classroom, carefully placing his diorama on the small table. A hush fell over the children. Even little Timmy, who usually hummed loudly during presentations, was silent.

Ares took a deep breath, his dramatic flair taking over.

“This,” he announced, his voice surprisingly clear and strong, “is the Siege of Troy.” He pointed to the cardboard walls.

“These are the walls of Troy. And these,” he gestured to the plastic soldiers, “are the brave Trojan warriors!”

Then, with a flourish, he pointed to the horse. “And this!” he declared, his voice rising, “is the Trojan Horse! Built by the cunning Greeks, with sugar cubes and toothpicks!”

He paused for dramatic effect, then added, conspiratorially, “Inside are hidden Greek soldiers, waiting to sneak out and surprise the Trojans!”

He then explained how the Greeks pretended to sail away, leaving the horse as a gift, and how the Trojans, foolishly, brought it inside their city walls. He animatedly described the soldiers sneaking out at night, opening the gates, and conquering Troy.

His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the narrative.

The children listened, captivated. Even Mrs. Davison seemed impressed. When he finished, a smattering of applause erupted.

“Wow, Ares!” exclaimed Lisa, usually more interested in glitter than ancient history. “Did you really make that out of sugar?”

“Yes!” Ares puffed out his chest. “It was very hard. The sugar kept… dissolving.” He shuddered at the memory.

“That’s an amazing project, Ares,” Mrs. Davison said, her eyes twinkling. “And such a creative use of materials! You really brought history to life.”

Ares beamed. The hours of frantic sugar-cube wrestling, the cornstarch innovations, the near-meltdown – it had all been worth it. The deadline had been met. The battle had been won.

As he carried his diorama back to his seat, carefully protecting his sugar-cube masterpiece, Ares realized something profound. Being a god of war wasn’t just about battles and strategy.

Sometimes, it was about beating the clock, outsmarting sugar, and creating something truly magnificent, even if it was a little lumpy.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the greatest victories were the ones won right before Show and Tell.