Posted on June 16, 2026
Stealing Neighborhood Ants: A Field Report
I walked into the kitchen, envelope in hand, ready to earn my World’s Greatest Dad mug. My son’s first ant farm had arrived last week, and now I had the inmates. Ripping the envelope open, I rolled the tube onto the kitchen counter and stared. In my experience, ants never stop moving. These didn’t twitch.
A memory marched its way across my fatherhood campaign map: the warning on the ant farm instructions saying not to order ants through the mail when the temperature is expected to drop below 55 degrees. A quick check of the weather app showed 17 degrees; apparently that was below the threshold. I had killed my son’s ants and would receive no World’s Greatest Dad mug.
What followed was an intricate song and dance finding ways to distract my son from the fact that his promised ants would not be taking up residence in his ant farm. I bobbed, I weaved, I resorted to bribery—anything to not lose what little ground I had gained in earning his affection.
The crisis was postponed. I took to watching the weather forecasts like an ancient Greek consulting the Oracle before invading a rival city-state, praying for deliverance.
After Colorado’s obligatory late April blizzard, I felt that the time had come to try again. But as luck would have it, nature itself intervened. On a family walk, my son happened across an active ant hill. My first thought: I wish I could take those ants and put them in his ant farm. My second thought: wait a minute…
Frowning down at the colony after I explained my brilliant idea, my wife did not share my enthusiasm. “Aren’t those fire ants?”
“They’re Colorado ants,” I said with all the confidence of a 30-second Google search behind me. “Plus, it saves us five bucks.”
When I told my son the plan, his eyes lit up like Teddy Roosevelt on safari being told the locals requested that he, personally, deal with a nearby man-eating lion. “We can take the ants?” he asked, a world of biological larceny forever embedding itself in his still-forming neural pathways.
Rallying at home, searching through cabinets for containers, debating the optimal grabbing instrument, I prepped for the abduction. As I gathered the materials, I wondered if this was what aliens might feel like as they got their equipment ready to probe some unfortunate soul no one would ever believe. Did ants tell similar stories around their campfires? Did I want to become the terror in the night? Did I care?
The next day, we returned to the ant hill ready for Operation Father-of-the-Year. Sensing something was amiss, the ants boiled out of the hill in a frenzy. My son hooted as I started collecting with a plastic spoon and container.
Halfway through the operation, a pair of gentlemen walked by. I, feeling oddly guilty at stealing community ants, didn’t want to draw attention to my efforts. My son, feeling his first rush of knowing he sat atop Earth’s food chain, screamed at them: “WE’RE CATCHING ANTS!”
“Uh,” came the instant and entirely warranted response. “That’s great.” They scurried off, more eager to vacate the scene than the ants who had finally realized that they were outmatched by my towering intellect.
I came. I saw. I didn’t get bitten.
Once we made it home, I spent half the night fighting the ants to get them into their new non-negotiable accommodations. My son looked on in awe the entire time, consumed by every twitching antenna and gnashing mandible. Finally, the ants were in, the farm was sealed, and we waited for them to dig.
And we waited.
And we waited some more.
Had I committed grand theft ant-o only to acquire defective ants? Or was this some sort of proletariat hit job, throwing themselves on the gears of parental industry to sabotage the means of production?
My son went to bed only slightly disappointed, but I promised we’d look at them again first thing in the morning. I debated giving the ants a lecture on their duty to make me into a good parent, but settled on resting a magnifying glass next to the ant farm instead. I’ve always found quiet threats carry the loudest message.
0700. My son, awake. Me, more anxious than when leading 150 Airmen through a major network outage spanning two continents. We head upstairs and lift the cover off the ant farm.
Tunnels. Sweet, glorious tunnels. Whether it was the threatening, the pleading, or the three-hour seminar on the fundamental flaws in Marx’s rhetoric, the ants decided to perform. My son’s love? Acquired. My wife’s half-hearted respect? Fully earned. My validation? Complete.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Dickey’s BBQ and the Standard That Wasn’t Met
I have lived in seven places and traveled to dozens more. Each has its own unique take on food—Italian balsamic vinegar so thick it oozed, Korean fried chicken that leaves its American progenitor in the dust, whatever that meat on a stick was from a Thai food cart. I’ve been blessed to try some amazing food in interesting places, and finding the intersection of the two is the best part of going somewhere new.
Colorado Springs, however, is a disappointment. My wife and I have entered many a restaurant with high hopes, only to have them dashed on the flavorless rocks. Nowhere is the more prevalent than with the local BBQ scene.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Wonder Is the One Frequency That Requires No Translation
My car sped down the hill, my eyes darting from the speedometer to the road as I debated how much I could get away with. Over the car speakers, NASA flight control officers worked their way through the launch sequence. Artemis II was minutes away from making history, and I was running behind.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Stoicism Has Borders
I am the rock upon which my household sits. While I don’t usually boast in these pages, it’s important I make an exception today. Last time I was sick, I was not nearly as pathetic as I usually am. The Man Flu is real, and when it comes for me, my body shuts down in protest. With two kids and a host of uncovered outlets in the house, however, I don’t have the luxury of tapping out for the day anymore.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Why I Asked AI Instead of My Dad
My wife looked at me and uttered the words I most dread in our relationship: “When are you going to hang those frames?”
Pinned like the frantic rat I was, I looked for a limb to gnaw off to escape the trap. Manage the children? No, they were already in bed. Pay the bills? No, she knows that’s all automatic now. Yelling “look over there!” and sprinting in the opposite direction? No, I’d already used that to get out of folding laundry.
I accepted my fate and trudged into the hallway for my ritual humiliation. I laid out the frames, my tools, and my dignity, then started measuring.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Not Broken Enough to Fix: My First Real Lesson in Accepting Limitations
I slid inside the off-white cylinder of the MRI machine, feeling an odd kinship with my infant daughter’s diaper cream. The anticipated claustrophobia never materialized, but the technician forcibly reminded me of our age gap when the classic rock I requested came on as music from the early 2000s.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Small Tests, Big Rot
I stared at the slow cooker, vexed. The mishmash of seasonings, broth, and chicken bubbled away, ignorant of the tragedy it unwittingly participated in. I looked at the clock and frowned, hoping daylight savings had struck early this year. No matter how I tried to rationalize the situation, the facts remained—I had left the chicken in its cauldron several hours longer than anticipated.
Updated on April 27, 2026
After Action Report: The Long Night
The first rumble comes at midnight, that witching hour when nothing good ever happens. My stomach clenches like a fist, and I know what’s coming.
Updated on April 27, 2026
Llamageddon: Why Toddler Bonding Trips Always Go Wrong
My son and I whipped down the Utah freeway at exactly five over the limit, and I knew that I was about to take the crown as the favorite parent. Since birth, he has made it clear he prefers his mom—first through crying, later through actual words.
He wails and gnashes his teeth like a professional mourner every time I put him down for bed. Anytime I ask if he wants to play outside, he immediately looks for his mom to take him. Today, after I told him I loved him, he replied that he loved the crackers on the counter next to me. That one doesn’t specifically relate to his mother, but it hurt all the same.
But here—now—was my moment to become the favorite. I had strategically left his mom with her mom for some much-needed girl time, and my ace in the hole waited a few miles up the road: a llama farm.
Updated on September 12, 2025
Introducing “Interim Management”
Hello! I’m back from an extended hiatus with something new–the first chapter to my current work-in-progress. This is a draft chapter from my novel Interim Management, a mash-up of Weekend at Bernie’s, Office Space, and good old fashioned dark lord fantasy. I’ll periodically post bits of this as I go, so let me know what you think. Without further ado, please enjoy this snippet from Interim Management!
Chapter 1
Meridian Ledgerborn hurried back into his office, arms full of scrolls. He stumbled at the last stretch and the scrolls flew everywhere as the sharp edge of his desk caught him in the stomach. The ochre elf curled over himself, trying to catch his breath.
“He expected you five minutes ago,” a voice hissed from the upper corner of the room.
Meridian scowled up at the speaker. “I am well aware, Cordelia,” he huffed. “Perhaps you could make yourself useful as my assistant and assist in picking up these scrolls?”
Cordelia shrugged and lowered her hulking form down from the ceiling with six of her eight legs. Her talons clicked in a discomforting way as they found small crevices to latch onto, and the host of eyes on her massive head spasmed in every direction at once, save for the largest in the middle that fixed on Meridian even as the arachnoid’s body rotated completely around.
Most sentient races ran in terror when an arachnoid approached, but Meridian had more experience with them than most. Plus, good work was hard to come by in the Midnight Tower, and Cordelia’s filing skills would impress even a High Elf magistrate.
“Careful with that!” he said, jerking a scroll away from a trail of amber liquid dripping from one of the arachnoid’s fangs. He knocked over a plate of scones as he did—Bertram must have dropped by earlier.
“My apologies,” Cordelia said in the hissing tone of her people. She dropped her crochet supplies into a tray tied to her thorax and used her forelegs to adjust the acid cups hanging under her fangs.
“The last thing I need right now is a massive hole in the middle of my presentation,” Meridian said. “Grab that one over there, next to the goblin work order bin.”
One of Cordelia’s legs hooked out and snagged the scroll, bringing it over to the growing pile on Meridian’s desk. “You do know that bad news rarely improves with time,” she said.
“There is no such thing as bad news,” Meridian said, putting the scrolls back in proper order. “Just poorly explained opportunities.”
“Your previous four predecessors died thinking similar things,” Cordelia noted. She cracked open a scroll and scanned it with a jittering eye. “Well, three of them. The other tried to flee rather than deliver bad news. I don’t think he thought much of anything after what the Dark Lord did to him.”
Meridian’s hands started to shake, jostling the precarious scroll pile. He glared at the arachnoid. “Unlike those charlatans, I am a trained elven administrator with the finest certifications offered by the Conclave of Oversight. There is no bureaucratic impediment I cannot overcome.”
Several of Cordelia’s eyes rotated to stare at Meridian. “I don’t think he’ll use bureaucracy to kill you.”
Meridian let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, what would you recommend then?”
“Bribery.” Cordelia gestured to a box to the side of Meridian’s desk overflowing with gold, weapons, and enchanted trinkets. “Take something from the tribute pile and hope it distracts him enough from what you have to tell him that you make it out in one piece.”
Meridian scoffed. “As if I need tricks like that. You have so little faith in me.”
“I have plenty of faith in you,” she said. “I just have more in the Dark Lord’s aim.”
Meridian made shooing motions with his hands. “Your input is noted. Go work on the latest requisition forms from Warchief Deathmaul for her battle preparations. I’ll want to verify them after I’ve met with the Dark Lord.”
Cordelia’s sighed, a sound most found similar to that of a soul getting ripped from a body by a feral banshee. “As you wish,” she said, her tone making it clear she had no expectation of any verification from Meridian.
The elf closed his eyes, assumed a power stance, and recited his mantra to himself. I am prepared, he thought. I am precise. I know the protocols. He opened his eyes and gathered his scrolls, then paused. He glanced over at the tribute pile, then down at the pile of scrolls in his arms.
“Voided contract,” he swore under his breath, dropping the scrolls. Meridian walked over to the pile of treasure and rummaged through the bin. His eyes caught on an iridescent amulet, and he tossed it into a robe pocket not filled with spare quill tips.
Meridian collected his scrolls, arched back his shoulders, and took a deep breath. Then he walked past the braziers of demonsoul fire into the Dark Lord’s throne room.
The Dark Lord Maleficus, Dreadlord of the Wastes, Slayer of Hope, and Shepherd of the End Times slouched in his throne at the far end of the massive room. Trophies from his conquest littered the space around him, and a haphazard pile of skulls still sat off to one side where an orc work party had left them after the Dark Lord had killed them for a lack of progress on their sculptures.
The elf cleared his throat and announced himself. “Great One, may I approach?”
The man had on his draconic armor without the helmet, letting his burning eyes bore into Meridian. Clawed gauntlets gauged grooves in the onyx throne, the sound making the elf fight not to wince.
“Come,” the Dark Lord said after an interminable wait.
Meridian tried to maintain a stately pace, but he quickened his step after the first twenty strides. Silence poured in from every direction, and shadows crawled from around pillars to reach for him. He had to swat one away that got too close with a scroll, nearly upsetting the entire pile again.
Meridian came to a halt at the customary distance from the throne after the long walk, heart pounding. Up close, the Dark Lord radiated menace. This man had ruled a moderate sized corner of Valdris up until a few years prior when he launched the Consolidation Wars, a ruthless struggle to bring any race and power not aligned to the Light under his rule. He forged the orcs, goblins, humans, and ochre elves under him into a sword, one aimed squarely at the Light’s High Council in Auralis—just as the Sundering Prophecy foretold.
“Great One,” Merdian started, but his voice broke on the second word. He coughed again to try and clear his throat, but his dry mouth fought against him. He hadn’t been this nervous since his disastrous presentation to the Conclave of Oversight. “I come with news and an opportunity.”
The Dark Lord stared at Meridian as he continued to gauge a series of lines in his throne’s armrest, a flare of crimson in his eyes the only indication he had heard.
Meridian plunged forward. “We’ve had a report from the treasury. It appears that our previous estimates of liquid funds erred on the higher side.” With a practiced flick of his wrist, Meridian opened a scroll with a series of lines on it labeled in his neat script. “While at first glance current projections paint a somewhat dim picture, I am confident that my rectification plan will set things aright with minimal loss of productivity.”
The Dark Lord’s fingers went still. Meri fought not to choke on his own saliva as it suddenly poured into his dry mouth.
“Where,” the Dark Lord said, his voice like steel drawn from a sheath, “is my gold?”
Meridian let the first scroll drop and unrolled a second one. “The more important question is how much more gold will you have after we implement some of my recommended changes. I think you’ll be quite pleased with the answer.”
A crack echoed through the throne room as the Dark Lord’s gauntlet crushed the onyx arm rest into powdered gravel. “Where,” he repeated, “is my gold?”
“Ah,” Meridian said, rifling through his scrolls to find one he had hoped not to use. “Are you familiar with the term ‘embezzlement,’ Great One?”
The Dark Lord shot to his feet, his hulking form pushing the solid stone throne off its dais to crash against the floor behind. “Someone dares steal from me?” he roared, magic giving his voice a painful resonance. Flames arched from his eyes and the shadows along the edge of the throne room whipped into a frenzy.
Meridian took a step backward, eyes wide as he scrambled to find a scroll to fix the situation. He mentally shot through his list of options he had made prior to entering the throne room, only to realize he hadn’t considered vengeful demigod as one of the potential outcomes.
“I will flay their skin from their bones!” the Dark Lord screamed. His body levitated from the ground, a maelstrom of darkness swirling around his armor. “I will rend their flesh! They will know endless agony on my racks of eternal torment!”
Meridian had dropped his scrolls and frantically searched through them on the ground as the smell of sulfur assaulted his nostrils. With a gasp of relief, he picked up the one he knew would get his presentation back on track. “Great One,” he said, coming to his feet and proudly displaying the chart he had painstakingly drawn over four hours the previous night. “Have you heard of the magic of compound interest?”
The Dark Lord let out a wordless shout of rage, and darkness exploded from him in a shrieking wave. The force of it blew Meridian off his feet, but tendrils of shadows caught him and jerked him back toward the Dark Lord before he hit the ground. They slithered around his body, whispering madness in his ears as he floated closer to his now incandescent boss.
“Your head will be the first to adorn my walls on my pursuit of vengeance,” the Dark Lord intoned, pointing a clawed finger at Meridian. Sickly green energy glowed around the gauntlet, dark magical essence dripping from the draconic steel.
Execution method 3C, Meridian couldn’t help but think as he saw it. Bone magic, poisoning. He could at least be grateful it wasn’t a Category 4 spell.
“Die!” the Dark Lord howled, and a lance of dark magic shot toward Meridian.
A moment before it struck, Meridian felt a burning warmth from one of his pockets. Rippling light sprung forth around him, coalescing in front of Meridian’s chest. The dark magic hit the radiant light, then rebounded right back at the Dark Lord.
Meridian had an excellent view of the surprise on the Dark Lord’s face as his own spell hit the man between his eyebrows, launching him backwards off his throne pedestal. The shadows holding Meridian dissipated, dumping him on his back and knocking the wind out of him. He curled up into a ball and fought to breathe, waiting for the final blow to strike. Certainly category 4 this time, he thought between gasps.
After ten seconds of cowering, Meridian felt a growing terror. The delay could only mean the Dark Lord had something truly horrific in mind that needed time to cast. After a minute, he let out a quiet sob. Even his predecessor who tried to run only got fifty seconds of silent dread before the Dark Lord started siphoning off his soul.
Five minutes later, Meridian found himself growing indignant. There were fear tactics, then there was being rude. Time was not so much a luxury to be squandered in such a way. Meridian was prepared to die, but wasting his time? That was offensive.
He risked a quick look around, and his indignation shifted to confusion. It took him a moment to understand why—the shadows had vanished.
Meridian lifted his head higher and scanned the throne room. No flicker of motion caught his eye, no cursed whispering drifted into his ear. The throne room seemed to be just a room.
“Great One?” he said. Only silence came back in return.
His dread at the earlier silence felt like nothing compared to what he felt now. He could only think of one reason why the Dark Lord had yet to kill him, and it was unthinkable.
Meridian got to his feet and crouched low, not wanting to see what laid behind the throne dais but knowing he had to anyways. He inched forward and arched his neck, peeking over the edge.
Two armored legs hung over the toppled throne. Meridian noted how incredibly still the Dark Lord managed to hold them, not a twitch or any swaying whatsoever.
“Sire,” Meridian tried again. The legs remained quite immobile.
Meridian’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he moved to the side so the throne wouldn’t block his view. The rest of the Dark Lord’s armored form laid sprawled out across the onyx throne, his head tilted away.
Hesitant like a mouse nosing toward a suspiciously convenient piece of cheese, Meridian approached the Dark Lord. He found himself standing next to the armor with no clear idea of what to do next. Shouting seemed both ineffective and inappropriate given the distance, but touching the Dark Lord?
Meridian took a series of breaths and closed his eyes, then darted a hand forward to nudge one of the gauntlets. He braced himself for the inevitable rage, then cracked an eye open when it failed to materialize. The Dark Lord remained distressingly stationary.
Seeing no other options, Meridian shuffled his feet and worked around the Dark Lord to look at his face. There, between two eyes still open with shock, he saw a neat hole burned through the forehead with a trail of gray fluid oozing toward the floor. As he watched, a glob of it broke free and fell to the floor with a gentle plopping noise.
The Dark Lord Maleficus, Dreadlord of the Wastes, Slayer of Hope, and Shepherd of the End Times was dead.
Meridian Ledgerborn, administrative aide to the Dark Lord and semi-banished ochre elf of no renown, had accidentally killed him.
