The next-door kids, bless their hearts, were always up to something. Little Timmy, all of six years old, was the ringleader, and his accomplice was equally mischievous eight-year-old Susie. Their latest scheme? Building a rocket.
I watched from my kitchen window as they dragged an old cardboard box – the kind my new fridge came in – into their backyard. They were armed with duct tape, glitter glue, and what looked suspiciously like my garden gnome’s pointy hat.
“Operation: Moonshot is a go!” Timmy declared, puffing out his chest.
Susie, ever the pragmatist, squinted at the box. “Are you sure this thing is strong enough, Timmy? We don’t want to end up in Mrs. Higgins’ prize-winning petunias.”
“Of course, it’s strong enough! It’s got… science! And… glitter!” Timmy proclaimed, slapping the box with renewed vigor.
For the next hour, the backyard became a whirlwind of cardboard and questionable engineering. I could hear them arguing about the optimal angle for the “wings” (flattened cereal boxes) and debating the merits of using peanut butter as rocket fuel (Susie lost that one). Finally, their masterpiece was complete: a lopsided cardboard box, adorned with shimmering glue and a slightly disgruntled-looking gnome hat.
“Ready for launch?” Timmy shouted, striking a heroic pose.
Susie, holding a lighter with a nervous expression, gulped. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
They stuffed the “rocket” with every pillow they could find, then Timmy climbed inside. Susie lit a small firecracker, shoved it in the back of the box, and RAN.
A tiny “poof” was heard. A wisp of smoke. The gnome hat wobbled. Then, absolute silence.
Timmy’s head poked out of the box. He looked utterly dejected. “Well,” he said glumly, “that was a bust. I didn’t even leave the ground.”
Susie shrugged. “Maybe we need more peanut butter next time?”
Just then, Mr. Johnson, their dad, came out holding a broom. “Alright, you two,” he sighed. “Time to clean up this mess. And Timmy, I swear, if I find another gnome hat out here, you’re grounded for a week!” He paused, looking at the sad, glittery box. “Though, I gotta admit… that’s the fanciest garbage can I’ve ever seen.”
