The Rocket that wouldn’t work

Jay had spent months working tirelessly on his dream—a homemade rocket built from scrap metal, salvaged parts, and his own ingenuity. Ever since he was a kid, he had been obsessed with space, staring up at the stars and imagining himself among them. Building this rocket was his way of getting closer to that dream.

On a bright Saturday morning, he stood in an open field with a small crowd of curious onlookers—mostly friends and neighbors—gathered to watch his creation take flight. He gripped the control box tightly, his heart pounding as he began the countdown.

"Five… four… three…" His voice cracked, but he forced himself to stay steady.

"Come on, Jay, show us what you've got!" called Mr. Hensley, the retired mechanic from down the street.

Jay nodded but kept his eyes on the rocket. "Two… one!"

He flipped the switch. The engines roared to life, flames erupted from the base, and the rocket trembled on its makeshift platform. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like it might actually lift off.

"Yes!" Jay breathed, his eyes wide with hope.

But then it sputtered. A loud pop echoed, smoke poured from the engine, and the rocket slumped to one side, lifeless.

"Well, it didn't explode!" Mrs. Coleman quipped, adjusting her sunhat.

The crowd chuckled nervously, a few offering polite applause. Mr. Hensley walked over, clapping Jay on the back. "Not bad, kid. A few tweaks, and you'll get it flying in no time."

Jay forced a tight smile, though disappointment burned inside him. "Thanks. I'll figure it out."

"You will," Mr. Hensley said firmly. "Nobody gets it right the first time."

Jay nodded, even as his stomach churned with frustration. He packed up his tools quietly, avoiding the sympathetic looks from the small crowd. Back in his workshop that evening, he sat on a stool, staring at the rocket. It looked less like a dream and more like a broken tin can.

"What went wrong?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let out a long sigh.

His thoughts drifted to his grandfather, a retired astronaut whose garage was legendary for its strange tools and old inventions. Grandpa Ed had always been his hero, with stories of space adventures that Jay had devoured as a kid. Maybe there was something in that cluttered garage that could help him now.

He could almost hear his grandfather's voice: "The right tool can solve half the problem, Jay. The other half is all in your head."

Jay straightened, the faint glimmer of determination returning. "You're right, Grandpa. I'm not giving up."

Tomorrow, he'd dig through Grandpa Ed's forgotten treasures. He wasn't ready to let this dream die—not when the stars still felt so close.