Dear Jae-kyu,
Good news: the rocket flew.
Bad news: not far.
Worse news: it exploded. Spectacularly.
We got it maybe four, five meters up—glorious, shaky ascent, a real “history is watching” moment—and then boom. Fireball. Smoke. A noise like the end of the world, followed by a silence only roosters can break.
Turns out the mixture from the farm—some kind of fertilizer, sugar, and crushed charcoal—was a bit more enthusiastic than expected. The fireball melted the bottle, scorched the launch plate, and singed about half my eyebrows.
No injuries. Unless you count pride.
But here's the thing: it worked.
It launched, Jae-kyu. For a few brief seconds, the laws of physics gave us a wink.
Unfortunately, the village head saw the smoke and reported it to the school. Mr. Kang gave me the full fury of disappointed science. But... he also didn’t stop smiling.
He said: “You’re a fool. A curious one. That’s the most dangerous kind.”
Then he gave me a list of chemical ratios. I’m keeping it. Just in case.
The punishment? Four weeks of evening chicken duty. Feed, water, sweep.
I start tomorrow. I’ve already made friends with the stubborn one who thinks he’s a rooster.
Honestly?
Could’ve been worse.
Still dreaming of orbit,
Jun-hyuk
Jun-hyuk
Jae-kyu
