THE THREE IMPOSSIBLE ROCKETS

Written by Her Walk and Me

HER WALK AND THE THREE IMPOSSIBLE ROCKETS

1. The Year Is the Near Future, Coming Soon to a Year Near You

It was the kind of year that felt like it had been assembled overnight by an overworked intern: slightly crooked, a little too shiny, and full of suspicious optimism. People were distracted by their devices, their deadlines, and their ongoing arguments about whether the moon landing was filmed on location.
Which is why no one noticed what Her Walk was doing in Iowa. 🌽

2. The First Setting: A Very Secret Base in Iowa

Her Walk chose Iowa for one reason: nobody ever suspects Iowa. Cornfields? Innocent. Barns? Quaint. Endless horizon? Perfect for hiding things the size of small nations. She began construction at dawn on a Tuesday, because Tuesdays are famously unmonitored by the global intelligence community. Using a combination of stealth engineering, quantum misdirection, and the sheer audacity of someone who refuses to fill out a building permit, she built a base so secret that even the concept of it was classified. To ensure absolute secrecy, she deployed her deterrents: non‑rabid golden retrievers 🐕‍🦺 with inexhaustible licking power, chocolate labs 🐶 trained in the ancient art of sitting on your feet until you give up, thousands of miles of biodegradable silly‑string tripwire that could humiliate even the most elite spy🎉 , and friendly, purring cats underfoot 🐈‍⬛ that nobody wanted to step on. The result was a fortress so impenetrable that even the idea of snooping felt exhausting.

3. Completion in Total Secrecy

The Media tried.
The FBI tried.
Every country on Earth tried.
And most shockingly, Access Hollywood tried — sending correspondents armed with drones, telescopic lenses, and a suspiciously detailed map of Iowa.
All failed.
The base remained invisible, inscrutable, and deeply none of their business or beeswax.

4. August 23rd: The Day It Begins

At precisely 9:23 a.m. Central Time, the ground trembled beneath the Iowa cornfields. Birds paused mid‑tweet. Farmers looked up from their tractors. A single golden retriever, stationed at Perimeter Gate 7, wagged in anticipation.
Then the earth split open.
A silo the size of the peeling, swampy reflecting pool in Washington, D.C. rose from the ground like a metallic monolith. Its surface gleamed with solar‑panel plating and wind‑powered cooling fins that spun gently, politely, non‑bird‑killingly in the breeze.
The silo opened.
And then—
One.
Two.
Three.
Three rockets erupted skyward 🚀, each one the length of twenty‑eight Empire State Buildings stacked end‑to‑end like a very irresponsible architectural decision.
They were breathtaking:
Silver, seamless, shimmering with the power of outside‑to‑outside solar panels, non‑bird‑killing windmill propellers, zero‑emission carbon‑super‑friendly propulsion, love, and imagination — the most renewable resource of all.
One rocket veered East.
One West.
One South.
The world watched, stunned, confused, and deeply unprepared. 🌎

5. The Ironic Cliffhanger (Revised)

And that was all anyone saw.
No messages.
No explanations.
No follow‑ups.
Just three impossible rockets slicing across the sky in three impossible directions, leaving the entire planet blinking up at the horizon and asking the same question:
“…Wait. What?”
Her Walk, of course, said nothing.
She simply dusted off her hands, checked her watch, and walked back toward the cornfields as if this were all part of a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

HER WALK AND THE THREE IMPOSSIBLE ROCKETS: PART TWO

The rockets reached their destinations within minutes of one another — one over Colombia, one over Ethiopia, one over Vietnam — each settling into a silent hover a mile above fields where workers froze mid‑task, shading their eyes against the impossible.
The ships opened.
Massive doors slid apart, hatches unfolded, and for a long, breath‑holding moment, nothing happened. The only sounds were murmurs from the fields and the natural chorus of birds, insects, and wind.
Then the drones poured out.

🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀

They buzzed, hissed, and crackled — not menacing, but purposeful — emerging one by one until they filled the sky in the thousands. They fanned out across three countries' fields with uncanny coordination, keeping a respectful distance from every worker, never “invading” anyone’s space, except to gently catch the occasional person who slipped from a ladder in shock.
And then the sky began to give.
Bagged lunches dropped by small parachutes in soft arcs.
Bottles of water followed, each under its own little chute as well.
Gatorades — (not Her Walk’s drink of choice; but dudes love ’em, they think they’re fun, and they were on sale!) — floated down by parasol as well.
Then came the gold coins, raining down like a jackpot that had lost patience.
Each coin bore two sides:
R2‑D2’s face, with the phrase: “America is great again - Beep, Ewww!”
Donald Trump’s ugly mug, with the words beneath: “I blow, I’m sorry.”
And strangely, not one coin clunked a worker or field hand on his head. All hit the ground safely, as if each coin had been “laser”-guided precisely to miss each workers’; cabeza, dau, or ras.
Most of the field hands across three nations stared at the coins, then at the drones, then at the sky, as if waiting for someone to explain the punchline.

Yet a few of those hard-bitten bad-asses, the ones who were news-hounds, smiled inwardly. They then knew who had busted into Fort Knox months before, with flying and spider-like drones, and was now “redistributing” that wealth, going all Robin Hood style in their rural hood.
And boy, did their familias, amigos, and such, need it.
But how I, Her Walk, do prattle on.

So back to the “story” cause the drones were already moving on.
They harvested — coffee beans 🫘 — with impossible precision, filling bags, sealing them, and ferrying them back into the rockets. Some drones floated while picking beans gently from their branches in the air, while other spiderish drones scuttled inside the trees’ branches (to get at all the beans deeper in the trees), but still did not damage the trees as well.
And as said, when each drone was “full,” it delivered its small cargo to a bag. They did so again and again until every ripe bean was picked, leaving the workers with nothin’ left to pick that day.
Then with all the sealed bags delivered into the above hovering ship (more thievery from the woman from the man!), the cleanup drones swept through afterward. They collected all the empties, wrappers, and stray trash until the fields looked cleaner than they had that morning.
In each country, a single drone sought out a leader — a foreman, an elder, a village head. It hovered politely and displayed a written message in the leader’s own language:

“You guys are All Heart💘 , All Work💪 , and My HEREOS👨‍🌾 ! And seeing as we both aint got all day, Bye🚀 !”

The leaders read the words aloud.
Workers nodded.
Some laughed.
Some cried.
Some simply stood there, holding; Gold coins🪙 - Roasted‑vegetable with sharp cheese and sweet red peppers on good bread sandwiches🥪 - “Cool” drinks🥤 , and All natural fruit and veggie roll-ups🍓/🥦🍥 , trying to understand the shape of the day.

That final drone of message rose into the air, slipping into the rocket behind the last of the bottle‑farmer units.
And then — without fanfare, without explanation — each massive ship tilted, thrummed, and shot back into the sky, leaving three countries staring upward at the fading contrails of something that made no sense and yet felt strangely… kind.