Ellee asks the boy next to her what he’s going to be when he grows up. The teachers are always asking, and this time the teacher has told them to talk about it with a partner, to write it down. The boy shrugs, but Ellee already knows, so she writes fast, then hands the boy her list, tells him that she’s also included things she’s already been, like a bird, a comet, and an Antarctic researcher. The boy only glances at her list, so Ellee reads it to him, says she’s going to be a dancer, a teacher, an astronaut. Now your turn, she says. The boy says he hasn’t been anything yet, but that he’d like to be famous someday, maybe a serial killer. Ellee pushes the piece of paper towards him, prodding, and he finally writes “cereal killer,” making her giggle, imagining someone gunning down bites of Toasted Oats or Wheaties. They are both too young to think about death.
The boy will move away in fifth grade and, in college, Ellee will study music, physics, and political science. And she’ll remember that once she was a bird, that once she was a comet, that once she wanted to be an astronaut. But she won’t recall the boy, his name, or even what he looked like until his face flashes across the TV screen one night. There will be a faint spark of recognition, the name familiar, but Ellee will dismiss the nagging thought. If she ever knew him, she’ll think, it was a long time ago, and they were both very different people then.
Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer, editor, and writing coach whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, and Neither Fish Nor Foul, among others. Her work was also selected for Best Microfiction 2025.
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