Show and Tell by Claudia Monpere

Only three minutes to peer through windows of our former homes. Only four minutes to enter and grab something precious. But we’re ready, we folks who have died/passed away/expired/kicked the bucket. (We ghosts have strong opinions about how we refer to our end. On good days, we love croaked. On bad days—well, fuck bad days.)

We let all newbies in on how important it is to plan what they’ll take when the time comes. And the time is now. It won’t be here again for a good long while, so we’re off. The oldest of us end up at homes that have been sold. Marianne looks through the bedroom window, the room where she cared for her husband until he was transferred to memory care. Now there’s a young woman in black leggings lying on a bed, laptop open, smoking. “Let her fall asleep and burn,” Marianne mutters. She plans to take the woman’s cigarettes although she never smoked.

Those of us who died recently in mid-life usually have homes to visit, still with our families inside. Looking through the kitchen window, Patrice smiles, her husband and three kids eating pepperoni pizza together, their Friday night tradition. Smile vanishes when a woman joins them, handing her husband a glass of wine. But Patrice will not take the woman’s shoes or clothes or makeup. No, when she enters, she goes straight to her husband’s closet, removing his faded checkered flannel shirt she gave him for his birthday long ago. He’s kept it in spite of the torn shoulder.

The little ghosts, oh the littles. We ferry those too young to understand, too young to choose. A favorite pacifier, a patch of blankie. (No, we would never remove an entire blankie. Those mothers and fathers need something to cling to.)

The in-betweens (pish posh on tweens, a ridiculous word) and the teens. We ferry them too because even here, they’re all a muddle of tar and fire, sea sparkle and tsunami. We love them but can’t trust them. Chloe for example. She’s a mess because there’s no one home. Her two mothers are out with her little sister. She drifts to Momma’s desk, reaches for the Emotional Support Desk Pet kit which her mother bought a few months after Chloe drowned in a river. No, we say. No. But Chloe doesn’t listen. We know she hopes this will fill the void in her.

Later during show and tell, Chloe shows us the tiny wooden chicken coop, its heart shaped door open. A tiny wooden chicken is perched on the roof. Another sits on her nest. A chick stands at the foot of the ramp. “Come here, little one,” Chloe says. “Come here. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

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CLAUDIA MONPERE — Claudia received the 2023 Smokelong Workshop Prize, the 2024 New Flash Fiction Prize from New Flash Fiction Review and the Genre Flash Fiction Prize from Uncharted Magazine. She has stories in Best Small Fictions 2024 and 2025 and Best Microfiction 2025 and 2026. She is the author of the flash collection, The Periodic Family. (Cowboy Jamboree Press). Read more at https:/claudiamonpere.com/

Art by JARED VARNADO — Jared is a Portland, Oregon based artist and horror movie enthusiast. In his free time he enjoys long walks through cemeteries with his wife Janice. He is @jaredvarnado on instagram.