Weekends

by Danielle Ellis | Jun 29, 2025 | Fiction

It’s like Natasha thought his life was unimportant and Bryan was tired of trying to explain himself. He sighed, looking down at a small body, meeting his gaze as if she were clueless. Shit, she probably was.

“I told your mother I couldn’t do this weekend,” Bryn said.

Colly shrugged, gripping the straps of a squishmallow backpack she had convinced him to buy.

“We can call momma.” Colly said. She leaned against the doorframe as if she were a tired old woman. Eight year olds were dramatic.

He had planned to call Natasha. They still argued, long after separation. They would continue to argue if she was determined to be inconsiderate. He had made plans with Laura, they barely got to see each other. And the projects, three of them. All due by Monday because he made his boss a promise. It would be kept. He hadn’t built a reputation of integrity and high performance only for it to be torn down by childish distraction.

“Last week you said I could come over.” Colly whined in that annoying voice children had.

“Don’t talk like that.” Bryan snipped. Colly looked down and he exhaled in regret. It wasn’t Colly’s fault her parents couldn’t get along. Or that he had forgotten he told Colly that.

Bryan let the door fall open, “Be quiet while I call your mom.”

Colly padded to the guest room while he grabbed his phone from an end table. The first call ring until he heard an automatic voice telling him to leave a message. He immediately called back so Natalie would know he was serious.

She answered with a scoff. They didn’t give civility a chance, they started with spitting venom.

Natalie was convinced going to see her sister, Cheryl, was a priority. They had started some sort of epoxy jewelry business venture. The kind of nonsensical artsy hustle that never worked but Natalie kept trying. She insisted her sister needed an outlet to vent her frustrations after a bad breakup.

Bryan yelled, “I don’t care about Cheryl.”

Colly had hoped dad would smile when he saw her. When the door revealed surprised eyes that turned into a scowl, she knew it wouldn’t be good.

Last month, dad had promised they would go to the zoo and last week he said they could go skating. Maybe he forgot. He always did. Colly wished he would write things down like Mom did.

She sat on the bed, taking off the backpack but not unpacking. Mom was out of town but Dad might drop her off at Grandma’s. He did that when he was too busy for Colly.

Colly folded her arms when she heard shouting. She hadn’t meant to cause a fight. Mom asked if she was sure Dad said she could stay this weekend. He had promised but Colly had spoken from her heart. She should have listened to history.

She stood, going to the door to close it. Just as it shut, she heard dad say, “I don’t care about her.”

Colly gasped, opening the door again, listening carefully.

“I don’t have time for this.” Dad said, “You need to come get her.”

She heard Mom’s muffled voice, even across the room. She yelled a bad word, saying she was two states away.

“Cheryl could have waited!” Dad yelled.

Colly blinked, breathing slowly as she closed the door. He has been talking about Aunt Cheryl. Right? Maybe. But what did Aunt Cheryl have to do with anything?

Colly sat on the bed again, crossing her legs. She waited until the shouting stopped. Silence lingered. She looked up at the door, not sure if she should go talk to Dad. He was hard to talk to when he was angry.

The door squeaked when it opened and Colly jolted from surprise.

“I’ve got plans with Laura.” Dad said, “So I need you to be good and not get yourself in any trouble.”

Colly blinked, crossing her arms, “Are we going skating when you get back?”

“What?” Dad said, brow pinched in annoyance.

“That’s what you said last week.”

Dad sighed, “We’ll have to go another time.”

There was no apology or even reassurance. He closed the door and she heard his footsteps as he walked away.

‘I don’t care about her.’ That’s what he said. Or maybe he said Cheryl. Colly wasn’t sure.

She heard the front door open and the slam when it closed.

Featured Photo by Pixabay

Feel

by Danielle Ellis | Jun 22, 2025 | Fiction

Growing up, everything had been Uncle Lincoln’s fault. Ireti would watch them on TV. Mother would stand with father and Aunt Saige, following the instructions Uncle Lincoln spoke. Together they would save the world.

At home, mother’s anger echoed in her screams. Father would look down as mother stabbed a finger towards the TV and dictated the injustice.

Mother always saw something different than Ireti. Uncle Lincoln would lead. Mother only heard shouted commands. Uncle would protect but mother claimed he was stealing glory.

Mother’s power was casting darkness. Uncle could control minds, pushing visions and dreams behind someone’s eyes. Ireti had felt it. Before the world called them The Calvary, they had simply been family.

Ireti would play with her cousin at his house and he would make their imaginations come to life. It was truly magical. She asked her uncle, only once, if he could cast nightmares. He said he could but he chose not to. Everyone deserved a dream and joy would always halt anguish.

That’s why Ireti had to be better. Dreams were weak. That’s what mother had told her. But Ireti had kept Uncle’s words, taking them out to study in her mind. At some point, they became part of her, like a chosen name.

A mistake, perhaps. At the birthday party of an adult she didn’t know, her cousin had been sad. She hugged her cousin and reached for a dream. When her cousin smiled, Ireti asked if she saw it. Her cousin said no, but she could feel it.

Immediately, mother took her hand, pulling Ireti away. They left the party with a thin excuse. In the car, mother said Ireti would make her proud. Ireti thought mother had felt her dream.

Instead, mother spiraled into a nightmare.

Mother found the most crowded places, favoring tourist areas where families were happy and making memories. Ireti was forced into the center of it and mother told her, “Make them feel.”

It was easy at first. She thought of a dream and pushed it out into the world. She felt when others were brightened, when hidden misery made way for forgotten joy. Ireti was the sun and delight was her beam.

Mother was a shadow. Snuffing out Ireti’s light. She grabbed the child by her shoulders and shook, yelling, “Be better than that!” The crowd turned. The gaze of hundreds became a spotlight. Mother’s grip was on her arms, no chance for escape.

“Make them feel!”

Ireti’s lip trembled, her eyes darted around. “I did.”

“Dreams are pathetic! Make them feel!”

Ireti searched for something else, tried to push it out. Maybe she had too many emotions. It all stayed inside, ramming into the walls of her mind. Mother scoffed, snatching her hand and yanking.

At home, Mother scolded. Spewing anger to replace joy. It became their lives. Mother kept dissecting something deep inside.

Until mother finally understood Ireti had nothing more to give. They had been in a museum. Ireti had cried, begging to be left alone. Mother huffed and stood, shaking her head.

When Ireti looked up, she saw mother’s back. She didn’t return when Ireti called for her. The child ran, keeping up as best as she could. Maybe mother would have driven off without her but Ireti opened the door just before she could shift gears.

“I’m sorry,” Ireti said, trying to wipe the wetness from her eyes before it was noticed.

Mother scoffed, hands clenching the wheel. “You’re useless.”

Ireti looked out the window, wondering if the words were true. She pondered this every day. Took the words apart to evaluate their parts and stuck them back together to observe them whole. At some point, they became part of her, like an assigned name.

Featured Photo by Mateus Souza