Becca Mahar
Bio
Poetry is my passion. I tend to spill my heart out in my writing, so if you enjoy compelling emotional poems, my page is for you. I'm a neverending abyss of emotions.
Stories (34/0)
Rocks
It’s always good for children to have a collection of something. It’s a way of finding out what sparks an interest in them, and what brings a smile to their face outside of the usual. Every child has had a collection of something, sometimes it carries over into adulthood. Maggie was no different in this aspect. Being a young child, she loved collecting rocks. Her parents didn’t know when it started, but they encouraged it because it got her to explore and learn about something new. Her parents asked her what about rocks made her interested, and her only reply was that they were pretty and nice.
By Becca Mahar2 years ago in Fiction
Sickness
I didn't know how sick my mother was that day. Being only a child at the time, my understanding of sickness was limited, but seeing the look on my father's face when he informed me of her sickness told me enough that I should be worried. He told me that her illness took her quickly, and that she most likely didn't have much time left. She was coughing all night and seemed delirious. I didn't really understand it at the time, but that was my mother's last day alive. The next morning when I woke up she was gone. My father had already called the coroner and asked that the body be taken away so I wouldn't have to see her in that state. I was heartbroken that I couldn't say goodbye, but was told my father was doing it to protect my fragile young mind. We rarely spoke of the incident. I wasn't allowed to ask any questions, but as I got older I had more and more questions. I tried and tried to ask my father about my mother, but he pushed me away until I finally grew too old to live at home.
By Becca Mahar2 years ago in Fiction
The Imaginary Friend
Every night at the same time, I would get up to go get something to drink from the kitchen. It started when I was a child with no explanation, but I always got a craving for something without fail. When I went to the kitchen, I always felt like there was someone there with me, like a presence of some sort, but whenever I looked around, there was no one there. I started getting used to the strange presence, but after so many years, I still get that strange feeling. When I’m in the kitchen, regardless if it’s night or day, I can feel a presence that’s neither scary nor comforting. The only time it feels the strongest is when I open the refrigerator. It’s as if the energy in the kitchen is pooling out of the fridge.
By Becca Mahar2 years ago in Fiction
Right Time, Wrong Mother
Dear mother, I wish you weren’t the one who raised me. The painful nights crying myself to sleep, hoping and praying for a better time, a better love, a better caregiver. The screams and shouts resonating through the walls of our small house, every slamming door causing me to flinch as if I was swung at with a baseball bat. The clinking of empty beer and wine bottles rolling across our white tile floors as you wailed for a better life, ignoring your only child as she too wished for that better life you so loudly wept about. The empty hollow eyes of your husband who wished death more than his own marriage to work.
By Becca Mahar2 years ago in Confessions
