Sunday, March 27th, 2011
I am at the park with two of my nieces, feeding ducks and teaching the year and a half year old what the duckies say. She responds with an eager, "Wack, Wack!" as she throws the pieces of bread into the filthy pond. Suddenly, her 'Wacks' are drowned out by a woman's shout. I lift my gaze off my niece, searching in the direction of the shouter. The woman is staring and pointing out toward the pond. Shifting my eyes once more, I look out across the water, and notice three beautiful ducks dunking one plain duck. At first glance, and from a child's innocent mind, it looks like the first day of high school; one freshman being beat up by three seniors. Then reality hits, and flashes from Animal Planet devour the innocent thoughts. The plain, female duck breaks free from the excited fancy male ducks, only to get jumped a few yards away. This time however, there are only two males in persuit. The female breaks free once more, stopping three feet from her last stop. Her hot-cold attitude reminds me of a teenage tease. Finally, the female takes off, her suitors close behind.
OH, spring... the season of love.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
My husband's mistress
I lie awake in my bed
Our bed, his and mine
I see him in my minds eye
He is with her
He calls her his masterpiece
His hands softly touch
Softly caress her
He touches her ways no one else can
She does whatever he says
He listens to her
His eyes never stray when he's with her
When they are together
No one else exists
When he is finally satisfied
He'll come back to me
He knows I know where he's been
He lies down in my bed
Our bed, his and mine
Tomorrow he'll be back with her
But this is the life I've chosen
The life I wanted
His life
My life
Our life
A life where ART is his mistress
My Husband's Mistress by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Our bed, his and mine
I see him in my minds eye
He is with her
He calls her his masterpiece
His hands softly touch
Softly caress her
He touches her ways no one else can
She does whatever he says
He listens to her
His eyes never stray when he's with her
When they are together
No one else exists
When he is finally satisfied
He'll come back to me
He knows I know where he's been
He lies down in my bed
Our bed, his and mine
Tomorrow he'll be back with her
But this is the life I've chosen
The life I wanted
His life
My life
Our life
A life where ART is his mistress
My Husband's Mistress by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Monday, August 2, 2010
LoveBirds PDA
Thurs, July 29th, 2010
Walking home from Alberson's, I usually see nothing that sparks my interest. But not today. As I walk, both arms full of groceries for that evenings dinner, I notice two pigeons standing twenty feet ahead of me. Their beaks were locked together, much like what we humans would call a french kiss. As I get closer to the couple, they seem to notice me and separate. The couple both start walking opposite directions, as if they aren't interested in each other at all. I continue walking. Then, as soon as I am a safe distance, I stop and dodge behind a pillar, feeling silly, but wanting to see what the lovebirds will do next. I am standing there for a few seconds before the two birds fly back to each other, and back into their lovers embrace. Beaks locked, they continue standing there. Feeling like a peeping Tom, I continue on my way. Back home to make my mate dinner.
LoveBirds PDA by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Walking home from Alberson's, I usually see nothing that sparks my interest. But not today. As I walk, both arms full of groceries for that evenings dinner, I notice two pigeons standing twenty feet ahead of me. Their beaks were locked together, much like what we humans would call a french kiss. As I get closer to the couple, they seem to notice me and separate. The couple both start walking opposite directions, as if they aren't interested in each other at all. I continue walking. Then, as soon as I am a safe distance, I stop and dodge behind a pillar, feeling silly, but wanting to see what the lovebirds will do next. I am standing there for a few seconds before the two birds fly back to each other, and back into their lovers embrace. Beaks locked, they continue standing there. Feeling like a peeping Tom, I continue on my way. Back home to make my mate dinner.
LoveBirds PDA by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Human Nature?
Thurs. July 15th, 2010
So I'm sitting at Sonic waiting for my cousin and enjoying the new campfire blast, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice two cars about to collide. I turn my gaze around to see the incident, as human nature desires to see accidents first-hand, and see to my regret that both cars stop abruptly before any damage is done. The first car, a beat up forest green, pulls forward and a light-skinned woman gets out, yelling profanity at the other car. Then, out of the newer white car, steps a dark-skinned woman yelling just as much profanity as the woman standing a mere ten feet ahead of her. Thinking I am about to witness a cat-fight firsthand, (all while not wanting to be brought into it) I slightly rotate my hips forward, and put my sunglasses on, so I can enjoy the fight from the safety of their concealing lenses. I begin to wonder who will win the battle. Then as quickly as it had started, it was over. Both women jumped in their cars, and drove off. No fighting... just yelling.
Disappointment sets in.
Suddenly, I start to question myself. Why was I disappointed that the two cars didn't collide? Why was I so eager to witness the two women fight? Why? Is it human nature to want to witness destruction? Do we really enjoy watching two sides attack each other? Why do we want to see who is the weakest? This long, unending trail of thought leads me to wars. Do we fight in wars to defend our honor, or is it to prove we are stronger? Do we fight to make a point about our beliefs, or to try and prove that our ways are superior?
Human Nature? by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
So I'm sitting at Sonic waiting for my cousin and enjoying the new campfire blast, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice two cars about to collide. I turn my gaze around to see the incident, as human nature desires to see accidents first-hand, and see to my regret that both cars stop abruptly before any damage is done. The first car, a beat up forest green, pulls forward and a light-skinned woman gets out, yelling profanity at the other car. Then, out of the newer white car, steps a dark-skinned woman yelling just as much profanity as the woman standing a mere ten feet ahead of her. Thinking I am about to witness a cat-fight firsthand, (all while not wanting to be brought into it) I slightly rotate my hips forward, and put my sunglasses on, so I can enjoy the fight from the safety of their concealing lenses. I begin to wonder who will win the battle. Then as quickly as it had started, it was over. Both women jumped in their cars, and drove off. No fighting... just yelling.
Disappointment sets in.
Suddenly, I start to question myself. Why was I disappointed that the two cars didn't collide? Why was I so eager to witness the two women fight? Why? Is it human nature to want to witness destruction? Do we really enjoy watching two sides attack each other? Why do we want to see who is the weakest? This long, unending trail of thought leads me to wars. Do we fight in wars to defend our honor, or is it to prove we are stronger? Do we fight to make a point about our beliefs, or to try and prove that our ways are superior?
Human Nature? by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Gas Chamber
Wed, July 7th 2010
~I walk across the hot pavement, the sun beating down all round me; towards the comfort of the air-conditioned mail room. I open the door, expecting nothing but 70 degrees of cool air, and instead, get an unexpected slap in the face with the putrid smell of cheap cigar. The smoker, who either couldn't read the no smoking sign on the door or chose not to, was a short stubby man in his mid 50's. His cigar, the exact opposite, is long and lean, the burnt tip hanging on for dear life. Holding my breath, I rush over to my box, and rip the mail out as quickly as possible. The sooner I get out of this gas chamber, the better.
"What's this?"
I turn and look at the man holding up a key attached to a laminated card.
"It's to open the bigger mail boxes." I breathe out, not wanting to lose any of my air.
"Huh?"
"Just look at what letter is on the card, then open the corresponding mailbox."
My air supply is almost used up, and I'm still a few feet away from the door.
"It's got a 'B' on it..."
"Then it opens up the box marked 'B'."
I can feel my eyes burning, as I head to the door. My lungs finally exhausted of all air, I walk with determination, trying not to offend the smoker by running, but not wanting to breathe in the smoke any longer.
FINALLY!
The hot 110 degree Las Vegas sun is a welcomed freedom from the gas chamber I just escaped. Peering once more into the open doorway that I just walked through, I notice the man trying to put the key in the wrong lock.
"It goes in the silver one."
"Thank yo-"
His words and smoke are cut off as I shut the door.
Gas Chamber by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
~I walk across the hot pavement, the sun beating down all round me; towards the comfort of the air-conditioned mail room. I open the door, expecting nothing but 70 degrees of cool air, and instead, get an unexpected slap in the face with the putrid smell of cheap cigar. The smoker, who either couldn't read the no smoking sign on the door or chose not to, was a short stubby man in his mid 50's. His cigar, the exact opposite, is long and lean, the burnt tip hanging on for dear life. Holding my breath, I rush over to my box, and rip the mail out as quickly as possible. The sooner I get out of this gas chamber, the better.
"What's this?"
I turn and look at the man holding up a key attached to a laminated card.
"It's to open the bigger mail boxes." I breathe out, not wanting to lose any of my air.
"Huh?"
"Just look at what letter is on the card, then open the corresponding mailbox."
My air supply is almost used up, and I'm still a few feet away from the door.
"It's got a 'B' on it..."
"Then it opens up the box marked 'B'."
I can feel my eyes burning, as I head to the door. My lungs finally exhausted of all air, I walk with determination, trying not to offend the smoker by running, but not wanting to breathe in the smoke any longer.
FINALLY!
The hot 110 degree Las Vegas sun is a welcomed freedom from the gas chamber I just escaped. Peering once more into the open doorway that I just walked through, I notice the man trying to put the key in the wrong lock.
"It goes in the silver one."
"Thank yo-"
His words and smoke are cut off as I shut the door.
Gas Chamber by Amanda Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
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