Julie Johnson

The Incident

Wildberry Lavender ice cream tastes just as fantabulous as it sounds. It’s both lush and refreshing, unlike the scolding you lashed out in my direction at Imo’s last Wednesday night. True, I had made a bit of a scene. OK. Scratch that, it was more than a scene. I may have been slightly out of control – but that wasn’t just H2O or seltzer you spilled all over my new periwinkle-lime J. Jill linen capris. I wanted to savor the Atomic Provolone Cheese Bite appetizers even as I sat there drenched in Orange Crush (the orangiest kind), but those kinds of stains, well, they just never come out.

About the Author

Julie Allyn Johnson, a sawyer’s daughter from the American Midwest, prefers black licorice over red, cigarette-size Tootsie Rolls, and Hot Tamales β€” practically the perfect candy. Her current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Julie’s poetry can be found in various journals including Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Haven Speculative, Penumbric Speculative Fiction, Coffin Bell, Typishly, and Chestnut Review.