The Hailstorm

The following is a continuation of a story I wrote a few years back called “Johnny Depp”  It is filed under The Classics should you wish to refresh your memory. 

I have recently become addicted to A.S.M.R. (Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response – what me and my fellow addicts refer to as ASS-MERE), specifically, I am addicted to:  Maria, The Gentle Whisperer.  If you check it out, keep an open mind and be prepared for a powerful nap.  As ‘they’ say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – and some of the following ABSOLUTELY TRUE story has been blatantly plagiarized from Maria.   Thanks Maria, for the inspiration and good naps.


I folded the washcloth like an accordion, flipping small sections back on themselves, and then I folded it in half to create a decorative piece.  “A flower, fan looking piece,” I whispered.  The perfect finishing touch to go with my already meticulously folded bath and hand towel set. Earlier, I had created a pocket in the hand towel by folding the bottom upwards and pressing on the edge.  It was a work of art.  To complete my masterpiece, I tucked the decorative washcloth into the hand towel pocket.  With a cleansing sigh I took a moment and admired my handiwork.  The green hand towel hung over the red bath towel, the floral wash cloth peaked from its pocket like a fan. There’s nothing as soothing as an obsessively folded towel set, I thought.

A loud bang interrupted my reverie. I involuntarily jerked at the sound, my first instinct telling me my cupola had just been hit by lightning.  But a second bang rang out, followed by the rat-ti-tat-tat of several small stones hitting my office atop its one hundred foot tower. But of course, it wasn’t stones, it was hail.  A storm had descended upon me whilst I was engrossed in my towel folding bliss.

I tucked my towel set onto the shelf beneath my fire finder and moved to the window that looked out to my yard. I needed to determine the size of the hail and report it to the office.

I had only taken a step when a hailstone smashed the window at my back.  Shattered glass sprayed into my cupola and peppered me from behind.  Luckily, my clothing offered some protection, however I was wearing shorts and the back of my left leg stung as the glass struck it.  There was no time to investigate my injuries. The large hail that broke the window was followed by dozens of his smaller minions.  I cowered behind my fire finder as rapid fire hailstones ricocheted inside my cupola.

“MY TOWELS!” I shrieked as I remembered them sitting defenseless on the open shelf.  The shelf that exposed them to the broken window.  Who knows what kind of damage this hail was doing to their crisp folds and to the decorative edge!

The storm passed quickly.  I leapt from behind the fire finder and assessed my towel set.  It had survived with minimal damage.  My cupola, on the other hand, was a different story.  There was glass everywhere.

My left calf stung.  I twisted around to see four small rivulets of blood trickling down my lower leg. The cuts would have to wait. Ignoring my leg, I grabbed my radio and reported the damage to the office.

Another storm approached; there was no time to linger.

I crunched over the glass strewn floor and focused on the immediate task: To repair the broken window before the next storm hit.  I only had about ten minutes.  I grabbed what I had on hand: duck tape and a plastic Sobey’s bag.

My phone rang, interrupting my progress on the busted window.

“Spruce Tower.” I answered.

“Hey, Jo. Everything Okay?” It was my boss.

“Yup, just need to get my window taped up before the next storm hits.”

“We are sending someone from Drayton out to look at the window and look at your cuts.”

“Okay.” Fixing the window was important but sending someone out to look at my cuts was overkill.  “Who’s coming?” I asked.


Must be the new guy I haven’t met yet. “Okay, thanks.”

I hung up the phone and quickly finished the window. Praise Aphrodite, the plastic bag and duck tape held as the next storm passed.

As that storm grumbled off to the east I took to cleaning up the shards of glass.  Last thing I needed was this Johnny getting cut.

By the time Johnny pulled up I had cleaned up the glass.  A small man clambered out of the white Ford F250.  His greasy, dark shoulder length hair fell around his face, obscuring my view of it.

A few minutes later I heard the familiar clunk of someone clipping into the fall arrest system, followed by the rhythmic whir of them climbing up the one hundred foot ladder.

As the hatch flew open and Johnny ascended the last few rungs into my cupola my mouth dropped open in disbelief.  Him.  Again.

He kept his eyes down as he unclipped from the fall arrest system. Once again, I marveled at how tiny he was.  The fall arrest harness fit snug, and eyeballing his waist I realized it couldn’t be more than eighteen inches.

“Sure am glad it isn’t sunny,” he made conversation as he fumbled with the crotch straps of his harness.  He didn’t look up, he hadn’t seen me yet, “I wasn’t looking forward to climbing that ladder in twenty-seven degrees,” he continued.   He got the straps undone and glanced up.   His eyes popped wide as he took me in.

I recoiled into the far corner, as far away from him as possible.  I remembered what had happened the last time we met.  How he tried to seduce me and then turned on me with a needle fist to the stomach.  As if they could protect me, I instinctively grabbed my towel set and white knuckled their delicate folds.

“YOU!” I hissed.

“You,” he smiled.  “I thought you were up on Ram Mountain.”

“That was years ago, Johnny.” I snapped.

“Now, now,” he said as he made his way around the fire finder and closer to me.

I pulled my towel set up and hugged it even tighter.

“Can’t we let bygones be bygones?” He whispered as he lifted his gaze and stared into my eyes.  I was relieved to see that time had finally caught up with him. His once flawless olive skin had weathered and was now lined and paper thin.  “Give me the towels,” he whispered.  Unfortunately, regardless of his age, I was stunned into idiocy by his uncommon beauty. I tried to shake my head ‘no,’ but I was powerless.  My mind screamed no, my body sighed yes.  He reached forward and lifted the towels from my grasp.

Mechanically, my fingers groped for the downy cotton, he slapped my hand away and tossed the towels onto the filthy floor.  His touch set a lightning bolt down my spine.  Confused by how my body reacted to his touch, not knowing if it was passion or if it was rage,  I backed away and pinned myself against the far window.  There was only one thing I knew for certain: I knew I could not trust Johnny. Fucking. Depp.

He stepped closer to me.  I stiffened.  “I have to take pictures of your leg,” he explained.  His deep brown eyes met mine. His lip quivered and a single tear played on his thick, luscious eyelashes. “Why don’t you trust me?” he whispered.

If there is one thing Johnny Depp is, he is a good actor and I knew better than to be fooled by his flawless cheekbones, feminine hands and crocodile tears.

His gaze fell.  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a camera.  He kneeled in front of me.  “Could you,” his voice caught and he swallowed hard, “Could you roll up your shorts a bit please?”

I did as he requested and he lifted the camera and snapped a few photos of my quadricep.

“A bit further.” He said.

I rolled my shorts up three more times, each time at his request.  Heat crawled into my cheeks as my upper thigh was revealed.  With the final roll, my short’s cuff crept dangerously close to my ginch-line.

“Johnny,” a realization dawned on me, “The cuts are on the back of my leg, on my calf.”

“Oh,” he stammered, a flush crept up his chiseled jaw bone.  By the chariot of

Aphrodite he was beautiful!

“Jo,” he whispered.

“Yes, Johnny.”

He fiddled with an imaginary button on his camera.  “I’m sorry for what happened on Ram Mountain.”

With those words he cracked my armor and stepped right through. I gawked at this tiny beautiful man kneeled in front of me.  I had been wrong about Johnny Depp. He looked up, our eyes met and as if my prayers had been answered by Zeus himself, my heart burst open with pure love.  “Me too,” were the only words I could find to apologize for what had descended on that hellish peak so many years ago.   And I knew that was enough, that with those simple words all of the hurt and anguish of the past five years washed away.

I wondered where we would winter.  Of course, I would stay at The Tower in the summers; I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. And, with his millions and free time (let’s face it – his movies haven’t been stellar as of late – it was time for him to retire.), he could come and stay with me in the summers.  And then it would be off to Marseilles for Christmas.  A smile played at the corner of my mouth.

He smiled in return.

I turned around to show him my calf.

“That’s it?” He uttered with disappointment as he took in my cuts.

I craned my neck around to take in what he saw. The cuts on my leg were still clearly there, each highlighted by a thin trail of crimson blood.

“They’re just kitten scratches,” he mumbled as he lifted the camera to take his photo.

“Oh.” They still stung, but he was right – they were rather small.

As he busied himself with his duties, taking photos and filling out paperwork, a level of comfort settled upon us.  As if we had known all along that this was where life would take us, twin souls finally re-united after a lifelong pursuit.

He reached towards the broken window.

“Careful!” I squeaked, thinking of the sharp glass, but it was too late.

“Ouch!” he cried as he jerked his hand back. “I cut myself,” he whined as he popped his finger into his mouth.  Speaking around his finger-stuffed mouth he mumbled, “Do you have a band aid?”

“Um,” I frowned.  “Can I see?” I reached forward and took his wounded finger in my hand.  He averted his gaze skyward and turned away from the offending digit, as if trying to create distance between himself and his horrific injury would ease his pain.

“How bad is it?” he cringed.

A miniscule welt rose in the centre of his fingerprint, the skin wasn’t even broken.

My brow furrowed, I gazed up and studied his cowardly profile.  Orion’s Belt! I thought to myself, Johnny Depp was crying. Again.  I squeezed his hand, hard, “You don’t need a band-aid.”

“Ow, let go of my hand. It’s cut!” he sputtered as he yanked his hand back.

I stepped away from him and crossed my arms.  How is it that a welt without blood is a ‘cut’ and yet the gashes on my leg, streaming with blood, are merely ‘kitten scratches’?

“You need a band aid for that?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice even.

“Yes, of course I do!” He wept.

Him and his fucking tears, “I don’t have a band-aid up here.”

“I can’t climb down with my finger like this!” he barked. He stiffened, his wide eyes darted frantically, scanning the cupola for something, for anything that could help him.  There, on the floor, his eyes found their target.  A miracle, the meticulously folded washcloth managed to keep its shape when he had so thoughtlessly tossed the towels aside.

A sudden coldness hit my core, a soft “no…” escaped my lips, but the realization dawned on me a second too late.

Johnny bent over and with the delicate fingers of his uninjured hand he snatched up the washcloth with amazing speed for someone so injured.  He stood as tall as he could, faced me defiantly and pressed the washcloth to his dubiously injured finger with such drama you would have thought his digit had been severed at the second knuckle.

The coldness leached from my core and my senses rushed back in, Johnny Depp had just made his last mistake. “Not the flower, fan-looking piece!” I screamed.  Spittle shot from my rage-fueled word hole and splattered on his wrinkled, decrepit face.

The spit-slap was just the distraction I needed.  With lightning reflexes, I sprung on him.  He was so small I had no problem forcibly contorting his body into his climbing harness and clipping him into the fall arrest system. He blubbered at the top of the ladder, my ruined washcloth still in his grasp, “Please, not like this.”

I leaned in and spat in his ear, “Get. Out.” Then I stuffed him down the cupola hatch.

He reached the ground, stumbled from the tower with tear blurred vision and leapt into the sanctuary of his truck.  As he started the vehicle he rolled down the window and screamed up at me, “I hate you, assmered bitch!”  He tore down my road never to be seen again.

I hate you too, Johnny fucking Depp.


Conversations With …part deux

My sister via text while I was in my tower on a hot, hot day.

me: I brain dead roasted

sister: perfect. I can’t imagine…its grossly hot. and you’re slowly cooking yourself like a super slow microwave.

me: Like the fun cooker

sister: ewww.  so you’re probably internally aging like an astronaut…

me: is that what happens up there…in…space?

sister: yes…they age so quickly…like crazy…that’s why they have to exercise for two to three hours every day up there…

me: I don’t want to go up there then.

sister: I do…when I’m dead…shot into space to disintegrate

me: would u disintegrate before u cleared the atmosphere? Then bits of you would rain down.  That would be nice.

sister: Yes, wouldn’t it?

me: I want one of my turds petrified & then shot into space.

sister: Hac! How about some bloody tampons?

me: but the rest of me buried.  No coffin. Shallow grave. I want bugs & beasts to have their fill.   EXCELLENT IDEA!!(re:tampons) I’ll start saving them now!

sister: ahhh, don’t you dare blog this.

me: and I want them glued together in a likeness of me.

sister: like a lady gaga meat dress?

me: more like a statue of me.

sister: that’s it.  I’m stopping sending you ideas.

Ginch, Gonch and Ryan Gosling

Throughout my life, I am ashamed to admit, I have used the words ginch and gonch interchangeably.  For awhile I had thought that gonch was simply the plural of ginch however my mistaken belief was pointed out to me and, as it turns out, ginch is the feminine and gonch is the masculine.  What is the plural ginch/gonch?  I don’t know.  

I have also, recently, watched the movie Drive, starring one silent and violent Ryan Gosling.  The following story was birthed as a result:

 It’s snowing again, always…forever.  Will it ever stop snowing?  Will the air ever hold crisp spring or a hint of life?  The dry dead winter tore up her nostrils and into her sinus cavities.  They seized in rebellion.  Snot production put into overdrive to protect from the onslaught of dryness.  Humans were not designed to live in such climates.  Why was she here?  Why did he send her into this horrible place?

The sun snuffed out by heavy clouds.  Yet, in spite of these clouds, the air on ground was fatally dry for someone so sensitive.

“It’ll be good for you.” He had said.  “Toughen you up a bit.” These words played through her head as she hitched her shorts up and tried to walk in her platform boots. Platforms did not handle the ice and like a short stumpy deer on skates she fumbled her way across the street and into the mall.

“He’ll be in the Charm Diamond Centre,” he had said as he handed her the packet.  Always the same, a picture, a place and a date.  No instructions – ever.  But she knew what to do.

Once inside the mall the going got a lot easier.  Midday on a Monday in a small town so the place was deserted. She hurried along, looking for the Charm Diamond Centre. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The boots made her short legs look eight inches longer. Looking good, she said to herself as she hitched her shorts up again.  She hated low-rider design and longed for the day this fashion trend was snuffed out.  On account of her large gut, low-riders got pushed down revealing the refrigerator repair man butt.  How was she supposed to do her job wearing these bloody low-riders? And everything was low riders these days.  Even underthings. She had to stick with ten year old ginch because all the new ones would fall down.  Held up by nothing but the crotch of her jeans she would have to find a secluded corner to reach down the front of her pants and yank her ginch up.

As she rounded a corner and saw the Charm Diamond Centre across the empty mezzanine another million dollar idea flitted into her head: I should design ginch-suspenders.  And another million dollar idea was ignored.  If she had only followed through on one of her ideas she wouldn’t have found herself here, doing what she had always done, and wearing low-riding hot pants.

Why were hot pants called ‘pants’? They were shorts, damn-it.

She shuffled into the Charms and immediately recognized her target.  He had the salt and pepper hair of a fifty year old and the body of Ryan Reynolds….in Blade.  She was going to enjoy this.

She slid in beside him as he gawked at the jewels locked behind glass.  She leaned forward, her lips close to his ear, “Excuse me.” She whispered with a heavy exhale.

The coffee and garlic odour that was her breath danced across his nose.

He cringed. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he shifted away from her.  His eyes surreptitiously took in her ensemble and he was appropriately frightened.

“No problem, Hon,” she smacked as she shimmied even closer to him.

He tried to bend further away from her, but she had managed to park herself right in front of the jewel case where he had seen it.  The broach.

“Excuse me,” he muttered as he tried to angle his way ahead of her.  He needed to see that broach.

“No you don’t.” She sneered as she turned on him.

“Pardon?” He regarded her with shock.

“You should be shocked you filthy little bitch.” She whispered as she reached around and grabbed his butt. “No gonch today I see, any reason for that?”

He pulled away from her grasp and backed up towards the mezzanine. “What the hell are gonch?” He cried.

She shook her head with loathing.  What an idiot.

He reached the threshold and turned, “Security!” he wailed.

“They can’t help you today, you slut!” She screamed as she rammed her hands down the front of her shorts and tore her ginch off.

Temporarily dazzled by this display of strength, he hesitated, his mouth agape in shock.

A fatal mistake.

She balled up her ginch and tossed them, underhand, and in spite of the gentle throw they flew with amazing speed and found their mark.  His face.

His hands flew up and clawed at the ginch.  They did not move.  Secured as if by-

“Magic.” She said triumphantly.

He stumbled backward, silent, thrashing…dying.  The ginch sealed every orifice in his face he couldn’t inhale, he couldn’t make a sound.

He fell.

The Charms Diamond Centre clerk had taken notice.  He ran to the man’s aid, and yelled at her, “Go get help!”

“Are you stunned?  Did you not see that it was I that did that to him?!?” she screamed.

“Help! Help! Help!” the clerk shrieked.

She heard the distance thumping of footsteps.  Someone else was on their way and she had outstayed her welcome.

She yanked off her platforms and ran barefoot across the mezzanine, down the corridor and out of the mall.

He was waiting in his V-dub Van.  She yanked the passenger’s door open, jumped in and screamed: “Drive, damnit, drive!”

He slammed the van into first and crawled away.

“Doesn’t this thing go any faster!?” she sqwaked.

“No, it doesn’t.” Ryan answered.

She yanked off her wig, rolled down the window and tossed it out just as they were pulling onto Main Street.  The wail of a police car rose in the distance.  She reached down, grabbed some sweats she had hidden there earlier, and yanked them on over her hot-pants. She fumbled underneath the seat, her fingers searching for her wool socks.

“Turn up the heat!” she screeched.  God Damn, she’d be happy to get out of this hellish winter land.

Ryan obliged, turned the heat- up as the van begrudgingly accelerated to 60 kilometers per hour. She found her socks and pulled them on.

She turned to take in her boss. He had picked up a swanky new gold quilted jacket.  The sight of him relaxed her. “Sorry,” she offered.

“No problem.” He shrugged.

“I got a little stressed out, is all.” She offered as explanation.  But when she looked at him she knew that everything would be fine, because who in their right mind would ever accuse Ryan Gosling of being the master-mind behind such nefarious things?

“Hey.” She said.


“I need to get some new ginch.  Maybe we could stop at Marks Work Wear House?”

“What are ginch?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes in disgust. He was hot, but he sure was stupid.

Do you know the plural of ginch and gonch?


from my other blog

A Couple of Idiots

this months writing prompt was to set our alarms for 3 a.m., get up and write.

THIS is forty

J. N. Johnson

*(confession: the only thing that came to me at 3 in the morning was: “The wrong decision can lead in the right direction.” And that led to the following being written in the daylight hours.)*

*(ps – I am flabbergasted by what Bergen wrote at 3 a.m. That chick needs to write at 3 a.m. all the time!)*

 “Bring me my roti bread.” The beast ordered from her Throne of Bones.

Human bones.

She relished in the memory of making her throne. It was many years ago she had collected beetles to strip the bones clean.  Now, in her advanced age, she had grown weary and couldn’t fathom having the endurance to collect beetles.

At one time the words ‘Jabba Roti’ had struck fear into the hearts of…

View original post 1,896 more words

Conversations With…


Background Info: My sister adopted a baby boy, XX.  When XX was born he had alcohol and cocaine in his system.

I woke up from a nap when:

me: I just flat-lined.

sister: meee tooo.  I have brainnumbibg shift…almost..over.

me: Are you going to retire at 50?

sister: Well i did some retirement planning and at my current savings investment..I’ll have $8000/yr to live on if i retire at 66 or 67.  So no not 50, maybe 90.

me: hac!

sister: I need a better plan

me: at 55 I’ll have $100,000 in RSPs.  So if I only live to 58…

sister: well you’re 92000 ahead of me…so you know I’ll be moving in with you

me: I’m really hoping XX is like Justin Beiber

me:  Bieber.

sister: what the??

me: Like justin was a testament to teenage pregnancy. XX will be poster child for alcohol & cocaine abuse….XX will support us with his MUSIC CAREER.

sister: Fantastic…plus he’ll be really good at any sport that involves a stick and hacking things

me: a world of possibility

sister: ..not music…too much pressure to abuse drugs, plus I hate music.

me: how can you hate music?

sister: we make a good team.  Should have been financial planners.


My co-worker had a storm overhead.  I heard a clap of thunder through the receiver when he said:

“I better go before I get zapped through the phone and my face is burnt and then my girlfriend will dump me.”

“Yeah, you’ll be Elephant Head!” I laughed

“Oh my god Jo, what is wrong with you?! “

umm..I dunno.

Tasteful Nude of Joseph Merrick.


me: woke up at 2am cause I hadta pee…then i couldn’t sleep cause worried about not enough money in RSP.  So I just opened a tax free savings account.  balance 25clams!

sister: you are the bomb!!!

me: so in 15 years that 25 dollars will be…$500,000?

sister: yep, according to my calculations

The Toe

A few months ago I had a premonition.  A few weeks ago, as I was writing an outline for a book idea, my pencil barfed: make it gory. The following is a medley of these two events….and an accurate depiction of what the future holds for me.

The shower cascaded down her back, the steaming hot water rinsed her filth down the drain.  Her muscles ached with remnants of her days’ pursuit: Mr. James Franco.  Sure, some would call her a stalker, but she knew that it was more akin to a life’s purpose.  It’s not that she pictured them in love or married, but she did have a deep yearning to feel his freshly waxed flesh beneath her finger-tips.  Whether that flesh was dead or alive was completely up to him.

She tilted her head back and let the water pelt her face. She closed her eyes and soaked it in, the water cleansing inside and out.

A sharp pain in her right foot jolted her.  She lifted her foot and reached down and felt her toe.  “Ouch!” she exclaimed and quickly brought her finger up and looked at it.  A small red welt rose up on her fingertip.  She instinctively stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked. It felt better.   If she had only looked a moment longer, she may have detected the serrated edge around the welt, the telltale sign of a bite, and she just may have been able to stop the attack.

She ignored her throbbing finger and leaned into the shower once more, the heat turned her flesh a vibrant pink.  She found her belly button with her left index finger and dug in, a habit she had had since a child, there was times in her life she tried to break it but now, at 38 years old, she had surrendered to her quirks.  She lifted her finger to her nose and inhaled.


Her eyes popped open.  Who said that?  She peeled the shower curtain open – just enough to poke her head out – the bathroom door was still firmly shut, she was alone.

Convinced she was hearing things; she pulled the shower curtain back and stuck her head under the shower. The roar of the water in her ears drowned out the small voice from below, a small groan.

An odd sensation crept up her right leg. Numbness oscillated with a gentle sting. Convinced her leg was falling asleep, she wiggled her right foot. Suddenly with a resounding POP her right toe separated from her body. The pain so severe she could only gasp.  Blood poured freely from the mangled hole where her toe used to be and swirled down the drain.  She watched, in shock, mesmerized by the blood bath at her feet.  She didn’t see that her toe had ascended, had crawled up the shower wall and was now closing in on her face.

“Bitch!” her toe shouted.

She looked up, he leapt and with a splat of hot blood he landed on her cheek.  She flailed backward, her hands flying to her face but without her precious toe to help her balance she slipped on the bloody tub floor and slammed backwards.  She fell onto her back and gasped as the wind knocked out of her. All the while her toe held his vice like grip on her cheek.

The toe didn’t waste any time; as soon as she fell he hopped with shocking agility to her eye, dug his nail in and popped her eyeball out. It hung from its optic nerve and slapped against her cheek.

Now she found her voice and she shrieked.

The Toe contemplated his next move. He could drag it out, torture her some more and relish in his revenge. But she was being uncooperative, her shriek turned into hitching sobs and the sound was sure to attract attention.  He was finally free, his diabolical plan had been in the works for decades and it was time to shut this bitch up once and for all.

With a heaving sob she bellowed for help:  JAMES!  SAVE ME!! Leaving her mouth agape, calling for her love, was her fatal error.  With a quick hop The Toe jumped into her mouth and rammed down her throat.  With expert dexterity he wrapped his sinewy entrails around her still beating heart and then hopped back out. Braced on her chin and with a groan he pulled and tore her heart from her chest cavity and yanked it out her gaping word-hole.

Deep crimson blood poured from her mouth, her eye socket and her mangled foot.  A stump of bone that stuck out from her mangled toe-hole twitched as the last of her life drained out.

The Toe looked down at her heart with disgust and tossed the clotted muscle aside. He hopped off her face and climbed to the summit of the tub’s side. He had done it. Free at last. When he reached the crest he turned back to admire his handy work and he chuckled at the sight of her mangled corpse.  He had silenced the old crone for good.

It was with a light in his heart he had never felt before that he hopped off the edge of that tub and forged into his future.