Sunset over Lake Superior . . . summer 2008
.PHOTOGRAPHER: DAVID FINK
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Saturday, 30 August 2008
Friday, 29 August 2008
Thursday, 28 August 2008
Punctured
part xv:
.
When Jane came to again, she immediately felt the shards of pain shooting through her leg. It was more than she could take, though there was hardly any choice in the matter. She felt the pain travel the length of her body and quite suddenly, out of her mouth.
He had forgotten to put the gag back on. Jane would not suffocate on her vomit. But then, not knowing how much fight she had left in her, dying didn’t sound like such a bad deal right now. Jane cried until her tear ducts dried out. Then slowly, her dream came back to her.
In this one, Jane was in the desert. Richard was there, sitting on his Mexican throw and when she walked towards him, he smiled. Would you like to take a load off? He asked. It’s such an amazing night! Jane sat next to him on the blanket.
Together they watched the stars sparkle in the clearest of skies. They listened to the cries of the coyotes. They too enjoyed the silence and coolness of the night. Once, they felt the wind from the wings of two vultures diving in a little too close to the space they were sharing. But no one broke the calm they felt, with words.
Richard Onge and Jane Anderson, perfect strangers (though one had taken the other’s life), shared perfect harmony on one Montana night, in a desert sanctuary enveloped by the buttes of the surrounding mud lands.
Sitting Bull climbed that high one over there . . . you see? Richard pointed it out. He kept an eye out for his enemies. Many effigies took place up there, and many pipes of sweet grass were lit. It is said he foresaw all that followed. He fled to safety in Canada. . . his return would be his eventual death . . .
Richard’s voice trailed off and Jane knew that it wasn’t just Chief Sitting Bull that her companion was speaking of. After what felt like a very long time, and with the night chill seeping into her bones, Richard put his arm around Jane. Jane turned toward him then, but he was gone.
The words Jane heard him say before waking from her night in the desert were, It’s okay Jane . . . I like it here . . . the sky is always lit with stars and more stars. . . Sitting Bull and I shared a pipeful of sweet grass beneath these skies. . .
I’m sorry, Richard, Jane whispered now. Please forgive me. . .I’m so sorry . . .
One final tear made its way down her cheek.
.
.
When Jane came to again, she immediately felt the shards of pain shooting through her leg. It was more than she could take, though there was hardly any choice in the matter. She felt the pain travel the length of her body and quite suddenly, out of her mouth.
He had forgotten to put the gag back on. Jane would not suffocate on her vomit. But then, not knowing how much fight she had left in her, dying didn’t sound like such a bad deal right now. Jane cried until her tear ducts dried out. Then slowly, her dream came back to her.
In this one, Jane was in the desert. Richard was there, sitting on his Mexican throw and when she walked towards him, he smiled. Would you like to take a load off? He asked. It’s such an amazing night! Jane sat next to him on the blanket.
Together they watched the stars sparkle in the clearest of skies. They listened to the cries of the coyotes. They too enjoyed the silence and coolness of the night. Once, they felt the wind from the wings of two vultures diving in a little too close to the space they were sharing. But no one broke the calm they felt, with words.
Richard Onge and Jane Anderson, perfect strangers (though one had taken the other’s life), shared perfect harmony on one Montana night, in a desert sanctuary enveloped by the buttes of the surrounding mud lands.
Sitting Bull climbed that high one over there . . . you see? Richard pointed it out. He kept an eye out for his enemies. Many effigies took place up there, and many pipes of sweet grass were lit. It is said he foresaw all that followed. He fled to safety in Canada. . . his return would be his eventual death . . .
Richard’s voice trailed off and Jane knew that it wasn’t just Chief Sitting Bull that her companion was speaking of. After what felt like a very long time, and with the night chill seeping into her bones, Richard put his arm around Jane. Jane turned toward him then, but he was gone.
The words Jane heard him say before waking from her night in the desert were, It’s okay Jane . . . I like it here . . . the sky is always lit with stars and more stars. . . Sitting Bull and I shared a pipeful of sweet grass beneath these skies. . .
I’m sorry, Richard, Jane whispered now. Please forgive me. . .I’m so sorry . . .
One final tear made its way down her cheek.
.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Punctured
part xiv:
.
What did it feel like?
Jane stared hard at her abductor, taking him in with adult eyes, sadly the same eyes that had deceived her only yesterday.
Go on! the man touted. Tell me what it feels like to have blood on your hands. He ripped the gag from her mouth, smiled, and waited anxiously for an answer. Did you enjoy killing Richard?
Jane spat on Matthew Onger’s face. The sound of metal on bone reached her before the excruciating pain in her left knee did. She screamed and passed out, still hanging by her wrists.
Amused, Onger walked to the stairs that lead him up and out of the bunker. He was enjoying all of this much more than he’d anticipated. He had renewed his power over the only one who had ever escaped him, the one he had once feared might be his downfall. But he felt safe now. It had been a dumb bit of luck that had forced him north to fill up on gas this afternoon, spotting her bike across the road.
Now that the wanted woman was in his possession, Matthew Onger had nothing to fear. She was his once again . . .
.
.
What did it feel like?
Jane stared hard at her abductor, taking him in with adult eyes, sadly the same eyes that had deceived her only yesterday.
Go on! the man touted. Tell me what it feels like to have blood on your hands. He ripped the gag from her mouth, smiled, and waited anxiously for an answer. Did you enjoy killing Richard?
Jane spat on Matthew Onger’s face. The sound of metal on bone reached her before the excruciating pain in her left knee did. She screamed and passed out, still hanging by her wrists.
Amused, Onger walked to the stairs that lead him up and out of the bunker. He was enjoying all of this much more than he’d anticipated. He had renewed his power over the only one who had ever escaped him, the one he had once feared might be his downfall. But he felt safe now. It had been a dumb bit of luck that had forced him north to fill up on gas this afternoon, spotting her bike across the road.
Now that the wanted woman was in his possession, Matthew Onger had nothing to fear. She was his once again . . .
.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Matters of the Heart
.
There are many kinds of grief. And ‘good grief’ isn’t one of them, Charlie Brown, though I suppose we all develop varying degrees of rationalizing that pain away. But no one is fooled, least of all our self.
I don’t go to funerals as a rule. I find them too compulsory (and compulsive), and surely it isn’t the one who has left that will mind my absence. Besides, having grown up in a Catholic home, our families’ goodbyes are anything but a celebration of a life well lived. Nor, for that matter, do they sing praise of that eagerly awaited after-life. And so I find other ways of saying farewell.
As I had done with sweet Lorraine just last month, I attempted last week to deal with my grief through words. That’s what creators do, isn’t it? We create our pain away . . . make good use of wrongful things and redirect the hurt into positive channels? It works wonders when the spirit is willing. And I did try. Really I did.
My grief exposed, goodbye words lived on my blog for a whole sixteen hours last Friday. They had to come down though. Goodbyes are for those who have accepted their inevitability. When the one you grieve is still alive, well, that’s by far the hardest grief of all, and goodbye might not be an option.
I tried to rationalize the pain away with a few words when in reality, the terms of grieving the living involve a lifetime of creating. Like it or not. The terms suck. But if I choose to not accept these terms then I must accept a hardened heart, and agree to feel less_ love less_ live less? care less . . .
.
There are many kinds of grief. And ‘good grief’ isn’t one of them, Charlie Brown, though I suppose we all develop varying degrees of rationalizing that pain away. But no one is fooled, least of all our self.
I don’t go to funerals as a rule. I find them too compulsory (and compulsive), and surely it isn’t the one who has left that will mind my absence. Besides, having grown up in a Catholic home, our families’ goodbyes are anything but a celebration of a life well lived. Nor, for that matter, do they sing praise of that eagerly awaited after-life. And so I find other ways of saying farewell.
As I had done with sweet Lorraine just last month, I attempted last week to deal with my grief through words. That’s what creators do, isn’t it? We create our pain away . . . make good use of wrongful things and redirect the hurt into positive channels? It works wonders when the spirit is willing. And I did try. Really I did.
My grief exposed, goodbye words lived on my blog for a whole sixteen hours last Friday. They had to come down though. Goodbyes are for those who have accepted their inevitability. When the one you grieve is still alive, well, that’s by far the hardest grief of all, and goodbye might not be an option.
I tried to rationalize the pain away with a few words when in reality, the terms of grieving the living involve a lifetime of creating. Like it or not. The terms suck. But if I choose to not accept these terms then I must accept a hardened heart, and agree to feel less_ love less_ live less? care less . . .
.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Punctured
part xiii:
.
The bike is registered to one Jane Marie Anderson, Harlow reported. Bike was registered in Sturgis, South Dakota. It’s where the girl hails from too. Well, woman. She’s twenty-nine.
Crier and Pontieff were leaning against a couple of desks at the Carter County district office. Helen walked in during Harlow’s elocution. Boys . . .
What have you got for us, Doc?
Well, I got word on the suspect’s possible name about an hour ago, and something about the name Anderson tugged hard at my memory. So I made a few calls, and sure enough, I had the right case in mind.
What case is that? Crier pulled up his pant leg as he made himself more comfortable on the corner desk. Arms folded across his chest, he waited attentively for Helen to continue.
An unsolved one, from 1994. Two sisters abducted during the Sturgis motorcycle rally. Fifteen and nine. The older sister found her way home. The other one, Susie Anderson, was not so lucky.
Je-sus, Pontieff chimed in. The Sheriff had a soft spot for children. As a father and grandfather, he had trouble dealing with child crimes. After pausing a moment he asked, to no one in particular, what the girls had been doing in Sturgis in the first place.
It’s where they lived, Sheriff, Harlow said. The old man attended a rally there back in the Seventies, fell in love with a local, and he decided to settle down there, build them a home. She ran a diner, he bought some acreage not far away.
Happy family from what I recall. But the father . . . the ordeal proved too much for him. Died six months after losing his baby girl.
Sad. Harlow was listening to Doc Helen and added what he could to the story. Mrs Anderson’s sister came to live with her and Jane. Rudy’s diner is a family affair. Even Jane works there.
Okay, okay. Crier intervened then, feeling impatient and a bit helpless. It was time to get some control back over the case in his charge. So what did fourteen year old Jane say upon her return? And why couldn’t they catch the bastard who did this?
Nothing. She said nothing. She couldn’t remember her escape and no one could get her to talk about what happened when she just re-appeared on the family doorstep thirteen days after her abduction. Susie was found, dumped in the desert. Dupuis was the coroner in charge . . . a friend of mine. The body was ravaged by then, but it was clear she had been raped, sodomized, and tortured.
And Jane?
Raped, definitely. Very likely tortured. But like I said, she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – act as her own witness. It left for a lot of unanswered questions.
So what are we saying, here? She came across her abductor and killed him, right? Explains why the man on the slab at the morgue is missing a couple testicles . . . but –
But if that’s true, Pontieff continued for Crier, why in Christ’s name do we have a second abduction on our hands?
.
.
The bike is registered to one Jane Marie Anderson, Harlow reported. Bike was registered in Sturgis, South Dakota. It’s where the girl hails from too. Well, woman. She’s twenty-nine.
Crier and Pontieff were leaning against a couple of desks at the Carter County district office. Helen walked in during Harlow’s elocution. Boys . . .
What have you got for us, Doc?
Well, I got word on the suspect’s possible name about an hour ago, and something about the name Anderson tugged hard at my memory. So I made a few calls, and sure enough, I had the right case in mind.
What case is that? Crier pulled up his pant leg as he made himself more comfortable on the corner desk. Arms folded across his chest, he waited attentively for Helen to continue.
An unsolved one, from 1994. Two sisters abducted during the Sturgis motorcycle rally. Fifteen and nine. The older sister found her way home. The other one, Susie Anderson, was not so lucky.
Je-sus, Pontieff chimed in. The Sheriff had a soft spot for children. As a father and grandfather, he had trouble dealing with child crimes. After pausing a moment he asked, to no one in particular, what the girls had been doing in Sturgis in the first place.
It’s where they lived, Sheriff, Harlow said. The old man attended a rally there back in the Seventies, fell in love with a local, and he decided to settle down there, build them a home. She ran a diner, he bought some acreage not far away.
Happy family from what I recall. But the father . . . the ordeal proved too much for him. Died six months after losing his baby girl.
Sad. Harlow was listening to Doc Helen and added what he could to the story. Mrs Anderson’s sister came to live with her and Jane. Rudy’s diner is a family affair. Even Jane works there.
Okay, okay. Crier intervened then, feeling impatient and a bit helpless. It was time to get some control back over the case in his charge. So what did fourteen year old Jane say upon her return? And why couldn’t they catch the bastard who did this?
Nothing. She said nothing. She couldn’t remember her escape and no one could get her to talk about what happened when she just re-appeared on the family doorstep thirteen days after her abduction. Susie was found, dumped in the desert. Dupuis was the coroner in charge . . . a friend of mine. The body was ravaged by then, but it was clear she had been raped, sodomized, and tortured.
And Jane?
Raped, definitely. Very likely tortured. But like I said, she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – act as her own witness. It left for a lot of unanswered questions.
So what are we saying, here? She came across her abductor and killed him, right? Explains why the man on the slab at the morgue is missing a couple testicles . . . but –
But if that’s true, Pontieff continued for Crier, why in Christ’s name do we have a second abduction on our hands?
.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
"My grandmother knew what a painful life had taught her: success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality. The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention."
JULIA CAMERON
.
...
GUSTAV KLIMT
Monday, 18 August 2008
Punctured
part xii:
.
They found the Triumph, but not the girl.
What? Asked Crier, though he had heard every word.
The bike. My men spotted it off Route 90 outside a four unit motel. Doors straight off the parking lot, right? By the time I got there the girl was gone. Thing is . . .
What, Pontieff? Did you find something?
Well, yes. Pontieff hesitated. We found enough evidence in the room to figure we got the right girl. But it looks like a kidnapping.
Crier was getting impatient with the lack of answers he felt the sheriff should have for him.
Pontieff described the scene as he'd discovered it. The door that had been left open, the frenzied room, the smell of formaldehyde on a rag near the bed. And the female suspect had vanished but the bike had been left behind, despite some effort on her or someone else's part at not leaving it in plain sight. Both men agreed that something was off.
It appears there’s someone else involved in this little murder of ours, Crier. Christ . . . would ya tell me what the hell we're dealing with here?
.
.
They found the Triumph, but not the girl.
What? Asked Crier, though he had heard every word.
The bike. My men spotted it off Route 90 outside a four unit motel. Doors straight off the parking lot, right? By the time I got there the girl was gone. Thing is . . .
What, Pontieff? Did you find something?
Well, yes. Pontieff hesitated. We found enough evidence in the room to figure we got the right girl. But it looks like a kidnapping.
Crier was getting impatient with the lack of answers he felt the sheriff should have for him.
Pontieff described the scene as he'd discovered it. The door that had been left open, the frenzied room, the smell of formaldehyde on a rag near the bed. And the female suspect had vanished but the bike had been left behind, despite some effort on her or someone else's part at not leaving it in plain sight. Both men agreed that something was off.
It appears there’s someone else involved in this little murder of ours, Crier. Christ . . . would ya tell me what the hell we're dealing with here?
.
Sunday, 17 August 2008
August moon haiku
.
August moon shines bright
Cool nights betide sweltering days:
Mother nature plays.
August moon shines bright
Cool nights betide sweltering days:
Mother nature plays.
.
.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
Punctured
part xi:
.
Jane came to in the dark of night. At least that was her initial assessment. That smell . . . where did she . . . it couldn’t be. No.
No! She screamed, but the sound that reached her ears was stifled, a barely audible 'o' sound.
Jane struggled to shake herself awake from what must be another dream. The bit of movement she managed set off the echo of chains at her feet. Fifteen years of her life vanished then. When she blacked out, Jane’s head fell to her chest. And in her restless patchwork dream-state, Susie came and went.
It was the happy child who appeared to her, the one with that eternal smile and a laughter that reverberated from room to room of their once happy home. Jane called out to her, running after her little sister through the big ol’ Victorian house. She could hear the faintest of whispers, Susie saying, It’s okay Jane. I like it here . . . everything is yellow and sunny . . . Goodbye Jane . . . bye J –
No! Susie! Please don’t go. Susie . . . Jane ran from room to room looking for the little girl who loved wearing dresses and pretty things in her long blond mane. Susie! . . .Susie! . . . Susie . . .
.
.
Jane came to in the dark of night. At least that was her initial assessment. That smell . . . where did she . . . it couldn’t be. No.
No! She screamed, but the sound that reached her ears was stifled, a barely audible 'o' sound.
Jane struggled to shake herself awake from what must be another dream. The bit of movement she managed set off the echo of chains at her feet. Fifteen years of her life vanished then. When she blacked out, Jane’s head fell to her chest. And in her restless patchwork dream-state, Susie came and went.
It was the happy child who appeared to her, the one with that eternal smile and a laughter that reverberated from room to room of their once happy home. Jane called out to her, running after her little sister through the big ol’ Victorian house. She could hear the faintest of whispers, Susie saying, It’s okay Jane. I like it here . . . everything is yellow and sunny . . . Goodbye Jane . . . bye J –
No! Susie! Please don’t go. Susie . . . Jane ran from room to room looking for the little girl who loved wearing dresses and pretty things in her long blond mane. Susie! . . .Susie! . . . Susie . . .
.
Friday, 15 August 2008
Punctured
part x:
.
How long had she been sitting there? Jane couldn’t say. But when she heard loud noises at her door, she knew it had been too long. And by the time she got to her feet it was already too late.
.
.
How long had she been sitting there? Jane couldn’t say. But when she heard loud noises at her door, she knew it had been too long. And by the time she got to her feet it was already too late.
.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Punctured
part ix:
.
Jane slid from the bed to the floor. Time stood still. She couldn’t cry or scream. She could hardly breathe. The television she could no longer see carried down a voice to her, a voice she knew well in her dreams. To hear it for real, now, ascertained for Jane not only that she had killed the wrong man, but that he was very much alive. He even had a name now . . . Matthew.
The man was speaking but she couldn’t make out any of the words. His voice held her prisoner in that little bit of space where she sat, near an empty beer can -not hers- and a used condom peaking out from beneath the bed. But that wasn’t the space that Jane occupied either. . .
If you’re good . . . if you do as I say, I won’t have to hurt you, will I? Now stop your crying! But Susie couldn’t and the strap came down on her again.
Jane hanged by her wrists on a ceiling hook, perhaps three feet away from where her little sister hanged also. It was day eleven, she thought, but couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. She was hog-tied, gagged, and blind-folded, and the helplessness she felt at not being able to reach out to Susie when she cried, was more torture than Jane could endure.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to die. She wanted him dead. What she got, instead, on day eleven, was an end to Susie’s muffled cries . . .
.
.
Jane slid from the bed to the floor. Time stood still. She couldn’t cry or scream. She could hardly breathe. The television she could no longer see carried down a voice to her, a voice she knew well in her dreams. To hear it for real, now, ascertained for Jane not only that she had killed the wrong man, but that he was very much alive. He even had a name now . . . Matthew.
The man was speaking but she couldn’t make out any of the words. His voice held her prisoner in that little bit of space where she sat, near an empty beer can -not hers- and a used condom peaking out from beneath the bed. But that wasn’t the space that Jane occupied either. . .
If you’re good . . . if you do as I say, I won’t have to hurt you, will I? Now stop your crying! But Susie couldn’t and the strap came down on her again.
Jane hanged by her wrists on a ceiling hook, perhaps three feet away from where her little sister hanged also. It was day eleven, she thought, but couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. She was hog-tied, gagged, and blind-folded, and the helplessness she felt at not being able to reach out to Susie when she cried, was more torture than Jane could endure.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to die. She wanted him dead. What she got, instead, on day eleven, was an end to Susie’s muffled cries . . .
.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Punctured
part viii:
.
Media . . . how the fuck was I supposed to get out of that one? Matthew Onger slammed his fist on the steering wheel, letting loose some of the desert sand and a grunt from deep within him. He kept the van within speed limit and continued driving west on the 212.
He had to get to Ronan to do some house-keeping as soon as possible. Who knew when the cops might poke their unwelcome noses in now? What the hell was Ricky doing in Montana, anyways? And did he have to come get himself killed here, in my back yard? This is just too. . . ah, Ricky. . . you always did have lousy timing, didn’t you? Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. . .
It hadn’t taken long for Matthew to realize that those shots were meant for him, that his little brother had died for his sins. If it hadn’t been for the missing genitals, well, it might have been anyone’s guess. But that fact changed everything. And as he continued driving eastward, Matthew was remembering the one that got away. . .
.
.
Media . . . how the fuck was I supposed to get out of that one? Matthew Onger slammed his fist on the steering wheel, letting loose some of the desert sand and a grunt from deep within him. He kept the van within speed limit and continued driving west on the 212.
He had to get to Ronan to do some house-keeping as soon as possible. Who knew when the cops might poke their unwelcome noses in now? What the hell was Ricky doing in Montana, anyways? And did he have to come get himself killed here, in my back yard? This is just too. . . ah, Ricky. . . you always did have lousy timing, didn’t you? Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. . .
It hadn’t taken long for Matthew to realize that those shots were meant for him, that his little brother had died for his sins. If it hadn’t been for the missing genitals, well, it might have been anyone’s guess. But that fact changed everything. And as he continued driving eastward, Matthew was remembering the one that got away. . .
.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Nine Inch Nails: Ghosts
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A preview from the NIN Film Festival, my latest project on film.
(Pressing Pause ; at the start of playback will allow for appropriate buffering time based on your cnx speed. Use the expand button in the bottom right hand corner for Full Screen.)
*courtesy of YerStory Productions
NIN WEBSITE.
THE YOUTUBE NIN FILM FESTIVAL ENTRY DETAILS
THE YOUTUBE NIN CHANNEL
YerStory entry on the YouTube NIN Channel
A preview from the NIN Film Festival, my latest project on film.
(Pressing Pause ; at the start of playback will allow for appropriate buffering time based on your cnx speed. Use the expand button in the bottom right hand corner for Full Screen.)
*courtesy of YerStory Productions
NIN WEBSITE.
THE YOUTUBE NIN FILM FESTIVAL ENTRY DETAILS
THE YOUTUBE NIN CHANNEL
YerStory entry on the YouTube NIN Channel
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Punctured
part vii:
.
Jane thought she heard something . . . someone. But it wasn’t possible. The door was equipped with a lock and chain, as well as a no-entry deadbolt. She suspected she wasn’t the first criminal to occupy this room. Criminal . . . it’s what she was now, wasn’t it? No matter what happened next, nothing she could do or say would ever change that fact.
She ran into the bedroom and frantically searched for the remote. It was bolted down to a small end-table on the further side of the bed. Jane’s hands were trembling and she felt her heart beating in her head; it took her three tries just to get the power on. She flipped through the channels until one scene caught her eye.
The trembling stopped and she hardly breathed, seeing that place now.
When she saw the quiet desert road, the whole episode -she couldn't get herself to name it for what it was yet- became more surreal to her. Only television crews seemed to inhabit the piece of desert now. Jane sat at the end of the bed and turned up the volume manually.
. . . and one day after this horrific crime takes place, Mike, I stand just a few feet from the very spot where Richard Onge was discovered with seven bullet wounds in his body. Mr. Onge had been a Canadian citizen for nearly two decades and lived a quiet life, I am told, in Buffalo, Alberta.
The dead man’s brother, who we now believe was meant to be a stop on Mr. Onge’s itinerary, resides in the foothills of Western Montana. It took several hours to locate him due to the non-existent phone lines in the vicinity of the man's home, somewhere outside of Ronan. What made it even harder yet, Mike, is that Matthew goes by the name Onger, though both brothers were born Onge.
Matthew has been kind enough to speak with us this morning. Thank you, Matthew. This has to be an absolutely excruciating time for you, and we won’t keep you long, but I was . . .
As the brother came into view, Jane was unable to process what she was seeing on the fifteen inch screen . . .
.
.
Jane thought she heard something . . . someone. But it wasn’t possible. The door was equipped with a lock and chain, as well as a no-entry deadbolt. She suspected she wasn’t the first criminal to occupy this room. Criminal . . . it’s what she was now, wasn’t it? No matter what happened next, nothing she could do or say would ever change that fact.
She ran into the bedroom and frantically searched for the remote. It was bolted down to a small end-table on the further side of the bed. Jane’s hands were trembling and she felt her heart beating in her head; it took her three tries just to get the power on. She flipped through the channels until one scene caught her eye.
The trembling stopped and she hardly breathed, seeing that place now.
When she saw the quiet desert road, the whole episode -she couldn't get herself to name it for what it was yet- became more surreal to her. Only television crews seemed to inhabit the piece of desert now. Jane sat at the end of the bed and turned up the volume manually.
. . . and one day after this horrific crime takes place, Mike, I stand just a few feet from the very spot where Richard Onge was discovered with seven bullet wounds in his body. Mr. Onge had been a Canadian citizen for nearly two decades and lived a quiet life, I am told, in Buffalo, Alberta.
The dead man’s brother, who we now believe was meant to be a stop on Mr. Onge’s itinerary, resides in the foothills of Western Montana. It took several hours to locate him due to the non-existent phone lines in the vicinity of the man's home, somewhere outside of Ronan. What made it even harder yet, Mike, is that Matthew goes by the name Onger, though both brothers were born Onge.
Matthew has been kind enough to speak with us this morning. Thank you, Matthew. This has to be an absolutely excruciating time for you, and we won’t keep you long, but I was . . .
As the brother came into view, Jane was unable to process what she was seeing on the fifteen inch screen . . .
.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Monday, 4 August 2008
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Punctured
part vi:
.
Sometime just before dawn, she found herself in the bathroom, uncertain how she had come to stand before the mirror. Was she sleep-walking again? She didn’t recognize the eyes staring back at her.
The sun shone on the glass then and the mirror cracked. Shards of glass came speeding towards her and the fifteen year old girl she once was materialized in each glass fragment that flew by her. The woman shrieked an endless scream of terror.
.
Sometime just before dawn, she found herself in the bathroom, uncertain how she had come to stand before the mirror. Was she sleep-walking again? She didn’t recognize the eyes staring back at her.
The sun shone on the glass then and the mirror cracked. Shards of glass came speeding towards her and the fifteen year old girl she once was materialized in each glass fragment that flew by her. The woman shrieked an endless scream of terror.
Jane awoke with a cry, drenched in her sweat. She felt so disoriented. She made her way to the washroom and poured cold water on her face and neck. When she came to standing, she was facing a mirror not so different than the one in the dream that had woken her.
She reached for what she thought to be a blemish on her forehead. When she realized it was blood, everything came flooding back - the nightmare fourteen years ago, spotting him in the crowds at Sturgis the day after her aunt's Tupperware party, deciding to follow him into Montana, the blood. . . Oh the blood.
She fell to the floor, and curled up on the cold, unfamiliar black and white tiles of the one star hotel, she wept.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Punctured
part v
.
The men from the two counties quickly put their differences aside after news of the so-called 'Powderville murder' was leaked to the Canadian media within the hour.
The dead man had apparently begun his journey in eastern Alberta, though there were rumours of a side-trip to Sturgis. With an influx of half a million attendees at the annual motorcycle rally, it would take a while to sort out Richard Onge’s itinerary.
Did we get any forensics back on those tire tracks? Crier asked.
They won’t confirm anything until this afternoon, replied Pontieff, but they say we should start looking for a Triumph Daytona. ’99, possibly 2000. They’re still working on the paint fragments. It appears that the motorcycle company used this particular shade of red two years in a row.
Well, I think we’re all in agreement that the killer's a woman, right? Clearly not an assassination. Helen confirmed the first shot was in his ah. . . his groin. A revenge killing, perhaps. A woman scorned. . .
I’ll reconfirm our APB, woman on a bike. But jesus, Crier, we got precious little to go on right now.
I know. And we have to move on this before she – presumably – leaves our radar for good. I’ll get in touch with U.S. customs and the Montana border patrols. Meanwhile, we have to put everyone we have on this one. That means no vacation time, no days off, and everyone putting in double-shifts. No one sleeps until we have the killer in custody.
.
.
The men from the two counties quickly put their differences aside after news of the so-called 'Powderville murder' was leaked to the Canadian media within the hour.
The dead man had apparently begun his journey in eastern Alberta, though there were rumours of a side-trip to Sturgis. With an influx of half a million attendees at the annual motorcycle rally, it would take a while to sort out Richard Onge’s itinerary.
Did we get any forensics back on those tire tracks? Crier asked.
They won’t confirm anything until this afternoon, replied Pontieff, but they say we should start looking for a Triumph Daytona. ’99, possibly 2000. They’re still working on the paint fragments. It appears that the motorcycle company used this particular shade of red two years in a row.
Well, I think we’re all in agreement that the killer's a woman, right? Clearly not an assassination. Helen confirmed the first shot was in his ah. . . his groin. A revenge killing, perhaps. A woman scorned. . .
I’ll reconfirm our APB, woman on a bike. But jesus, Crier, we got precious little to go on right now.
I know. And we have to move on this before she – presumably – leaves our radar for good. I’ll get in touch with U.S. customs and the Montana border patrols. Meanwhile, we have to put everyone we have on this one. That means no vacation time, no days off, and everyone putting in double-shifts. No one sleeps until we have the killer in custody.
.
Friday, 1 August 2008
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