The Community Hall's Frayed Edges
By Tony Eetak
The old community hall always smelled of damp wood and something vaguely like stale coffee, a scent that deepened on evenings like this when the spring rain hammered the roof. Tonight, though, a different kind of scent was trying to break through: the faint, metallic tang of an idea beginning to form, mingled with the earthy dampness of new spring growth tracked in on muddy boots. Nathan sat hunched, knees knocking against the underside of the table, listening to the cacophony of voices. He could feel the weight of everyone's hopes and worries pressing down, a strange, warm blanket over the cold, scarred linoleum floor.
