Northern Spark, Dusty Corners
A young boy, Parker, finds himself an unintentional observer at a community meeting about a new arts collective in Northwestern Ontario. As adults discuss funding and vision, Parker's whimsical mind navigates their formal dialogue, catching glimpses of deeper, unspoken local histories and familial tensions.
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - MORNING
SOUND of a single, plump ROBIN chirping outside, confused
The world outside is a watercolor of grey and brown, seen through a large, cold windowpane. Muddy puddles shimmer like spilled mercury on gravel.
PARKER (12), quiet and observant, presses his forehead against the glass, leaving a damp smear. He watches the robin peck at a stubborn patch of brown grass.
Inside, the hall smells of lukewarm coffee, chalk dust, and the faint, sweet scent of overripe apples from a wilting bouquet on a table.
At the head of a long, chipped folding table sits AUNT DONNA (50s). A perpetually blooming flower in a drab grey sweater, her vibrant floral scarf seems to vibrate with energy as she waves her hands.
AUNT DONNA
> Now, now, dear friends. Let us revisit the core concept. The 'Northern Spark Arts Collective,' yes? It simply… sings, does it not? A beacon! A hearth for creative souls!
Across from her, MR. PETERSON (60s) shifts in a flimsy plastic chair. His denim jacket is a canvas of old paint stains, his spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose.
MR. PETERSON
> Donna. It's a fine name, truly. But what are we *doing*? We have a name. We have… zeal. But the *doing* part. How do we ensure this 'spark' doesn't flicker out before it's even truly lit, eh?
He nudges his spectacles up with a paint-splattered finger.
MRS. HENDERSON (70s), a prim woman in a neatly buttoned cardigan and a modest felt hat, takes a slow, precise sip of coffee.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Indeed, Mr. Peterson. The practicalities. Our community, while rich in… spirit...
> (her eyes scan the small gathering)
> ...is perhaps not overflowing with tangible assets. We require a structure. A foundation.
Parker fidgets with a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. His knee knocks the underside of the table. A dull THUD.
He presses his face to the window again. The robin is still there, head cocked as if listening.
MS. DELIA DELGADO (30s), the youngest adult, with short, practical hair and quick eyes, leans forward.
MS. DELGADO
> Our youth. We must engage the youth. Provide them a space. Not merely a dusty hall, but a vibrant centre. A place where their voices are not simply heard, but amplified.
She gestures emphatically towards Parker.
Parker yanks his face from the window, a hot flush creeping up his neck.
Aunt Donna claps her hands together. The sound of two wet towels SNAPPING.
AUNT DONNA
> Precisely, Delia! The youth! Parker, dear, what are your thoughts? You are a youth, are you not? A connoisseur of youthful perspectives!
She beams at him, a wide, challenging grin.
Parker swallows. His gaze falls on a half-eaten doughnut on a paper plate. The powdered sugar looks like a tiny, abandoned snowdrift.
PARKER
> (a squeak)
> Well... it is… very important, I suppose. For art.
He trails off, mesmerized by a streak of dust caught in the pale, watery light, swirling like a tiny, bored ghost.
UNCLE ROBERT (50s), who has been silently twirling a pen, offers a small, kind smile.
UNCLE ROBERT
> Parker is quite correct. Art *is* important. But perhaps, Parker, you could elaborate? What sort of art, in your estimable opinion, might 'amplify' the voices of… well, of your peers?
He gives Parker a slow, deliberate WINK that no one else sees.
Parker feels a bit bolder.
PARKER
> Drawing. And… building things. Like, with wood. My friend, Pat, he likes to carve. And… stories. Some kids tell really good stories. Not just reading, but, like, making them up, out loud.
He stops, glancing at Mr. Peterson’s paint-splattered jacket. Mr. Peterson nods slowly, thoughtfully.
AUNT DONNA
> Excellent! You see? The practicalities! Drawing, carving, storytelling! These are the very sinews of community!
Mrs. Henderson sighs softly, a sound like a deflating balloon.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Threads are well and good, Donna. But one requires a loom. A physical location. The old abandoned general store on Fifth Street. Is that still the proposal?
AUNT DONNA
> Indeed it is, Margaret! The perfect canvas! Imagine! The high ceilings, the natural light pouring in from those magnificent arched windows! It simply beckons creativity!
As Donna speaks, Parker's eyes glaze over. The vibrant image she paints dissolves into...
INT. ABANDONED GENERAL STORE - DAY (MEMORY)
Darkness. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and old newspapers.
SOUND of floorboards GROANING underfoot
Cobwebs, soft and sticky, brush against a younger Parker's face. He is with his friend, PAT. They move through shafts of dusty light cutting through boarded-up windows.
Parker TRIPS over a loose floorboard, landing hard. He looks down at his knee. A jagged, bloody SCRAPE. The space feels vast, cold, and menacing. Like the belly of a sleeping monster.
BACK TO SCENE
Parker shifts in his chair, unconsciously rubbing his knee.
MR. PETERSON
> The general store has… character. And ghosts, I imagine. But it is structurally sound, mostly. A new roof, certainly. And a good deal of cleaning. The dust in there, Donna, is a historical archive of neglect.
MS. DELGADO
> The renovation costs will be substantial. We must present a compelling vision to the council.
CLOSE ON Uncle Robert's notebook. He isn't writing words. He's sketching shapes—squares and circles connected by lines, like a map of constellations.
MRS. HENDERSON
> The council is concerned with fiscal prudence. They will require a robust business plan. How will this 'collective' sustain itself?
AUNT DONNA
> (leaning forward)
> A gallery space, a workshop, a stage, a small theatre! A café, perhaps, serving local produce! Think of the tourists! The influx of cultural capital!
MRS. HENDERSON
> Tourists are… capricious. And the season for tourism in our region is regrettably brief. We must focus on the local community. What keeps our young people here?
Her gaze sweeps the room, settling for a moment on Parker. He looks down at his untied shoelaces.
MR. PETERSON
> (softer, earnest)
> That, Margaret, is the crux of it. We lose our talent. They go off to Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver. This collective… it has to be more than just a place to hang paintings. It has to be a reason. A reason to stay.
MS. DELGADO
> Exactly. We've seen it time and again. The brain drain. A dedicated arts space… it offers a future. A place to belong and create.
She glances at Parker with a flicker of understanding. A strange warmth blooms in his chest.
The discussion drifts. Pottery. Printmaking. Digital media labs.
Parker stares at the hall's tarnished brass doorknob. It reflects his face, tiny and stretched, a ghost peeking through a thin sheet. He remembers the general store's doorknob: big, black, cast iron, cold to the touch.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Donna, dear. The historical significance of the building. Have we truly… accounted for it? There are murmurs, you know. Old stories. About what might be found within its walls, should we disturb them too greatly.
She speaks softly, but the words land like stones in a quiet pool. Her eyes flicker towards Uncle Robert.
For the first time, Uncle Robert looks up from his sketching, his brows furrowed slightly.
AUNT DONNA
> (a forced laugh)
> Nonsense, Margaret! Old wives' tales! Charming folklore, nothing more. We are establishing an arts collective, not conducting an archaeological dig!
Her laugh echoes, a little too loud, a little wrong.
MR. PETERSON
> Still, Donna. There *are* stories. People always said old Jebediah, the last owner, kept more than just flour and nails in the back room. Not illegal, perhaps, but… curious. Peculiar.
MRS. HENDERSON
> (a low murmur)
> And some of those 'collections,' Mr. Peterson, were rumoured to be rather… sensitive. Matters best left undisturbed. For the sake of certain families, perhaps.
Her gaze is now fixed on Uncle Robert. He has returned to his sketching, but his pen moves slower. He draws an intricate spiderweb with a tiny fly caught in the middle.
A prickle on the back of Parker's neck. A small knot forms in his stomach.
AUNT DONNA
> (voice regaining vigour, almost)
> Well, whatever Jebediah kept, it is surely long gone! We shall simply ensure a thorough, professional clean-out. Now, back to our vision!
The meeting winds down. Doughnut crumbs dust the table.
AUNT DONNA
> (rising)
> We shall reconvene next Tuesday! Spread the word! Let the Northern Spark ignite!
EXT. COMMUNITY HALL - MOMENTS LATER
SOUND of a damp spring wind
The adults disperse. A thin, pale ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds, touching the wet gravel with a fleeting gleam.
Uncle Robert walks over to Parker, ruffling his hair.
UNCLE ROBERT
> A long meeting for a young man, eh, Parker?
PARKER
> It was… interesting, Uncle Robert. Do you think… will the old general store be safe?
Uncle Robert pauses. He looks out at the faint sunlight, his expression thoughtful, distant.
UNCLE ROBERT
> Safe? Buildings are rarely just safe, Parker. They hold stories. And sometimes, those stories can be… complicated. Like old roots. You can't just dig them up without disturbing the ground around them.
He doesn't look at Parker. His gaze is fixed on the grey horizon, where a thin line of budding trees makes a dark, delicate fringe against the sky.
Aunt Donna bustles over, cheerfully oblivious.
AUNT DONNA
> Come along, boys! Supper awaits!
She claps Parker's shoulder as they walk away. Parker looks back one last time at the grey, muddy world, now holding a secret he doesn't yet understand.
SOUND of a single, plump ROBIN chirping outside, confused
The world outside is a watercolor of grey and brown, seen through a large, cold windowpane. Muddy puddles shimmer like spilled mercury on gravel.
PARKER (12), quiet and observant, presses his forehead against the glass, leaving a damp smear. He watches the robin peck at a stubborn patch of brown grass.
Inside, the hall smells of lukewarm coffee, chalk dust, and the faint, sweet scent of overripe apples from a wilting bouquet on a table.
At the head of a long, chipped folding table sits AUNT DONNA (50s). A perpetually blooming flower in a drab grey sweater, her vibrant floral scarf seems to vibrate with energy as she waves her hands.
AUNT DONNA
> Now, now, dear friends. Let us revisit the core concept. The 'Northern Spark Arts Collective,' yes? It simply… sings, does it not? A beacon! A hearth for creative souls!
Across from her, MR. PETERSON (60s) shifts in a flimsy plastic chair. His denim jacket is a canvas of old paint stains, his spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose.
MR. PETERSON
> Donna. It's a fine name, truly. But what are we *doing*? We have a name. We have… zeal. But the *doing* part. How do we ensure this 'spark' doesn't flicker out before it's even truly lit, eh?
He nudges his spectacles up with a paint-splattered finger.
MRS. HENDERSON (70s), a prim woman in a neatly buttoned cardigan and a modest felt hat, takes a slow, precise sip of coffee.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Indeed, Mr. Peterson. The practicalities. Our community, while rich in… spirit...
> (her eyes scan the small gathering)
> ...is perhaps not overflowing with tangible assets. We require a structure. A foundation.
Parker fidgets with a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. His knee knocks the underside of the table. A dull THUD.
He presses his face to the window again. The robin is still there, head cocked as if listening.
MS. DELIA DELGADO (30s), the youngest adult, with short, practical hair and quick eyes, leans forward.
MS. DELGADO
> Our youth. We must engage the youth. Provide them a space. Not merely a dusty hall, but a vibrant centre. A place where their voices are not simply heard, but amplified.
She gestures emphatically towards Parker.
Parker yanks his face from the window, a hot flush creeping up his neck.
Aunt Donna claps her hands together. The sound of two wet towels SNAPPING.
AUNT DONNA
> Precisely, Delia! The youth! Parker, dear, what are your thoughts? You are a youth, are you not? A connoisseur of youthful perspectives!
She beams at him, a wide, challenging grin.
Parker swallows. His gaze falls on a half-eaten doughnut on a paper plate. The powdered sugar looks like a tiny, abandoned snowdrift.
PARKER
> (a squeak)
> Well... it is… very important, I suppose. For art.
He trails off, mesmerized by a streak of dust caught in the pale, watery light, swirling like a tiny, bored ghost.
UNCLE ROBERT (50s), who has been silently twirling a pen, offers a small, kind smile.
UNCLE ROBERT
> Parker is quite correct. Art *is* important. But perhaps, Parker, you could elaborate? What sort of art, in your estimable opinion, might 'amplify' the voices of… well, of your peers?
He gives Parker a slow, deliberate WINK that no one else sees.
Parker feels a bit bolder.
PARKER
> Drawing. And… building things. Like, with wood. My friend, Pat, he likes to carve. And… stories. Some kids tell really good stories. Not just reading, but, like, making them up, out loud.
He stops, glancing at Mr. Peterson’s paint-splattered jacket. Mr. Peterson nods slowly, thoughtfully.
AUNT DONNA
> Excellent! You see? The practicalities! Drawing, carving, storytelling! These are the very sinews of community!
Mrs. Henderson sighs softly, a sound like a deflating balloon.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Threads are well and good, Donna. But one requires a loom. A physical location. The old abandoned general store on Fifth Street. Is that still the proposal?
AUNT DONNA
> Indeed it is, Margaret! The perfect canvas! Imagine! The high ceilings, the natural light pouring in from those magnificent arched windows! It simply beckons creativity!
As Donna speaks, Parker's eyes glaze over. The vibrant image she paints dissolves into...
INT. ABANDONED GENERAL STORE - DAY (MEMORY)
Darkness. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and old newspapers.
SOUND of floorboards GROANING underfoot
Cobwebs, soft and sticky, brush against a younger Parker's face. He is with his friend, PAT. They move through shafts of dusty light cutting through boarded-up windows.
Parker TRIPS over a loose floorboard, landing hard. He looks down at his knee. A jagged, bloody SCRAPE. The space feels vast, cold, and menacing. Like the belly of a sleeping monster.
BACK TO SCENE
Parker shifts in his chair, unconsciously rubbing his knee.
MR. PETERSON
> The general store has… character. And ghosts, I imagine. But it is structurally sound, mostly. A new roof, certainly. And a good deal of cleaning. The dust in there, Donna, is a historical archive of neglect.
MS. DELGADO
> The renovation costs will be substantial. We must present a compelling vision to the council.
CLOSE ON Uncle Robert's notebook. He isn't writing words. He's sketching shapes—squares and circles connected by lines, like a map of constellations.
MRS. HENDERSON
> The council is concerned with fiscal prudence. They will require a robust business plan. How will this 'collective' sustain itself?
AUNT DONNA
> (leaning forward)
> A gallery space, a workshop, a stage, a small theatre! A café, perhaps, serving local produce! Think of the tourists! The influx of cultural capital!
MRS. HENDERSON
> Tourists are… capricious. And the season for tourism in our region is regrettably brief. We must focus on the local community. What keeps our young people here?
Her gaze sweeps the room, settling for a moment on Parker. He looks down at his untied shoelaces.
MR. PETERSON
> (softer, earnest)
> That, Margaret, is the crux of it. We lose our talent. They go off to Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver. This collective… it has to be more than just a place to hang paintings. It has to be a reason. A reason to stay.
MS. DELGADO
> Exactly. We've seen it time and again. The brain drain. A dedicated arts space… it offers a future. A place to belong and create.
She glances at Parker with a flicker of understanding. A strange warmth blooms in his chest.
The discussion drifts. Pottery. Printmaking. Digital media labs.
Parker stares at the hall's tarnished brass doorknob. It reflects his face, tiny and stretched, a ghost peeking through a thin sheet. He remembers the general store's doorknob: big, black, cast iron, cold to the touch.
MRS. HENDERSON
> Donna, dear. The historical significance of the building. Have we truly… accounted for it? There are murmurs, you know. Old stories. About what might be found within its walls, should we disturb them too greatly.
She speaks softly, but the words land like stones in a quiet pool. Her eyes flicker towards Uncle Robert.
For the first time, Uncle Robert looks up from his sketching, his brows furrowed slightly.
AUNT DONNA
> (a forced laugh)
> Nonsense, Margaret! Old wives' tales! Charming folklore, nothing more. We are establishing an arts collective, not conducting an archaeological dig!
Her laugh echoes, a little too loud, a little wrong.
MR. PETERSON
> Still, Donna. There *are* stories. People always said old Jebediah, the last owner, kept more than just flour and nails in the back room. Not illegal, perhaps, but… curious. Peculiar.
MRS. HENDERSON
> (a low murmur)
> And some of those 'collections,' Mr. Peterson, were rumoured to be rather… sensitive. Matters best left undisturbed. For the sake of certain families, perhaps.
Her gaze is now fixed on Uncle Robert. He has returned to his sketching, but his pen moves slower. He draws an intricate spiderweb with a tiny fly caught in the middle.
A prickle on the back of Parker's neck. A small knot forms in his stomach.
AUNT DONNA
> (voice regaining vigour, almost)
> Well, whatever Jebediah kept, it is surely long gone! We shall simply ensure a thorough, professional clean-out. Now, back to our vision!
The meeting winds down. Doughnut crumbs dust the table.
AUNT DONNA
> (rising)
> We shall reconvene next Tuesday! Spread the word! Let the Northern Spark ignite!
EXT. COMMUNITY HALL - MOMENTS LATER
SOUND of a damp spring wind
The adults disperse. A thin, pale ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds, touching the wet gravel with a fleeting gleam.
Uncle Robert walks over to Parker, ruffling his hair.
UNCLE ROBERT
> A long meeting for a young man, eh, Parker?
PARKER
> It was… interesting, Uncle Robert. Do you think… will the old general store be safe?
Uncle Robert pauses. He looks out at the faint sunlight, his expression thoughtful, distant.
UNCLE ROBERT
> Safe? Buildings are rarely just safe, Parker. They hold stories. And sometimes, those stories can be… complicated. Like old roots. You can't just dig them up without disturbing the ground around them.
He doesn't look at Parker. His gaze is fixed on the grey horizon, where a thin line of budding trees makes a dark, delicate fringe against the sky.
Aunt Donna bustles over, cheerfully oblivious.
AUNT DONNA
> Come along, boys! Supper awaits!
She claps Parker's shoulder as they walk away. Parker looks back one last time at the grey, muddy world, now holding a secret he doesn't yet understand.