The Community Hall's Frayed Edges
Nathan hated these meetings, mostly. But today, with rain spitting against the old hall windows and a hum of real ideas starting to fill the space, maybe it wasn't so bad. Unless… what was that quiet, anxious look on Carson's face?
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - LATE AFTERNOON
SOUND of steady SPRING RAIN drumming against a large, grimy window. The cavernous room echoes with the SCRAPE of chairs on a scuffed wooden floor.
CLOSE ON a single, small THUMBTACK held between a determined thumb and forefinger.
PULL BACK to reveal TRACEY (10), a firecracker of energy, perched precariously on a folding chair. She stretches, pinning a chaotic drawing—an explosion of purple and orange crayon—to a vast, empty corkboard.
Across the room, NATHAN (9), quiet and observant, stands on his own chair. He strains on his tiptoes, his small arm extended.
TRACEY
> Can you even reach that, Nathan?
Nathan grunts, his fingertips just brushing the bottom edge of a printed poster. His sock is bunched uncomfortably inside his boot.
NATHAN
> Almost. Just... give me a sec.
He wiggles his foot, which only makes it worse.
TRACEY
> (giggles)
> See? I told you. You’re too short.
She hops down, nearly tripping over a stack of old newspapers, but catches her balance. She always does.
WILLOW (17), mature and steady, looks up from a table where she's arranging felt pens into neat, colorful rows.
WILLOW
> Alright, you two. Less bickering, more getting ready. Carson will be here any minute. We want to look like we actually know what we're doing, yeah?
She smiles, but her eyes are serious.
Nathan finally gets the poster straight and hops down, his knee knocking a table leg with a dull THUD.
NATHAN
> (muttering)
> I know what I’m doing. It’s just... it’s tall.
WILLOW
> It’s an old hall, Nathan. Everything's a bit grander than it needs to be.
She tosses him a blue marker.
WILLOW
> Go draw some ideas. Even the silly ones. Carson wants all the silly ones too, for "brainstorming diversity."
She makes air quotes with a tiny smirk. Nathan catches the marker, liking the cool plastic and the chemical smell of possibility. He wanders over to a large sheet of butcher paper, the permanent smell of DAMP WOOD clinging to the air.
The rain drums harder. The dim afternoon light gets dimmer.
The main door CREAKS open.
CARSON (30s), earnest but with a tiredness around his eyes, steps inside, shaking water from an old canvas jacket.
CARSON
> Hey, team. Looks good in here. Thanks for getting things set up.
He carries a battered briefcase that has seen better days. He sets it on the table. MARK (11), already seated, fiddles with a piece of string.
MARK
> Tracey stuck her rainbow explosion to the board. Said it was a "conceptual representation of joy."
TRACEY
> It is!
> (to Carson)
> It's for the new arts thingy, right? To make our town less... grey?
Carson pulls folders from his briefcase. Just papers. No secrets.
CARSON
> (chuckles)
> Exactly, Tracey. Less grey. More vibrant. We're here tonight to dream big about what a new, non-profit arts organization could look like for our community. For all of us.
He gestures around the room, taking in the peeling paint, the dusty stage, the flickering fluorescent lights.
CARSON
> So, big ideas, little ideas, weird ideas, serious ideas. We want them all. What do you think our town really needs?
MARK
> A giant slingshot that flings paint onto a huge canvas! Like, splatter art, but with... propulsion!
TRACEY
> That's not art, that's vandalism, Mark! I think... a place where we can make movies. Like, real movies. With special effects!
Nathan holds his blue marker, quiet.
NATHAN
> (barely audible)
> What about... a place just for drawing?
Willow hears him.
WILLOW
> A drawing club! That’s a great idea, Nathan! Or a studio space. We could have workshops.
> (to Carson)
> Bring in artists from other towns.
Carson nods, making a note on a legal pad.
CARSON
> Excellent. We're thinking broad. Anything that helps foster creativity, give people a reason to stay, or come back.
MS. BEVERLY (70s), who arrived quietly, clears her throat. She holds a chipped mug of tea. Her eyes are kind but have seen it all.
MS. BEVERLY
> It's true. Sometimes it feels like the current just pulls everything away. Young people, especially. They go off to bigger cities... they don't always come back. What is there for them here?
A hush falls over the kids. Even Mark stops fiddling with his string. Nathan feels a familiar hollow ache.
CARSON
> This centre... could be a reason. A hub. Not just traditional art, but digital art, music production, maybe even a podcasting studio.
MARK
> We need internet for that. Good internet. Not the kind that cuts out when it rains too hard.
CARSON
> (sighs)
> You're not wrong, Mark. That's one of those "community challenges." Infrastructure. But we have to start somewhere. And the starting point is you.
The conversation shifts. Words like "funding streams" and "governance models" float through the air.
AT NATHAN'S EYE-LEVEL - He stops listening to the words and starts watching the adults.
He sees Carson run a hand through his hair. A nervous habit. He sees Willow's gaze flit from Carson to the dusty clock on the wall. A tight line forms between her eyebrows.
WILLOW
> So, the space. Are we still looking at this hall? The old youth centre is definitely too small.
Carson hesitates. Just for a beat. But Nathan sees it.
CARSON
> This hall is... an option. It's big. Centrally located. It needs work, obviously. A lot of work. But it has potential.
MS. BEVERLY
> A lot of work. The roof. The heating. And the... well, the permits.
CARSON
> (quickly)
> Permits can be acquired.
He picks up a pen and starts twirling it between his fingers. Nathan recognizes the move. It's Carson's "I'm worried" twirl.
An uneasy thrum replaces the hopeful energy in the room.
MS. BEVERLY
> (a small, sad smile)
> New chairs, new paint... these things cost money, Tracey. A lot of money. And, as Carson knows, securing those initial funds can be the hardest part.
Carson stops twirling the pen. He sets it down carefully. He looks from Willow to Ms. Beverly, then his gaze sweeps across the kids. When it lands on Nathan, his eyes hold a flicker of fear.
CARSON
> We're doing everything we can. We've put in for the provincial arts grant, the federal infrastructure fund... We're waiting to hear back. Most of them have deadlines approaching fast. Very fast.
WILLOW
> (a whisper)
> And if we don't get them?
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. The RAIN drums on, relentless.
CARSON
> (voice flat)
> Then... we'd have to reconsider. Everything. Because without substantial initial capital, and a secure location... this hall needs serious, structural investment.
Nathan looks at the scuffed floor, at a water stain spreading on the ceiling. He hadn't noticed how bad it was until now. It isn't just old. It's crumbling.
TRACEY
> But we sent in all the forms! You said we just had to send in all the forms!
Carson forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
CARSON
> It's more complicated than that, Tracey-bug. There are a lot of hoops. A lot of... competition.
Ms. Beverly leans forward, her voice very quiet.
MS. BEVERLY
> And the biggest hoop, Carson, is the one we all know. The one about the... the *sale*.
Carson flinches. A sharp, involuntary movement. He shoots a quick glare at Ms. Beverly, a silent warning.
Too late. The word hangs in the air.
Tracey gasps, her eyes wide as she connects the dots.
TRACEY
> The hall? They're gonna sell the hall?
Carson opens his mouth, then closes it. His silence is a confession. The hope in the room evaporates, replaced by a cold dread.
CLOSE ON NATHAN'S FACE. Small and pale.
His eyes move from Carson's defeated expression, to Willow averting her gaze, and finally up to the water stain on the ceiling. He sees the cracks in the building are also the cracks in their dream.
SOUND of the rain, washing everything away.
SOUND of steady SPRING RAIN drumming against a large, grimy window. The cavernous room echoes with the SCRAPE of chairs on a scuffed wooden floor.
CLOSE ON a single, small THUMBTACK held between a determined thumb and forefinger.
PULL BACK to reveal TRACEY (10), a firecracker of energy, perched precariously on a folding chair. She stretches, pinning a chaotic drawing—an explosion of purple and orange crayon—to a vast, empty corkboard.
Across the room, NATHAN (9), quiet and observant, stands on his own chair. He strains on his tiptoes, his small arm extended.
TRACEY
> Can you even reach that, Nathan?
Nathan grunts, his fingertips just brushing the bottom edge of a printed poster. His sock is bunched uncomfortably inside his boot.
NATHAN
> Almost. Just... give me a sec.
He wiggles his foot, which only makes it worse.
TRACEY
> (giggles)
> See? I told you. You’re too short.
She hops down, nearly tripping over a stack of old newspapers, but catches her balance. She always does.
WILLOW (17), mature and steady, looks up from a table where she's arranging felt pens into neat, colorful rows.
WILLOW
> Alright, you two. Less bickering, more getting ready. Carson will be here any minute. We want to look like we actually know what we're doing, yeah?
She smiles, but her eyes are serious.
Nathan finally gets the poster straight and hops down, his knee knocking a table leg with a dull THUD.
NATHAN
> (muttering)
> I know what I’m doing. It’s just... it’s tall.
WILLOW
> It’s an old hall, Nathan. Everything's a bit grander than it needs to be.
She tosses him a blue marker.
WILLOW
> Go draw some ideas. Even the silly ones. Carson wants all the silly ones too, for "brainstorming diversity."
She makes air quotes with a tiny smirk. Nathan catches the marker, liking the cool plastic and the chemical smell of possibility. He wanders over to a large sheet of butcher paper, the permanent smell of DAMP WOOD clinging to the air.
The rain drums harder. The dim afternoon light gets dimmer.
The main door CREAKS open.
CARSON (30s), earnest but with a tiredness around his eyes, steps inside, shaking water from an old canvas jacket.
CARSON
> Hey, team. Looks good in here. Thanks for getting things set up.
He carries a battered briefcase that has seen better days. He sets it on the table. MARK (11), already seated, fiddles with a piece of string.
MARK
> Tracey stuck her rainbow explosion to the board. Said it was a "conceptual representation of joy."
TRACEY
> It is!
> (to Carson)
> It's for the new arts thingy, right? To make our town less... grey?
Carson pulls folders from his briefcase. Just papers. No secrets.
CARSON
> (chuckles)
> Exactly, Tracey. Less grey. More vibrant. We're here tonight to dream big about what a new, non-profit arts organization could look like for our community. For all of us.
He gestures around the room, taking in the peeling paint, the dusty stage, the flickering fluorescent lights.
CARSON
> So, big ideas, little ideas, weird ideas, serious ideas. We want them all. What do you think our town really needs?
MARK
> A giant slingshot that flings paint onto a huge canvas! Like, splatter art, but with... propulsion!
TRACEY
> That's not art, that's vandalism, Mark! I think... a place where we can make movies. Like, real movies. With special effects!
Nathan holds his blue marker, quiet.
NATHAN
> (barely audible)
> What about... a place just for drawing?
Willow hears him.
WILLOW
> A drawing club! That’s a great idea, Nathan! Or a studio space. We could have workshops.
> (to Carson)
> Bring in artists from other towns.
Carson nods, making a note on a legal pad.
CARSON
> Excellent. We're thinking broad. Anything that helps foster creativity, give people a reason to stay, or come back.
MS. BEVERLY (70s), who arrived quietly, clears her throat. She holds a chipped mug of tea. Her eyes are kind but have seen it all.
MS. BEVERLY
> It's true. Sometimes it feels like the current just pulls everything away. Young people, especially. They go off to bigger cities... they don't always come back. What is there for them here?
A hush falls over the kids. Even Mark stops fiddling with his string. Nathan feels a familiar hollow ache.
CARSON
> This centre... could be a reason. A hub. Not just traditional art, but digital art, music production, maybe even a podcasting studio.
MARK
> We need internet for that. Good internet. Not the kind that cuts out when it rains too hard.
CARSON
> (sighs)
> You're not wrong, Mark. That's one of those "community challenges." Infrastructure. But we have to start somewhere. And the starting point is you.
The conversation shifts. Words like "funding streams" and "governance models" float through the air.
AT NATHAN'S EYE-LEVEL - He stops listening to the words and starts watching the adults.
He sees Carson run a hand through his hair. A nervous habit. He sees Willow's gaze flit from Carson to the dusty clock on the wall. A tight line forms between her eyebrows.
WILLOW
> So, the space. Are we still looking at this hall? The old youth centre is definitely too small.
Carson hesitates. Just for a beat. But Nathan sees it.
CARSON
> This hall is... an option. It's big. Centrally located. It needs work, obviously. A lot of work. But it has potential.
MS. BEVERLY
> A lot of work. The roof. The heating. And the... well, the permits.
CARSON
> (quickly)
> Permits can be acquired.
He picks up a pen and starts twirling it between his fingers. Nathan recognizes the move. It's Carson's "I'm worried" twirl.
An uneasy thrum replaces the hopeful energy in the room.
MS. BEVERLY
> (a small, sad smile)
> New chairs, new paint... these things cost money, Tracey. A lot of money. And, as Carson knows, securing those initial funds can be the hardest part.
Carson stops twirling the pen. He sets it down carefully. He looks from Willow to Ms. Beverly, then his gaze sweeps across the kids. When it lands on Nathan, his eyes hold a flicker of fear.
CARSON
> We're doing everything we can. We've put in for the provincial arts grant, the federal infrastructure fund... We're waiting to hear back. Most of them have deadlines approaching fast. Very fast.
WILLOW
> (a whisper)
> And if we don't get them?
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. The RAIN drums on, relentless.
CARSON
> (voice flat)
> Then... we'd have to reconsider. Everything. Because without substantial initial capital, and a secure location... this hall needs serious, structural investment.
Nathan looks at the scuffed floor, at a water stain spreading on the ceiling. He hadn't noticed how bad it was until now. It isn't just old. It's crumbling.
TRACEY
> But we sent in all the forms! You said we just had to send in all the forms!
Carson forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
CARSON
> It's more complicated than that, Tracey-bug. There are a lot of hoops. A lot of... competition.
Ms. Beverly leans forward, her voice very quiet.
MS. BEVERLY
> And the biggest hoop, Carson, is the one we all know. The one about the... the *sale*.
Carson flinches. A sharp, involuntary movement. He shoots a quick glare at Ms. Beverly, a silent warning.
Too late. The word hangs in the air.
Tracey gasps, her eyes wide as she connects the dots.
TRACEY
> The hall? They're gonna sell the hall?
Carson opens his mouth, then closes it. His silence is a confession. The hope in the room evaporates, replaced by a cold dread.
CLOSE ON NATHAN'S FACE. Small and pale.
His eyes move from Carson's defeated expression, to Willow averting her gaze, and finally up to the water stain on the ceiling. He sees the cracks in the building are also the cracks in their dream.
SOUND of the rain, washing everything away.