Second Saturday Stories

This is something that would be lost if the story were titled Harry Potter and the Tastefully Lit Room.

After a brief fact finding interview about your store conducted via email, Second Saturday Stories will craft a story featuring your building (the more fun facts about the history, building, business etc the better) we want to hear from everyone from new up and comers to well established pillars of the mn community. 

'This week in Second Saturday Stories I want to focus on an element of writing, rather than the writing itself if you’ll permit me'

The quiet of the few staff in during the night grew more and more disturbed as the morning wore on and people came and went. Jones arrived at quarter to nine, chipper (“ready for the joys of another day on the force” as he put it) and carrying two coffees. “So, when are we going to Toronto to find the sister?”

His family could talk about nothing else but the robbery at dinner, the news had spread around town like in a multi-directional game of telephone. He didn’t correct the errors he heard but just sat back and listened.

“I heard stories, bad ones, about you. Something about how you locked yourself away up there,” He nods his head in the general direction of town. I take it to mean my apartment. “Hear you’re drinking and waiting for the reaper. I tell a woman to go see you, now the city is burned and here you are. I want to know who’s hiring me. Percy Slate who I went to war with, or the man who drinks and waits for death.” 

“Killing Roger, even the perception that you’ve killed him, is bound to make you a few enemies. Not to mention Salvatore Colisetta. In his eyes you’re a loose end that needs to be tied up and buried. Face it Perce, Your life expectancy doubles if you disappear.” I smoke in silence for a beat, considering his points. Harry suddenly leans across the table.

The hand grenades are easy to recognize because there’s four of them like identical black stones. The mason jars between them are filled with a sickly yellow powder that reminds me of the war. Amatol was like a curse among artillerymen, the scourge from the skies. In the centre of his chest a black fabric pouch has been sewn and I hear gentle metallic jingles as he moves and I can only guess at what it’s filled with.

When Percy Slate walks through the doors for the second time in a week he finds the band silent and the gaming tables overturned. The Chicago Club is a bloodbath. One man is to blame for the bedlam; a local doctor who's fallen victim to psychological torture and brainwash

BayToday.ca has always believed a community is just as important as the news that makes it, and putting the spotlight on local writers is a great way to showcase the amazing talent of North Bay and the surrounding area