The challenge: 100 first-page story hooks in sixty days. Just the first page (or less), and it has to hook the reader to want more.
The reward (for me): I have two writing notebooks crammed full of story ideas. It occurs to me that here's a chance, with these hooks, to try writing what's in them, just the first page, try it out, see if it has legs. These two are from page three of that notebook, and both of them have this in common: the ideas were just a line of dialogue, something I heard in passing, somewhere. The first one comes from the phrase "I have no king but Jacks Aye Jacks," and has given rise to a Robin Hood story, apparently. But what happens if Robin doesn't save the day? The second is...I have no idea what's going on there.
Seventy-one:
Sulli shaded his eyes against the imminent rising of the sun.
Three figures made shade against its stabbing glow on the horizon, along with a wide platform, a short set of stairs. And a rope. Which one of them took in hand and draped over Macaulay’s neck.
Now. It had to be now. Motley Jack would come riding, arrows nocked. He always did.
The herald on the edge of the scaffold called out, addressing the crowd more than the condemned man, “Have you anything to say? The crown is prepared to show mercy, and the church even more so. Will you square your soul with God before you go to meet him?”
Sulli couldn’t see the expression on Macaulay’s face, but everyone for a mile could hear his answer. “I’ve no king but Jacks Aye Jacks!” he bellowed, and before the echo of his baritone died from the stone face of the keep, the Guardian jerked the lever. The trap door fell out, and Macaulay dropped.
Not far. The old stained rope held just fine. The whole village heard the crack of Macaulay’s neck. He twitched once, and then it was over.
Jacks hadn’t come. He couldn’t, not with the courtyard ringed with soldiers, conscripted ruffians, and the like. Macaulay knew the risks when he raided the warehouse. Motley Jacks couldn’t risk the entire rebellion for just one soul, even one of his chief lieutenants. That was sense, and Sulli saw it.
But still. Jacks hadn’t come. What soul in the village would dare to help him now?
Seventy-two:
I hear voices.
They come at me in twos and threes, small groups, invisible in the watery winter sunshine. They take no notice of me, that I can see. There--there went one right there, passing me and heading down the street toward the deli on the corner.
I have to go uptown to the post office, or I’d follow. But I never can catch them again. The radio tunes to another channel, and the signal is lost. They say everyday things, about the wash and the rain, the car and fares going up on the subway.
Except for one. He says something else. A name, sometimes. A laugh, low like far-off thunder. I always know it is him, and my bones freeze, and I chase him, but he is gone, a mote of dust on the wind.
And the next day, someone dies.
If you're looking for writing help--and who isn't--there are a lot of good editors on the Discord channel. I recommend it.
~Cristof
P.S. This series is the brainchild of The New Creatives, which challenged us to create 100 of something as a way of attaining mastery of a particular art form (or beginning the process, more like). This is my attempt. #TNCmy100