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. Today I'm 3/4 of the way done. It's been an interesting ride.
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 are those. The first one just had a line of dialogue as a seed, the last one of the piece. Getting to it was interesting.
The second piece has its own note, after the picture.
Seventy-nine:
Six doors down, turn right, last door on the left. Elle tried the handle. It was open.
She pushed her way through, shoving boxes back from the door. It stuck, then started to shove back. “Stop!” she said. “It’s Elle.”
“Elle!” A fuzzy head popped out from behind the boxes, eyes wide behind cockeyed glasses.
“Dougie? This was your idea?”
He tugged at a box. Between them they moved them out of the way, and closed the door tight. Dougie clicked the lock.
“That won’t stop them, when they figure out we’re in here,” Elle said.
Dougie sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He jogged over to a table and started to move it toward the wall. “That won’t matter. We won’t be here any more.” He grinned at her. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I didn’t think I was.”
“How did you talk your way past the guards out front?”
“They’re adults. I’m a teenager. We start ignoring adults first thing every morning.”
Eighty:
We found the ship sixteen parsecs out from Greyreach, lights running, engine on. But going nowhere.
“It’s broadcasting distress under a jam,” Wilia said. “Damn thing gummed up our nav. I had to stop and dig the signal out before I could reprogram the ‘puter.”
“You got it now?” I said, leaning over the console. Not that I needed to check. Wilia knew her stuff. But another pair of eyes can save your life, out in the black.
She reached up and swatted me away. “I got it. But there is a ship there.” She pointed. “Small. Probably a glowbug, maybe a mole.”
“Hails?”
“No response. She’s just sitting there.”
“Cold?”
She shook her head, and when she looked up at me I got ice down my spine. “That’s just it. She’s warm. She has power, life support, all that. But either it’s the greatest fake I’ve seen in thirty-one years in this chair, or everyone over there is dead.”
A word on this story: Firefly is the finest television drama ever made. This is not debatable. It ran only part of one season, was comprehensively mucked with in its presentation, and never given a chance to develop an audience. Every one of the main actors on the show has gone on to success in other endeavors, which is some sort of record. Joss Whedon, the main writer and creator of the show, has also had some modest success. Episode #8, Out of Gas, is the finest exposition on the art of leadership I've ever seen presented anywhere. It's a crackling, heart-rending forty minutes. This hook comes directly from that episode. I won't tell you how, but if you've seen it, you can probably work it out.
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