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.
Sixty-nine:
“Vote totals are just coming in from south Darlington county,” the news man said, “But what we see so far doesn’t look good for incumbent Cathy Ronson.”
Jack Sonothos turned his brown head and said over his shoulder, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. We knew we were going to lose the south county.”
Cathy pointed to the screen, at the numbers plastered across it. “We knew we were going to lose five to one?” She patted Jack on the shoulder. “I’ll go out there and see the people. I owe them that much.”
Jack said, “Just wait for Hampton proper. They’ll come in big for us. We can still take this thing.”
But Cathy was already moving toward the door and didn’t give any sign she heard. Squaring her shoulders, she fixed her broadest smile to her face, turned the handle, and opened the door.
##Seventy:
This one takes some explanation. I have two writing notebooks. One is electronic, one is leather-bound paper. When I get an idea, whichever one is open I scribble in. I decided to go back to the beginning of the leather-bound one and work my way through the ideas I've been sitting on forever. This is one of the first I had, back before I was even a pro. I don't do high fantasy much. I love the Lord of the Rings, and I stopped in the middle of the Shannara series, and I think elves and dwarves and such are boring. Sorry. Sue me. Anyway, I thought it might be fun to write a semi-serious parody of the genre. So here's page one, after ten years of waiting.
Glorien rubbed his stubble and put his feet up on the table. A glop of mud slid quietly down the outside of his right boot and plooped itself onto the stained wood. “I don’t think I’m gonna be okay with that, Flathammer. I don’t do woods.”
Flathammer’s face fell. He set his wineglass down and scowled at the elf’s filthy footwear. “Get your feet off the table. Were you raised by dwarves?”
Glorien belched around another slurp of foamy ale. “Worse.”
“Your father was king of the Lilienthelei woods.”
“That’s ‘zackly what I mean,” Glorien said, tipping back the giant mug.
Flathammer ran a meaty hand through his thinning blonde hair. “Glorien, we have so much history together. Maybe we’ve had our disagreements--what dwarf and elf have not?--but I cannot undertake this journey without you. You know the route is dangerous. Alone--even with a few trusted companions--I could never hope to succeed. But if we’re to get the earring back (here he made a sign with his hand, as if warding off evil), we must all do our part. This is the part I require of you.”
Glorien thumped his mug on the table twice, and waved it in the general direction of the buxom waitress, who shook her head but bustled off anyhow. “It doesn’t have to be dangerous. There’s a short way.”
In the torchlight, Glorien watched all the color drain from the dwarf’s face. “We cannot go along that path.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…” Flathammer swallowed, then choked out, “underground.”
“Sounds cozy.”
Flathammer shook his head, eyes wide. “No. I can’t.”
“Still no luck with the claustrophobia, eh? Told you that witch wasn’t worth the gold.”
“Silver,” Flathammer said sullenly.
“Right. Right, the gold allergy. I forgot.”
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