Write the Hook 2025 Winners

26 stories were submitted to the 5th annual Write the Hook story writing contest. 8 stories were from high school age writers and 18 were from middle school age writers. The contest was open to teens in grades 6 to 12, who are residents of Essex County in Massachusetts. Participants were required to write the beginning of a story, "the hook." Our three judges this year were Angelina (Assistant Director), Sarah (Head of Reference), and Denise (Trustee on Library Board of Trustees). They used a rubric to score each story. Score tallies were very close, sometimes just a half point difference between stories.  

Thank you judges!

Here are the 2025 Write the Hook Winning Stories:

First Place Story Entry Grades 6-8  

Lilly Kokos (Miles River Middle School student) 

for "The Little Bird in the Train Station"

 

A ten year old boy named Noah sits alone on a little bench next to the train line. Across from him sits an older man reading the daily newspaper. Above the man's head hangs a sign with one name of a train on it. The sign reads 6:00 to Newburyport. Noah is visiting his grandparents for Christmas, while his parents vacation in the Bahamas for a week. Noah has been at the train station for 30 minutes ever since his parents dropped him off earlier that evening with his small suitcase and ticket in hand. Now he waits on the bench in the cold on the night of Christmas Eve.
As more time passes, the train keeps getting more and more delayed on the sign, until suddenly the train number and time disappears off the board. Then, the old man picks up his paper, places it in his pocket, and starts walking towards the exit. Noah looks around and starts to panic. Many more people start heading towards the exit. Noah knows something is going on, but he can’t tell if the train is actually cancelled and decides to wait another 20 minutes to make sure.
After it starts to get dark, Noah decides to try and find a telephone to call his grandparents in Newburyport. Quickly, he runs to the exit trying to save time to make sure his grandparents weren’t worried. He pushes the door, but nothing happens. Is the door stuck? Again, he pushes the door with all his might, and shoves his arms into the metal part of the door, but it still doesn't budge. Noah slumps down next to the door and his eyes start to water.
Noah stares at the wall with the salt water taste of his tears still lingering in his mouth, hardly noticing the night get darker and darker. Finally, he tries to find another solution. He runs around to what seems like every door and all of them are kept shut. He feels like crying again until all the sudden he hears a quiet high-pitched squeak. He glances down at his feet and, to his surprise, there is a small blue bird. He bends down and looks at the bird as he tries to grab the small thing with his hands. The bird quickly hops away and it seems to be injured. Noah kneels on the cold-feeling floor to get closer to the bird, but again it hops back. This repeats for a long time.
The little bird hops all around the station, down the stairs, step by step. Then, Noah finally gets the bird safely into his two hands, but when he finally looks up, he finds himself in a situation he has never dealt with before. Noah stands in the middle of a train track in a large tunnel that looks infinitely long and very dark. The tunnel smells of train fuel mixed with the musty scent of rusty tracks. He can only see the poor bird with the dim lights on the ceiling of the tunnel. Normally, if he is at the station with his parents, he can’t go on the tracks because it’s way too dangerous. But right now, there is no way to get off them. He has been so focused on the bird, he forgets which direction he came from.
Noah tries his best to walk back toward the exit, but the tunnel feels never-ending. Then, there is a hollow and deep echoing sound, and Noah’s soul leaves his body. It appears to be the sound of a train that echoes through the tunnel.
Noah drops the bird in fear as he sees the bright lights ahead of him flash, blinding him in the dim tunnel.

Second Place Story Entry Grades 6-8  

Avery DeCourcy (Miles River Middle School student) 

for "Rain"

Drip. Drip. Drip.
A constant, steady pattern. It reverberates around my mind, soothing all my whirling thoughts. My windows are shut, doors closed. I’m shuttered in my own home, waiting for the passing of tears. The sky cries. Clementine smacks me in the face with her tail, a joyful ball of gold that would gladly escape the confines of my secluded home. I manage a small laugh, patting her head gently. Gathering myself, I make my way to the bedroom, and switch the radio on, preparing for rest.
Ksskcht.
We have reports of an escaped convict, last seen on Porter St. at 10:35pm EST. Please lock any entrance points of your house, keep your windows shuttered, and stay inside until further notice. Stay inside. Stay safe.
Ksskcht.
I stare at the radio for a moment, “Last seen on Porter St.”
My street.
My anxiety is ruthless in how it torrents my mind. Double checking the windows and locking the doors, I move swiftly around my once cozy home. Now all I can see is entry points, possible entrances for an intruder. Downstairs, done. Lights off. The living room silent, void of light. The fridge with its soft hum, a reminder.
“Hm. I should get some snacks. Right Clementine?”
She seems to brighten at the mention of snacks.
Flicking on a single light, I quietly open the fridge, grabbing some yogurt. I then take a couple treats for Clementine. I hear her excited paw steps behind me, sniffing my hand for the goodies inside. Turning off the light once again, I make my way up the stairs. Shutting and locking the door that connects the stairs to my hallway, I sigh. Reading my watch, it’s 11:27pm. I have work tomorrow and I really need the sleep. Here it comes again, anxiety knocking on my door. Clementine nudges up against me, and I sit there for a moment, warm light pouring from two rooms into the hallway where I lay.
Calming breaths. The rain. Clementine licking my hand.
Gathering myself, I try not to worry. “I’ve been inside for hours, and why would the convict go for my house? It’s so small. Right Clementine?” She seems to smile, her tail wagging slightly. I manage a smile as well, knowing she could never be replaced.
Not the way I found her.
She was so tiny. A little spec of happiness in a dreary place. It was trying to consume her positivity, her sparkle. A frail thing, shivering in the never ending downpour that was—and still is—the alleyways of Paris by my little home. I had scooped her up in a small towel from my car. Wrapped her tight, hugging her close. She had closed her eyes, nuzzling into my warmth. I raised her, took her to the vet and gave her all the food and love she could ever need. They said she was about 6 months old. She may have been small for her age, but she still accomplished many things. I signed her up for service dog training, and now she helps me, calms me down and licks my hand, a comfort I would never have known if I hadn’t stumbled upon her that night, three years ago. She’s my little star.
Finally making it to my bedroom, I double check the windows. “I’m so paranoid. At least I have you, though.” I ruffle the fur atop her head, silky smooth. I smile, and usher Clementine to her favorite spot under my bed. I need the comfort she gives me tonight. It would’ve been so tough getting to sleep without her. Sliding into bed, lights dim, I let her lick my hand. I can feel her rough tongue, gratefully licking off the last remnants of my chicken wings I’d scarfed down when I had gotten home. The steady pattern of her licks is like a lullaby, and I rest my worried head.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
Cracking one eye open, I hear not the steady pour of rain, but something that sounds…close.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
Again.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
Tucking my head beneath my blanket, I try to stifle the noise. Clementine seems to sense my annoyance, because she begins to lick my hand once again. Softer this time, like a caress.
I fall asleep once again.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
Slightly louder now, managing to break through to my ears. I sigh, and pet the soft fur above Clementine's head. She lets me, and her fur feels slightly dirty. I'll have to give her a bath, I ponder, wondering if she had gone out this morning. Forgetting the now noticeable dripping that seems to be coming from the bathroom, I breathe out into what I’m now hoping is my last awakening.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop.
Faster and louder now, the sound rouses me once again. I spare a glance at my alarm clock. 1:34am. I groan, and hope I can ignore the now quickly growing annoyance. I need Clementine up here. I reach two arms down, feeling under my bed for the sleeping puppy.
My hands grasp empty air.
I pause, then call out with a quiet whisper.
“Clementine? C’mere girl!”
No response. No fluffy greeting. And now the sound, getting faster and more prominent. I know it’s coming from the bathroom now. I begin to tremble slightly, afraid of what could’ve happened to Clementine. Maybe she’s just deeper in the bed? Maybe she went into the closet to escape the same sound I’m hearing? Yes. That must be it. I check my clock again. 1:35am. Burying my face in my hands, I try to calm myself, imagining Clementine licking my hand, her potent puppy breath a facade on my neck. Her golden fur a mockery of my anxiety. But not her. She is perfect and shimmery and my sweet Clementine, my one friend in this depressing world. I need to see what is making that sound. What is disturbing our peaceful night. My nerves scream in protest as I open my bedside drawer and pull out a mini flashlight. I don my soft slippers. The fluffy padding makes my footsteps almost silent as I make my way to the bathroom. I imagine Clementine leading the way, her silly pawsteps and ridiculous smile a comfort in the suspense that’s whatever the noise is. It’s louder as I approach the bathroom door, the handle suddenly seeming far far away. I blink, blink, blink, blink away my apprehension of the inevitable.
Long breaths.
Tracing happy paths in my memory.
Clementine.
Clementine.
Rain.
Pastries.
I haven’t done this since I found her. Since she became my anchor to reality, an escape from my worried mind. My hand trembles, slightly shivering as I reach for the doorknob. The slight creak and click of the door opening, the sound now drowning out the calming rain.

First Place Story Entry Grades 9-12  

Kate Kreyling (Essex Agricultural & Technical School student) 

for "The Third Body"

 

A match feels much heavier when you're about to light a house on fire.

The empty can of kerosene stands beside me, rattling with every blast of wind. Its odor burns my throat, the acrid smell finding its way into my lungs. I do a final walk-through of my childhood home, reminiscing about the memories that will soon become a distant whisper in my mind. After what occurred that night, each room is almost unrecognizable, shouts still lingering in each crack and crevice. As I walk the halls, my mother's voice slips into my thoughts, reciting the poem that once lulled me to sleep as a child.

Hush, my dear, the night is deep
Shadows drift where secrets sleep

Broken dishes sit like snow atop the kitchen floor. Cabinet doors have been yanked off their hinges, then thrown in the unlit fireplace. Food litters the once spotless kitchen, painting the walls and tile. The fridge door is open, dim light exposing rotting vegetables and unidentifiable leftovers. Glass crunches under my shoes as I move further into the dwelling that I once called home.

Moonlight hums its silver tune
Dreams will find you soon, too soon

The dining room chairs are in pieces, piled high, awaiting the blaze. I run my hand over the dining table, dulled by years of meals and memories. Now, it lies beneath the fallen chandelier, glass teardrops scattered like spilled jewels. Metal twists in every direction, one pointing me to the family room. I bring my gaze to the mantle, where my family sits, our faces encapsulated in paint. What was once a treasured portrait now lies in ruin. Deep slashes run horizontally down it, a knife cutting the illusion of a perfect family. The discolored sofa reeks, accelerant staining the fabric like an abstract mural. The coffee table lies beside it, a heap of rugged splinters and varnish. I wander into the hallway, peeking in the first room I see.

Close your eyes, the stars are near
Whispering what you cannot hear

I am met with the four walls that harbored my childhood, so long ago. The bed that held me to sleep for seventeen years is now bare, free of a mattress, blankets, and pillows. Those rest beside it, piled high and soaked in kerosene. Windows line the room, each one shattered, a passageway for the breeze to fill the room. The walls collect holes, dents, and missing pieces, from drywall to flimsy, to fit the terror of that night. Dried leaves and broken glass litter the ground, creating an orchestra at every step. I cannot spend one more moment contained in these walls.

Sleep, my heart, till mornings call-
Mamas here to guard it all, even what should not wake at all

My mother's voice leaves me as I bound out of the house. I search for the box of matches in the pocket of my filthy jeans, the fresh blue color just a faint whisper against grime, mud, and dust. I open the small box and take one match in my fingers. Such a small and overlooked little thing, nobody expects the catastrophe it creates. The match and I are very alike, I realize. I ignite the match, watching the small flame hunger for wood, fabric, and paper. I step back from the house and ready my feet for running. The match soars through the sky, instantly igniting the porch where it lands.
I sprint away, not looking back until the house is fully engulfed in flames, the memories of that night melting away with it.
When I close my eyes, I still see that sight, stitched into memory. It's been two days since I threw that match. The news has spread like fire. The Harrington estate, up in flames with no possibility of recovery. I made a promise that I wouldn't look at what the press is saying, but I can’t help myself. I grab my laptop and quickly search for my father's name. The first result makes my heart stop.

2 Dead in Harrington Estate Fire, Investigators looking for cause.

I read the headline again. This cannot be right. My hands are shaking as I click on the article, reading every last word. Two of them stand out, consuming my vision. Two bodies. Two bodies. Two bodies. It doesn't make sense.

I vividly remember killing three.

 

Second Place Story Entry Grades 9-12  

Joy Hauptman (Essex Agricultural & Technical School student) 

for "Eyes That Pass Through"

 

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I sit up straight at the sound of my alarm. The sun is peeking through the window, lighting up my plain white room and the few pictures and posters on the wall. My chocolate brown cat, Misty, is already sunbathing in the tiny sliver of light seeping through the window shade. I glance at the clock. 6:05 am. That gives me 20 minutes to get ready and eat some breakfast. I hop out of bed and change into a dull gray sweatshirt. I throw on my favorite jeans. I brush my teeth, read a quick passage in my Bible, and grab my phone. I head out to the kitchen, where my mom greets me.
“Hi, Robbie! How did you sleep?”
“Good! I actually fell asleep pretty early last night,” I reply as I grab a box of cereal.
“That's good to hear. You'd better fix that hair before you leave.”
“I will, Mom.” I open the cabinet, grab a blue bowl, and walk to the fridge for some milk.

Mom’s shiny blonde waves and seafoam eyes are a kind and welcome sight, unlike my boring brown eyes and curly mop of dark brown hair. We are similar in some ways, I think to myself. She and I both have a small number of freckles on our faces. We’re both friendly, smart, ambitious, and curious.

I sit down with my Fruit Loops and pour milk. I open up my phone and answer messages from my best friend, Henry. He’s telling me the bus is almost here, and I should start walking to the bus stop in a few minutes. I quickly run to the bathroom and fix my hair by putting water on it and running my hands through it. Just as I dash out of the bathroom, my sister Lila stumbles by, all groggy in wrinkly pink pajamas.
“Mornin’ Robbie,” she mutters. She doesn't have to catch the bus because her friends drive her to school. I grab my bag and my phone, which I left on the table.
“Bye, Mom, love you!” I shout because she has probably gone back to her room.
“Well, goodbye to you too,” Lila says irritably.
“Goodbye, grumpy,” I say back, purposely trying to make her mad. It's funny to see her reaction.
“Robbie, you're such a —” I slam the front door before she can finish, and I sprint to the bus stop. I make it just in time.

The morning at school passes by so slowly. I walk quickly to lunch so I don't get stuck at the back of the line. I smell bacon and get excited, knowing it's BLT day. After grabbing my tray, I walk straight to my usual table with Henry. None of our other friends have this lunch, so it's just him and me. We talk and eat our BLTs.
“Are you ready for the bio quiz after this?” he asks me.
“Um, kinda. I don't like studying, so I'm just gonna wing it.”
“Okay, bro. Don’t come crying to me when you get a bad grade.” Henry snickers.
“Hey, I’m not like that!” I say, giving his fluffy auburn head a good smack. “You know school’s stupid. I don't need to know this stuff.”
“Yeah, but people who don't want to end up working at McDonald's need good grades so they can get into good colleges.”
“True, true. But even if I end up at McDonald's, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Trust me, that’s just the beginning of your new McEra.”
I stare at him blankly and then start dying laughing. “What a weak joke,” I manage to rasp out in between my laughs.
We walk to biology class. I finish my quiz, and then I make stupid faces at Henry from across the room. He tries to hold his laughter in, and as a result, he makes weird snorting noises. I see Mrs. Smith make a confused face, and once she realizes what's happening, she rolls her eyes and puts her index finger up to her mouth to tell me to keep quiet.
At the end of the school day, Henry and I walk to the bus. We spend the bus ride eating gummies and throwing them at random people sitting near us. Henry makes his snorting sounds again. It’s super funny, and when it’s my stop, I’m sad to leave. I say goodbye to Henry and head home.

It’s the start of a new day. I wake up and follow my usual routine. I slump out into the kitchen with Misty right behind me. Mom and Lila aren’t out here. I’m guessing they're sleeping in a bit. Lila usually sleeps in anyway. But doesn't Mom have to be at work? While I eat breakfast, I check my phone. Nothing new from Henry. He usually gives me updates on the bus's location. I glance back at my phone, and it reads 6:21. Better get a move on. Maybe Henry slept in. I go to say goodbye to mom. From outside her door, I hear some movement, so she must be awake.
“Mom? I’m leaving for school now. Goodbye!” No answer. I sigh and head to the bus stop. When I get on the bus, Henry isn’t there, just as I suspected. Probably forgot to set his alarm again. I open my phone and watch funny cat videos.

My first 4 classes are weird. My friend Jason completely ignores my high-five. And Crystal pretends I don’t exist when I said hi. My stomach ties up into a knot, and my heart beats fast. Why are people ignoring me? When lunch rolls around, every beating second reminds me of the weird things that are happening today. The smiley fries help. I walk to Biology class. No one else usually talks to me in bio except Henry, so there's nothing new and strange happening. Then the door opens, and Henry steps in. Jeez, finally. Wait until he hears about this odd day. He has a whispered conversation with Mrs. Smith, and she seems a little shaken afterward. Maybe someone is hurt, I think. Well, if that’s it, everyone's so touchy about it. Henry sits in his usual spot and glances at my table. He starts tearing up at the sight of it. Does he think I’m sick? Or in big trouble? Did I really mess something up? When the bell rings for the last class, he doesn't wait for me. Or sit with me on the bus. I walk home by myself. When I get home, Mom is talking to Lila in a quiet voice as I walk through the door. Mom and Lila are hovering over a newspaper on the table, their faces tear-stained and red. They look awful. Maybe the paper will provide some answers. I snatch the newspaper, and they are so dazed they don’t even notice me. I read the headline: MISSING 9th GRADE BOY: READ MORE ON PAGE 4! I open up to page four. Brown curly hair. Matching brown eyes. A few freckles on the face. Me. I’m missing. But I’m right here. Aren’t I?