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?
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