AURORA ISLAND
73,000 Words
YA Thriller (with light sci-fi elements)
PITCH
Sixteen-year-old Travis has two obsessions: surfing and plane crashes.
When his father, an expert on electromagnetism, is lured to a Caribbean island to determine if a mysterious magnetic machine that a billionaire constructed is linked to a recent plane crash, Travis naturally begs to tag along.
A plane crash is bad enough, but shark attacks, crazed monkeys, ginormous sinkholes, and rumors that the deceased billionaire used the machine to conduct brain-wave experiments on people—including his own autistic son—are downright terrifying.
Teaming up with the daughter of an island businessman and her West Indian surfer friend, Travis helps his friends race to find the missing teenage son of the billionaire—the one person who understands the true horrors of his father’s research—before Travis’s father starts testing the machine, unwittingly unleashing a tsunami of destruction.
First Five Pages:
CHAPTER ONE
I think about surfing and plane crashes a lot. You could say they’re obsessions of mine. I’m fanatical about surfing and fascinated by plane crashes. Which is why I’m here on the island, dripping in the full-court press of heat and humidity, staring at the ocean. This is the Atlantic side of the island, not Caribbean. Offshore winds and epic breaks rule this side. A surfer’s wet dream.
Or, not a surfer’s wet dream. Out there, the remains of Flight #111 are scattered across the sandbar like a museum installation piece, an abstract sculpture of carnage.
“It’s a lot to take in,” my father says, placing a hand on my shoulder and turning me away from the ocean and back to the sinkhole.
No one speaks for a minute. The hole is freaking awesome, but I don’t say that out loud. Besides, I’m supposed to be here for a reason. A scientific reason. Time to put on my game face. I brush back my sun-bleached brown hair from my eyes and try to think of something brilliant and scientific to say. Scientifically brilliant. God, maybe I should have gotten a haircut before I came so I’d look more serious student and less sixteen-year-old surfer dude.
I take out my cellphone while the Minister talks to my father about the latest detailed imagery for the site. He points a finger at me. “No photography allowed, young man.”
Like the plane crash, this giant sinkhole has been on the international news, so there’s no need to snap a photo. When it first happened, footage taken from a helicopter was broadcast to the whole world.
But it isn’t just the hole, which is amazing enough by itself, it’s also who got sucked into it. It’s what is being pieced together in that newly-built warehouse off to our left. The one heavily guarded by the military.
On this billionaire’s cliff top compound, behind hi-tech security gates, near a humongous mansion, not far from a heli landing pad and the Vegas style pool, is the site where Peter Knightsbridge’s personal laboratory used to stand.
The lab got sucked into a big black hole in the ground.
Along with Peter Knightsbridge.
And the weird-ass machine he was building.
In the ocean, Flight # 111 lies scattered across a sandbar.
Equations to be solved.
This morning, upon final approach before landing, my father had leaned over, tapped my shoulder and pointed to the debris field In the ocean. Before I could think of something sympathetic to say, he turned away and blinked and the moment was over.
My father went back to contemplating laws of thermodynamics in his head as they related to the mechanical failure of a widebody 767 while I escaped into my earbuds and stared at my hand.
To my father, the plane crash and deaths are tragic, but they’re also an equation to be solved. Just as the machine is. It’s the reason we came to Barbados.
But I have my own equation to solve—one that involves periodically staring at the ink drawing on the back of my hand.
Last night, Jess and Declan had stopped by our house while I was packing. Jess isn’t exactly my girlfriend—I’m working on that—and Declan isn’t the kind of friend to drop by and wish me a bon voyage. At least I don’t think he is. I’ve only known him a few months, the same as Jess. In the few months I’ve known Jess, I’ve watched her draw wherever and whenever she feels like it on whatever surface is available: napkins, notebooks, chalkboards, bulletin boards, desks. Exposed body parts. I’m pretty sure she tags lockers and walls, too, even though I haven’t witnessed that firsthand. Jess is kind of a vandal. A cute one.
I’d spent the better part of the flight trying to decipher the meaning behind her cryptic ink drawing. I figured if I stared at it long enough it would tell me whether I’m still in the friend zone. At the very least, I’d hoped it would give me a clue as to whether there was something going on between her and Declan. The way they showed up at my house together made me suspicious.
Maybe I’m just paranoid. Lately, my thoughts have been a dark space of negativity. Kind of like this island.
This morning at the airport, the full extent of the emptiness hit me. The line at Immigration? We breezed through. The duty-free shops and kiosks? Half of them shuttered. The only movement was a lone baggage carousel on the other side of the immigration line, snaking around, readying itself to spit out our luggage.
It’s to be expected—our plane wasn’t even half full. Despite the doomsday feeling, I was fine. Calm, even. My internal radar should have been going haywire but wasn’t.
Ever since that day in the middle of my junior year when my dad and mom announced we were moving across the country, I’ve been in a very dark place. So, yeah, I’m embracing this desolation, this weirdness. I’m embracing the shit out of it. My begging to tag along on this trip just might be the best idea I’ve had in a long time.
If I want to know what’s happening on this hellish island, I need to stick close to my father. Unfortunately, he’s walking away, skirting the perimeter of the sinkhole towards the newly constructed warehouse.
Around us, the compound is a hub of activity: heavy machinery and digging equipment and people come and go. I try to follow but my father indicates for me to wait. The Minister’s entourage, two young black men, hang back with me.
One of them mimes throwing a ball into a basket.
Okay, I get it. I’m tall. And unlike the rest of my family, sports are my thing. “Yeah,” I say. “I play b-ball. You play? Who’s your favorite? And don’t say LeBron.”
The guy shakes his head no to my first question and answers “Jeremy Lin” to my second. Only, it sounds like “Jar-uh-me Lean.”
I love this accent. Girls back home would be all over this accent. More importantly, Jess would be all over this accent.
“Actually, I’m more into football and soccer. Which probably sounds funny to you guys since they’re the same thing for you, right? By the way, I’m Travis.” I’m not sure whether to offer a handshake or fist bump. “I didn’t catch your names. Sorry, I was a little out of it at the airport.”
“Nigel,” he says, showing crooked teeth. “No worries.” He sticks out his hand and gives mine a firm pump. The other guy introduces himself as Alastair.
Cool. British-sounding names to go with British-sounding accents.
“Dude, that’s one big hole,” I say. I wish I could send a pic of it to Jess. She wanted to see the beach. What would she think about this?
Alastair walks off to the side a few feet and lights a cigarette. He’s not as friendly as Nigel, much more serious.
“Yah, man. You don’t want to get too close.”
“Actually, I would like to get closer. See how far down it goes. How far down does it go?” I ask.
Nigel squints his eyes, as if guessing. “400 meters. About.”
“That’s just insane. I mean, how it happened.”
Alastair tosses away his cigarette and joins us. “Bad majumbo,” he says and nods towards the hole.
No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.
73,000 Words
YA Thriller (with light sci-fi elements)
PITCH
Sixteen-year-old Travis has two obsessions: surfing and plane crashes.
When his father, an expert on electromagnetism, is lured to a Caribbean island to determine if a mysterious magnetic machine that a billionaire constructed is linked to a recent plane crash, Travis naturally begs to tag along.
A plane crash is bad enough, but shark attacks, crazed monkeys, ginormous sinkholes, and rumors that the deceased billionaire used the machine to conduct brain-wave experiments on people—including his own autistic son—are downright terrifying.
Teaming up with the daughter of an island businessman and her West Indian surfer friend, Travis helps his friends race to find the missing teenage son of the billionaire—the one person who understands the true horrors of his father’s research—before Travis’s father starts testing the machine, unwittingly unleashing a tsunami of destruction.
First Five Pages:
CHAPTER ONE
I think about surfing and plane crashes a lot. You could say they’re obsessions of mine. I’m fanatical about surfing and fascinated by plane crashes. Which is why I’m here on the island, dripping in the full-court press of heat and humidity, staring at the ocean. This is the Atlantic side of the island, not Caribbean. Offshore winds and epic breaks rule this side. A surfer’s wet dream.
Or, not a surfer’s wet dream. Out there, the remains of Flight #111 are scattered across the sandbar like a museum installation piece, an abstract sculpture of carnage.
“It’s a lot to take in,” my father says, placing a hand on my shoulder and turning me away from the ocean and back to the sinkhole.
No one speaks for a minute. The hole is freaking awesome, but I don’t say that out loud. Besides, I’m supposed to be here for a reason. A scientific reason. Time to put on my game face. I brush back my sun-bleached brown hair from my eyes and try to think of something brilliant and scientific to say. Scientifically brilliant. God, maybe I should have gotten a haircut before I came so I’d look more serious student and less sixteen-year-old surfer dude.
I take out my cellphone while the Minister talks to my father about the latest detailed imagery for the site. He points a finger at me. “No photography allowed, young man.”
Like the plane crash, this giant sinkhole has been on the international news, so there’s no need to snap a photo. When it first happened, footage taken from a helicopter was broadcast to the whole world.
But it isn’t just the hole, which is amazing enough by itself, it’s also who got sucked into it. It’s what is being pieced together in that newly-built warehouse off to our left. The one heavily guarded by the military.
On this billionaire’s cliff top compound, behind hi-tech security gates, near a humongous mansion, not far from a heli landing pad and the Vegas style pool, is the site where Peter Knightsbridge’s personal laboratory used to stand.
The lab got sucked into a big black hole in the ground.
Along with Peter Knightsbridge.
And the weird-ass machine he was building.
In the ocean, Flight # 111 lies scattered across a sandbar.
Equations to be solved.
This morning, upon final approach before landing, my father had leaned over, tapped my shoulder and pointed to the debris field In the ocean. Before I could think of something sympathetic to say, he turned away and blinked and the moment was over.
My father went back to contemplating laws of thermodynamics in his head as they related to the mechanical failure of a widebody 767 while I escaped into my earbuds and stared at my hand.
To my father, the plane crash and deaths are tragic, but they’re also an equation to be solved. Just as the machine is. It’s the reason we came to Barbados.
But I have my own equation to solve—one that involves periodically staring at the ink drawing on the back of my hand.
Last night, Jess and Declan had stopped by our house while I was packing. Jess isn’t exactly my girlfriend—I’m working on that—and Declan isn’t the kind of friend to drop by and wish me a bon voyage. At least I don’t think he is. I’ve only known him a few months, the same as Jess. In the few months I’ve known Jess, I’ve watched her draw wherever and whenever she feels like it on whatever surface is available: napkins, notebooks, chalkboards, bulletin boards, desks. Exposed body parts. I’m pretty sure she tags lockers and walls, too, even though I haven’t witnessed that firsthand. Jess is kind of a vandal. A cute one.
I’d spent the better part of the flight trying to decipher the meaning behind her cryptic ink drawing. I figured if I stared at it long enough it would tell me whether I’m still in the friend zone. At the very least, I’d hoped it would give me a clue as to whether there was something going on between her and Declan. The way they showed up at my house together made me suspicious.
Maybe I’m just paranoid. Lately, my thoughts have been a dark space of negativity. Kind of like this island.
This morning at the airport, the full extent of the emptiness hit me. The line at Immigration? We breezed through. The duty-free shops and kiosks? Half of them shuttered. The only movement was a lone baggage carousel on the other side of the immigration line, snaking around, readying itself to spit out our luggage.
It’s to be expected—our plane wasn’t even half full. Despite the doomsday feeling, I was fine. Calm, even. My internal radar should have been going haywire but wasn’t.
Ever since that day in the middle of my junior year when my dad and mom announced we were moving across the country, I’ve been in a very dark place. So, yeah, I’m embracing this desolation, this weirdness. I’m embracing the shit out of it. My begging to tag along on this trip just might be the best idea I’ve had in a long time.
If I want to know what’s happening on this hellish island, I need to stick close to my father. Unfortunately, he’s walking away, skirting the perimeter of the sinkhole towards the newly constructed warehouse.
Around us, the compound is a hub of activity: heavy machinery and digging equipment and people come and go. I try to follow but my father indicates for me to wait. The Minister’s entourage, two young black men, hang back with me.
One of them mimes throwing a ball into a basket.
Okay, I get it. I’m tall. And unlike the rest of my family, sports are my thing. “Yeah,” I say. “I play b-ball. You play? Who’s your favorite? And don’t say LeBron.”
The guy shakes his head no to my first question and answers “Jeremy Lin” to my second. Only, it sounds like “Jar-uh-me Lean.”
I love this accent. Girls back home would be all over this accent. More importantly, Jess would be all over this accent.
“Actually, I’m more into football and soccer. Which probably sounds funny to you guys since they’re the same thing for you, right? By the way, I’m Travis.” I’m not sure whether to offer a handshake or fist bump. “I didn’t catch your names. Sorry, I was a little out of it at the airport.”
“Nigel,” he says, showing crooked teeth. “No worries.” He sticks out his hand and gives mine a firm pump. The other guy introduces himself as Alastair.
Cool. British-sounding names to go with British-sounding accents.
“Dude, that’s one big hole,” I say. I wish I could send a pic of it to Jess. She wanted to see the beach. What would she think about this?
Alastair walks off to the side a few feet and lights a cigarette. He’s not as friendly as Nigel, much more serious.
“Yah, man. You don’t want to get too close.”
“Actually, I would like to get closer. See how far down it goes. How far down does it go?” I ask.
Nigel squints his eyes, as if guessing. “400 meters. About.”
“That’s just insane. I mean, how it happened.”
Alastair tosses away his cigarette and joins us. “Bad majumbo,” he says and nods towards the hole.
No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.
I really like your first page, and your pitch is structurally sound. I think it's missing one thing--more information on why the brain wave experiments are dangerous. As someone who researches both EEG and Transcranial Direct Current Stimulation, I think that research sounds great! So if it's supposed to be frightening and scary, that needs to be in the pitch more, I think. Right now it's not clear how it will unleash so much destruction.
ReplyDeleteYour pitch definitely sets up an interesting story! There are some pretty long sentences, however, that I thought could be broken up so that it flows better. Consider breaking them up like this (just as an example):
ReplyDelete"His father, an expert on electromagnetism, is lured to a Caribbean island to determine if a mysterious magnetic machine that a billionaire constructed is linked to a recent plane crash. Naturally, Travis begs to tag along.
A plane crash is bad enough, but rumors that the deceased billionaire used the machine to conduct brain-wave experiments on people—including his own autistic son—are downright terrifying.
Teaming up with the daughter of an island businessman and her West Indian surfer friend, Travis helps his friends race to find the billionaire's missing teenage son—the one person who understands the true horrors of his father’s research. If they don't find him in time, Travis’s father will test the machine, unwittingly unleashing a tsunami of destruction."
I like your pages, but I think I liked your previous opening better. I'm really confused by setting in the first couple hundred words, especially when you go back and talk about their conversation on the plane. I still think you should start the story with that--the father pointing out the wreckage from the plane window. It's an interesting first image and makes me want to learn more.
Good luck!