Story Sample 4: Electric Yearning
(5 min read) A sci fi by Lee thorne
You should read this if:
You enjoy a "wake up in the dark" mystery that drops you straight into the deep end.
You appreciate a protagonist with a sharp tongue and a healthy dose of skepticism.
You love the tension of not knowing who to trust
Sci-Fi | Isolation | Artificial Intelligence | Survival
Marlowe Reid is forty, a Taurus, and currently the only person awake on the S.S. Genesis. Instead of the smooth transition promised in training, Marlowe finds a silent, tomb-like cryogenics bay and an AI named Pax who is far too sarcastic for comfort. As a pathologist, Marlowe is prepared for microbes, not nuclear meltdowns, which begs the question; why was he woken up?
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Chapter 1
The Reader's Sample | Electric Yearning Chapter 1
“Emergency Lazarus procedure initiated. Please remain seated until all undesirable side effects have subsided. Do try to keep hysterics to a minimum while waiting. Thank you!” Strong Cold Open: dry corporate/sardonic PA voice instantly signals tone and stakes before we even know who's talking.
Jolted out of sleep by the voice, I sat up only to bash my head off a smooth, curved surface. Groaning, I lifted a hand to my forehead. Despite their dimness, the lights still made me squint as if emerging from some hole after a decade underground. Where was I? My mind remained frustratingly blank. Okay, so what did I know? I knew my name (Marlowe Reid), and my age—approaching forty and adding to the proof it wasn't complete amnesia was the sad fact I could remember my star sign. It's Taurus, if anyone cares. Efficient Voice-Driven Info Delivery: the parenthetical name drop plus the snarky "if anyone cares" tag makes what's basically a stat dump feel like personality instead of a data sheet.
White sheets, white bed, white interior. Fuck, I better not be dead. Exhaling sharply, I almost laughed. The inside of my pod was reminiscent of a hospital bed; the gown I was wearing didn't disprove my hypothesis. There was just enough clearance for me to lean up on an elbow to peer out of a small viewing port above me. The room beyond was also white (go figure) with gleaming chrome accents—like my pathology lab: sterile. Clean Visual: sterile visual, three beats, no fat on it. Lampshading Repetition: "white" shows up 5 times across this opening (sheets/bed/interior, "also white," "white terrycloth" later) but the self-aware "(go figure)" and later "(you guessed it)" lampshade the repetition instead of letting it read as accidental. turns a potential weakness into a voice tic.
The S.S. Genesis.
The name jumped to mind and everything else clicked into place. A cryogenics pod; I'm on a space mission. What did they say during training? Right. Red button—just at hip level—as promised. I slapped it. With a dramatic hiss, the top of the pod slid open. Real sci-fi shit. Sitting up was a mistake. I got a headrush so bad that fireflies danced in my darkening vision. Good Voice Break: undercuts the sci-fi wonder with a shrug.
“Emergency Lazarus procedure completed. Your suppressed histrionics are appreciated. Please make your way to the bridge.”
It wasn't the standard emergency announcement from my training sessions; this voice was much too sardonic with a pitch so ambiguous I couldn't tell if it was male or female. Everything is fine. After all, no one was screaming, no alarms were blaring and nothing seemed to be on fire—so far, so good.
But why am I the only one awake?
On either side of me, the rows of other pods remained dark, showing no signs of activation. The room might as well have been a tomb. Silent—save for the faint hum of the ship joined by the occasional creak of metal right on the edge of my hearing like a building settling in for the night. Solid Atmosphere: "tomb" simile earns its keep against the earlier hospital comparison.
“Looks like it's just going to be me.”
Sighing deeply, I tucked a copper curl behind my ear. The air settled over my skin like a fine, wet, silk sheet making me shiver violently enough that my teeth chattered. Rubbing my hands together briskly, I tried to bring back sensation to my fingertips. The emergency lights were on—that's why the room was so dim. Something's not right. My stomach clenched. Stacked Similes: stacked similes doing similar work back to back. "settled over my skin like a fine wet silk sheet" already lands the sensory chill, "shiver violently enough my teeth chattered" restates the same cold in a second image right after.
“Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?”
“How astute of you.” Dry AI Voice: great dry AI voice, lands the personality in four words.
Jumping at the sudden thundering voice, I looked around for the source—mistake number two. A wave of vertigo swept through me, flooding my mouth with spit. Bending quickly over the edge of the pod, my body attempted to violently eject the contents of my stomach—luckily for me, there wasn't anything to throw up. My palm rasped across my chin as I wiped the drool clinging to my bottom lip. Callback Structure: "sitting up was a mistake" earlier gets retroactively numbered here, turning a one off line into a running bit without ever explicitly saying "mistake number one." Physical Grounding: grounds the fear physically instead of just narrating "i was scared." good instinct.
“Who said that?” I demanded with a frown. “Who's there?”
“Hi there! No need to panic,” a voice chimed through the myriad of speakers scattered throughout the large room, creating a faint echo. It was the same pompous voice from the earlier announcement. Of course it was. Just my fucking luck. “I am the ship's Programmed Artificial Intelligence Navigation Support system. I don't particularly care for the acronym, so you can call me Pax instead. The life support is currently powered by a limited supply of auxiliary fuel. Assistance with the on-board reactor would be most appreciated. Please join me on the bridge after you get dressed.” Mechanical Plot Dump: this is a lot of plot mechanics landing in one breath. name, acronym joke, fuel status, and the ask all stack in a single speech. the AI's stilted formality justifies some of the info-dump feel since it reads as "customer service voice," but it's still the densest patch of pure exposition in the chapter so far.
Suddenly all too aware that my gown was open in the back, I reached down and yanked the fabric together—this certainly wasn't covered in any of the training manuals. Frozen. I didn't know how to react. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I tried to formulate a response despite how far off script we were. The puzzle pieces didn't fit no matter how much I fiddled with them. Man, I'm in way over my head. Confusion and cognitive dysfunction were expected side effects of the reanimation process, but even still, I could tell more was at play. Grounding Detail: good grounding detail, keeps the scene physical after the exposition dump. Fragment Choice: fragment used well here, mirrors the mental stall it's describing. Worn Metaphor: "puzzle pieces didn't fit" is a pretty worn metaphor for confusion, doesn't hit as hard as the sharper voice moments elsewhere in the chapter. Mild Telling: states the "something's off" feeling that the pods-in-the-dark and dim-lights details already showed us a few lines earlier.
“Uh, sure…” I managed stupidly after a moment. As a pathologist specializing in virology, I was brought on board to study new alien microbes and their associated illnesses, not nuclear technology. How the hell am I supposed to help? I'm just a lab rat. Why was there such a gap between my expertise (not to sound cocky, or anything) and the situation? I wasn't sure if I should trust the A.I, but ignoring it ran the risk of jeopardizing the mission. There was only one thing I could think of that would cause a nuclear reactor to lose power. Resume Drop: this is the classic "as a professional who does X" self-explainer. it's internal monologue rather than spoken dialogue so it's less clunky than an as-you-know-bob exchange, but it's still a full resume dropped in one sentence right when tension should be climbing, not pausing for job description. Self-Deprecation: good voice, keeps the self-deprecation consistent. Generic Conflict: fairly generic statement of internal conflict, "wasn't sure if I should trust it but ignoring it was risky" reads more like a summary of a thought than the thought itself.
“A meltdown?”
“Oh, nothing so dire! But, it does require prompt attention.” Comedy Beat: classic benign violation comedy beat. reader braces for catastrophe, AI shrugs it off with corporate cheer, the mismatch between stakes and tone is what makes it land instead of feeling like a cop out.
A panel flush with the wall slid open to show off a bunch of identical (you guessed it) white terrycloth housecoats. “Take your pick,” the voice attempted to joke but an edge honed it to a taunt. Yanking a robe off a hanger I shrugged it on as I tried to figure out what, exactly, was wrong with the reactor and—why—I was needed in the first place. Sharp Phrasing: "an edge honed it to a taunt" is a sharp turn of phrase, does a lot of work signalling the AI isn't as harmless as its cheeriness suggests.
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To make high-concept sci-fi feel "real," anchor the scene in visceral physical discomfort.
Instead of focusing on the technology of the "Lazarus procedure," the author focuses on Marlowe’s body: the head-bash against the lid, the metallic taste of vertigo, and the shivering from the cold air.
The Takeaway: When writing extraordinary situations, use ordinary sensations (pain, nausea, temperature) to bridge the gap for the reader. If the character’s body feels it, the reader believes it.
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