New Version in the comments. Thanks for the feedback!
Inconveniently, it came back in the middle of cooking dinner. I poured the Rice a Roni into the beat up sauce pan and tapped my foot as the whole thing failed to actually boil. It was supposed to come to a full boil.
Stupid water never did what I wanted.
I fussed with the burner, turning it up to high. The gas erupted under the pan, roasting the cheap teflon creation. The flames licked up the sides like a dance, gold, blue, orange, red and white. I must have forgotten to wash the pan properly. These tame fires normally only came in blue white and a hint of orange. Prosaic and domesticated.
This fire was like an invitation, a window into an old life.
The crease above my brow deepened as I scowled at the pot. I'd been down this road before. I hadn't called anything from the fire since the end World War II. Fifty years to learn the craft, two weeks to destroy all magic, and 70 years slowly waiting to grow old enough to die.
The gift and the curse.
I turned my back on the pot and packaged rice, hunting for my meds container. If I missed my pills, my damn sugar'd be off and my doctor would probably yell at me again.
I grabbed the glass and stuffed it under the cheap faucet. Stupid assisted living arrangement. Everything was cheap, and they checked on us everyday like we didn't know how to wipe our own butts.
Sometimes I didn't mind.
Sometimes I missed Dorothy.
Last Edit: May 7, 2018 23:21:33 GMT -5 by rena: New version in the comments
Inconveniently, it came back in the middle of cooking dinner. I poured the Rice a Roni into the beat up sauce pan and tapped my foot as the whole thing failed to actually boil. It was supposed to come to a full boil.
Stupid water never did what I wanted.
I fussed with the burner, turning it up to high. The gas erupted under the pan, roasting the cheap teflon creation. The flames licked up the sides like a dance, gold, blue, orange, red and white. I must have forgotten to wash the pan properly. These tame fires normally only came in blue white and a hint of orange. Prosaic and domesticated. You spend too much time getting to what 'it' is. You say 'it came back in the middle of cooking dinner,' and I'm left to assume after reading further that you're referring to old memories. Since you haven't given any hint to what 'it' is, by default it won't be that interesting. It can mean anything, after all, and no one will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it'll be interesting.
This fire was like an invitation, a window into an old life.
The crease above my brow deepened as I scowled at the pot. I'd been down this road before. I hadn't called anything from the fire since the end World War II. Fifty years to learn the craft, two weeks to destroy all magic, and 70 years slowly waiting to grow old enough to die.
The gift and the curse.
I turned my back on the pot and packaged rice, hunting for my meds container. If I missed my pills, my damn sugar'd be off and my doctor would probably yell at me again.
I grabbed the glass and stuffed it under the cheap faucet. Stupid assisted living arrangement. Everything was cheap, and they checked on us everyday like we didn't know how to wipe our own butts.
Sometimes I didn't mind.
Sometimes I missed Dorothy.
I feel like you're using the flames on the stove as just an excuse to give us backstory. As a result, it doesn't feel organic. Instead of getting the impression that your scene is occurring naturally, I'm getting the impression you're just trying to direct my attention toward information you want to show us.
What's the solution? First off, starting your novel off with a segue into backstory will never feel organic. It doesn't matter how finessed it is. You have to make the scene itself that provokes the memory engaging and compelling to distract the reader enough that they won't notice when you feed them backstory along the way. That's going to be very difficult when you start a story off with the protagonist cooking Rice-A-Roni. Is there a point later in the story you can start off with instead? An event that will feel more unique and better reflect why your story is different from all the others out there?
Inconveniently, magic returned as I cooked dinner. I stared at the Rice a Roni tapping my foot. It should take this long to boil. Stupid water never did what I wanted. I fussed with the burner, turning the knob to high. The gas erupted under the pan, roasting the cheap Teflon in flames of gold, blue, and orange. I stared at the fire. Only tame flames lived in the stove, prosaic and domesticated. This fire was like an invitation, a window into an old life. I scowled at the stove. I hadn't called anything from the fire since the end World War II. Fifty years to learn the craft, two weeks to destroy all magic, and 70 years slowly waiting to grow old enough to die. The gift and the curse. I turned my back on the pot and packaged rice, hunting for my meds container. If I missed my pills, my damn sugar'd be off and my doctor would probably yell at me again. I turned back to the stove, and a smear of smoke rose to the ceiling in a single column. More than smoke, I felt the fire, brewing under the pot, curious and lonely. A fire creature! I called the fire, and it rushed back to me, the power filling the gaps of an old life long left behind. The fire slipped from the burner into my hands, taking full form. A dragon, malformed and barely alive, but a true fire creature, nuzzled into my arms with a purr. A purr!
Inconveniently, magic returned as I cooked dinner. (Rena, this first line is intriguing but I feel it could be stronger. By using the word "inconveniently" she almost passes it off casually when actually I imagine it's quite a big deal based on your query. Also, this is telling, not showing. SHOW us how the magic returns from the get go) I stared at the Rice a Roni tapping my foot (this reads like the Rice a Roni is tapping her foot - and also, from the UK, I've no idea what a Rice a Roni is). It should (n't?) take this long to boil. Stupid water never did what I wanted. (like this - although it reads quite youthfully and I thought this was an older witch?) I fussed with the burner, turning the knob to high. (OK, so the previous line makes me think she's using magic to heat the water but now I realise it's a gas burner I sort of wonder what the point of that previous line is) The gas erupted under the pan, roasting the cheap Teflon in flames of gold, blue, and orange. I stared at the fire. (second time she's stared) Only tame flames lived in the stove, (maybe an em-dash here?) prosaic and domesticated. This fire was like an invitation, a window into an old life. (how? what particular aspect of the fire made her think this - I like the line though) I scowled at the stove. I hadn't called anything from the fire since the end World War II. Fifty years to learn the craft, two weeks to destroy all magic (maybe reword, something like "fifty years to learn the art of magic, less than a fortnight to destroy it"), and 70 years slowly waiting to grow old enough to die. (interesting - but how does this make her feel? can we get a sense of her frustration at having no fun, no fire, no magic to play with...and also a hint as to why magic was destroyed?) The gift and the curse. I turned my back on the pot and packaged rice, hunting for my meds container. If I missed my pills, my damn sugar'd be off and my doctor would probably yell at me again. I turned back to the stove, and a smear of smoke (can smoke be a smear?) rose to the ceiling in a single column. More than smoke, I felt the fire, brewing under the pot, curious and lonely. A fire creature! I called the fire, and it rushed back to me, the power filling the gaps of an old life long left behind. The fire slipped from the burner into my hands, taking full form. A dragon, malformed and barely alive, but a true fire creature, nuzzled into my arms with a purr. A purr! (These last two paragraphs are fabulous and I think this is exactly the sort of imagery we need earlier in the text. At the moment, despite such a wonderful premise, I think there's an opportunity to install a bit more of this fabulous voice and promise into the early paragraphs. I love this concept though Rena, keep polishing - I really want you to do well!)