By now you’ve heard of my next release, Superheroes and Bakeries, which is available for pre-sale on Amazon. The will be released December 19th!

Below is the opening scene of the book, which hints at everything to come. An opening scene is the most complex piece to write in a novel. It contains many facets. There needs to be energy to engage the reader. There needs to be the ‘before’ snapshot. This is the main character’s life before the inciting incident that pushes them forward into the change they need. There are also hints at everything that will come in the story. Most readers might not be aware of this, but a good opening predicts the rest of the novel. So what causes readers to read? The stakes. The conflict. The desire to know how everything will work out. The relatable character. And more!

Enjoy this opening scene to Superheroes and Bakeries.

The scent of warm yeast filtered through the air. I leaned against the stove; the soothing heat was comforting. Only a few minutes left for the cinnamon buns. My hands rested on the handle, and trickles of my power permeated the baking rolls. They were almost ready.

My power sensed the chemicals and their compounds within each roll. As a baker, I used my power when mixing the ingredients to ensure perfect chemical reactions and combinations. My power wasn’t limited to baking, though; I could sense the chemicals of all things, including living things like people, animals, and plants. I even sensed the chemical compositions of my hair product, soap, or the wax in the candles. But my power worked best with baked items. Or perhaps baking is where I used my power the most.

My power informed me that the texture of the cinnamon rolls would be a melt-in-your-mouth softness with a golden-brown crust. I swallowed the saliva filling my mouth.

The ability to sense these connections in baked goods went back as far as I could remember. I couldn’t pinpoint a time when a mere touch hadn’t alerted my awareness of the ingredients or the quality of a product.

Before Mom’s death, she’d entertained me with stories from my early childhood. Apparently, as a baby, Mom would give me a cookie, and seconds after grasping the morsel, I would either gnaw on the treat or toss it. At the time, Mom thought I was fussy, but after a few years and a few experiments, she knew I’d been born with power.

Voices interrupted Rachel Platten’s Fight Song playing on a radio app from my phone. It was the hourly news report. I could have just put on a favorite playlist, but I liked the mixture of songs and voices in the background when I baked. Remnant words from Rachel Platten’s song burrowed through my thoughts. I scowled.  

“Take back my life? Yeah, right.” I muttered. “You do you, Rachel. And I do me.”

I kept my life focused and didn’t socialize much. Part of it had to do with the odd hours bakers kept, and part of it was intentional. I’d never been one for large groups, even in school. Perhaps that’s why I only had one close friend. My life was just fine, simple, and uncomplicated. It was perfect.

I ran my fingers over a boring black binder that sat on the counter next to the fridge. It was filled with dividers between ideas, financial plans, budget projections, recipes, and more. If I had to fight for something, it would be to open my own bakery. That was my dream, and each step was tucked away in the unassuming binder. The dream was a huge reason for my spartan social calendar, and the rest of my life focused, simple, and uncomplicated.

I’d even registered the name of my bakery, Sweet Dreams, with the government and had active Instagram and Facebook accounts featuring my creations, plus a website dedicated to some of my recipes. People often sent DMs asking if they could make orders. But I didn’t do that. When I was ready, I’d consider it. Some people even asked if they could find me at local markets. I’d visited a few, but they were overrun with jewelry, knit and crochet items, or baked goods. 

I sighed. Opening Sweet Dreams Bakery was a one-day dream, not a today dream. I patted the boring black binder. When the time was right, everything would be ready.

The timer binged, and I stuffed my hands into a pair of oven mitts. A sweet cinnamon scent oozed from the golden rolls as I placed them on a cooling rack. I quickly patted each roll, pouring a little more of my power into the treats, ensuring each was baked to perfection.

Humans with power were a recent phenomenon. Some scientists believed a change in the genetic makeup of humans caused people to suddenly develop powers during their teens or, as in my case, to be born with power.

Some people, usually those who tilted towards conspiracy theories, thought power was a result of vaccinations that altered DNA. I wasn’t sure which theory I believed, and for the most part, I didn’t really care which theory might be correct.

Perhaps it was an alien species in the sky infusing people with power, like in Brandon Sanderson’s The Reckoners novel series. Though unlike the novels, there was no ominous and unexplainable red blob dangling amongst the clouds. I peered out the balcony window of my apartment to confirm. Yep, clear blue, bright sun, and no clouds, red or fluffy, in the autumn sky.

“In other news, Police Chief Jones stated that the supernatural known as, The Wolf, attacked another victim last night.”

I cringed. From speculation, people guessed The Wolf’s power gave him shifting abilities, but that was nothing more than a hypothesis. News over the past few weeks carried information about him. Or more accurately, news of his victims. Thankfully, the supernatural hadn’t killed anyone, yet.

I watched the cinnamon buns cool. It wasn’t exciting.

Unlike others with power who chose the hero path or the villain path, my power was essentially useless when it came to helping or harming society. Unless creating amazing baked goods counted as saving humanity. Which, let’s be honest, how could a deliciously perfect, soft, gooey chocolate chip cookie not stop a villain from their path of destruction? Maybe I should stuff my pockets with baked goods so if The Wolf attacked, I’d have something to offer as a distraction.

Criminals utilizing supernatural powers had risen in the last decade, but so had various organizations trying to play the role of superheroes. These groups often lacked leadership and functioned more like vigilantes, causing harm rather than good. The most recent, and perhaps the only successful organization, was the Supernatural Response Team, or SRT. They worked in partnership with law enforcement.

Oddly, every member who worked for the SRT had a fairy tale themed code name with Snow White, the founder, heading the organization. There’d been recent interviews on the news with The Hunt’s Man, Mulan, and Snow White. Mulan always stood in the back with her hood up and never commented. The Hunt’s Man, when giving interviews, also pulled his hood over his head.

“The Hunt’s Man gave this word of caution when we interviewed him earlier.” The reporter’s voice stopped, and a deeper baritone took over.

“The Wolf appears to follow potential victims into their homes when he attacks. At present, no one has died. He tends to knock out the victim and then search their home. It is unclear if these attacks are merely a ravenous appetite that he needs to learn to control, or if these are attempted break-ins. Police and the Supernatural Response Team are working together. We hope to catch The Wolf soon. For now, it is recommended to walk with others and make sure your doors are securely locked.”

I leaned against the counter and tapped my finger on my black binder. There was something off and something telling about The Hunt’s Man’s update. He said The Wolf searched people’s homes, but also that The Wolf had a ravenous appetite. Did The Wolf focus solely on invading people’s homes to eat their food? That seemed odd.

The radio announcer’s voice came back on, but I turned off the app. It was nearing noon, and I wanted to visit Grandma. I’d hopefully also have time to meet Jana, my best friend, at her gym later for a workout.

Tomorrow, I’d be up before the sun for my shift at Have Your Cake and Eat it Too Bakery, or shortened to Cake and Eats Bakery. I suspected the owner, Steve, regretted choosing such a long name. When I looked into names for my bakery, I quickly learned that the process could get pricy very quickly.

I had to pay for each submission and each time a name choice was rejected, I had to pay for a new submission. Coming up with an original name took a while, but I’d chosen the best name. This was another reason why my one-day dream needed time. When it was the right moment, I’d open and everything would be perfect.

I left the rolls to cool while I changed. About thirty minutes later, I texted Grandma to let her know I was leaving.

Walking down the sidewalk, I enjoyed the vibrant orange, gold, and red of the leaves overhead. Autum wasn’t for everyone, but I loved it. Perhaps it had something to do with my warm red hair that flowed in waves to my shoulders. Or perhaps it was the beauty of the season and comfortable temperatures.

I headed through the urban forest. There were numerous paths, and most walking paths were covered in wood chips. Given the reports on the morning news about The Wolf, I chose the paved path scattered with joggers and bikers waving around me as they zoomed by. There was a small clutch of young mothers jogging behind their strollers just ahead of me.

I came to a turn off that would take me to Grandma’s on the left. The path on the right led to an open space with a fountain, duck pond, and a children’s play space. I entered the less busy wood chipped path. Cool air greeted me as the trees towered over and blocked out the warm sun. I zipped up my red hoodie and pulled the hood over my loose curls. The bag with the cinnamon rolls swung at my side. The wood chips barely made a shuffling sound under my steps. The branches in the trees around me twitched. I glanced around, turning in a circle. No one was on the path, but a tingle crawled down my spine, leaving me suspicious of lurkers. Was The Wolf hiding in the trees?

This was probably mild paranoia due to the radio report. A small spike of the neurotransmitter, adrenaline, coursed through my system, increasing my heart rate. My breathing came quicker, and I felt ready to run. If he came at me, I’d toss him a cinnamon roll. I glanced down at the bag. Could I sacrifice the whole bag? I could if my life was at stake. Grandma would understand.

“Anyone there?” I called out. When no one answered, I picked up my pace. “Just my imagination. I should stop listening to the news,” I muttered.

There was a slight movement in one of the trees ahead of me. A fat squirrel, well-prepared for its hibernation, darted from beneath one bush and flung across the path. Barely a moment later, a second stuffed squirrel bounded after the first. Both disappeared under a bush and then up into a tree.

I shook my head and vowed to pay less attention to the news.