The fire that fitted on a table

An original narrative about an invented sound-effects rehearsal.

“A larger fire,” the director said from the back of the room.

Lena looked at the objects on her table: a sheet of stiff paper, a handful of dry wrappers and a shallow metal tray. There was no flame. The scene would be heard on a recording, and the actors were waiting for a sound that could persuade listeners to imagine one.

She folded the paper slowly, then crushed a corner close to the microphone. In her headphones, a small crackle spread into a harsh rush. She dragged the wrappers across the tray. The sound became busy and uneven, but still too light. The director held up a hand.

Lena stopped. In the silence, one wrapper sprang open by itself. The microphone caught its single sharp snap. The director pointed towards it.

She tried again, leaving space between the noises. The snaps no longer hurried past one another. Each seemed to come from somewhere inside a much larger sound. The actors shifted back from the table, although everyone could see exactly what was on it.

How does the writer show that convincing sound effects depend on more than making a continuous noise?