Flash Fiction Challenge: I HATE… SOMETHING!!!

Posted byDan Alatorre AUTHORPosted inUncategorized

We all hate something (heck, I hate lots of stuff), but when we are writing, how do we describe that in a character? How do we show that?

Well, you’re about to find out.

00 hate cat 1
Cats know hate.

This week, take a random character from the random character generator and put them into a 500 word scene where HATE is evident.

Maybe your character hates somebody.

Maybe somebody hates your character.

00 hate cat 2.jpg

Maybe the character’s kid hates green beans. And then you fight every freaking lunchtime about it for, oh, say five years! FIVE YEARS. That’s time I’m not getting back, people. And it’s not like she loves carrots, either. Or broccoli. Or squash. No, THAT would all be toooooo easy.

Okay, where was I?

Oh, yeah. HATE.

00 hate cat 3

Well, you get the idea, I think. Here’s your random character generator

http://writingexercises.co.uk/character.php

And HERE are your setting options. Your character is on:

  1. A boat
  2. A mountain
  3. A bus
  4. An airplane
  5. A helicopter
  6. A horse
  7. A subway
  8. A rooftop
  9. A Ferris wheel
  10. top of a dead woman (even I don’t know what I mean with this one.)

Hit the random number generator and see what setting your get for your character! (Set a range first. 1-10.)

http://www.mathgoodies.com/calculators/random_no_custom.html

Tricky, eh? Yeah. Just enough to be difficult without becoming really restraining. I think.

Oh, and when we’re finished – as in, when everybody posts a story involving hate – we’ll ALL have a nice big bucket of paint we can dip into whenever the need arises and hate is called for. So be creative. Broccoli’s been done. Go in a non-vegetable direction. And no cats; too easy.

Kill somebody if you have to, though.

Show me the HATE.

I’m pretty sure this is how Hemingway got his start.

NO CHEATING! One spin of the wheel of fate for your character, and for your setting.

00 hate cat 4.jpg

You know the drill:

  1. Use the Random Character Generator to pick your character and the Random Number Generator to pick your “setting.”
  2. Write a 500 word story that obviously uses both the character and setting. (It can be a little more than 500 if you need it.)
  3. Post your story below in the comments with a link to your blog, where you also
  4. Post it on you blog (No blog? Just copy paste the whole thing here.)
  5. And mention me/this blog and what the heck this is so people don’t think you’ve gone schizo
  6. Read and comment on OTHER people’s entries. That makes it fun. Allegedly.
  7. You have one week. Noon Friday a week from this posting date (sunny, warm Tampa, Florida, USA time) Although the time doesn’t really count. You can be late.

Get after it!

P.S., If YOU have an idea for a writing challenge, let me know! Some of you have been in some good ones before and we can change ’em up to be fun here. Tell me in a comment or use the Contact Me button.

.

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Dan Alatorre is the author of several bestsellers and the hilarious upcoming novel “Poggibonsi: an italian misadventure.” Click HERE to check out his other works.

 

 

 

Published by Dan Alatorre AUTHOR

USA Today bestselling author Dan Alatorre has 50+ titles published in more than 120 countries and over a dozen languages.

70 thoughts on “Flash Fiction Challenge: I HATE… SOMETHING!!!”

  3. Pingback: Flash Fiction Challenge: I HATE… SOMETHING!!! | J.A. Stinger

  5. FIVE YEARS? Wait until she’s TEN and still refuses to eat that stuff! Admittedly mine will eat carrot as long as it’s raw and NOT WET, but she won’t eat anything green, or anything that can be mashed!

    Now for the challenge. I’ll be writing about…

    A restless 60 year-old man, who comes from a poor background, lives in a rough neighbourhood and tends to be a little clumsy.

    On a rooftop!

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        1. I think I forgot this one about undies. Feel free to remind me. Is it a photo caption contest? The best I can remember is what do you call them, because different countries – and different areas of those countries call them different things. But you guys may be talking about something else.

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        1. Brilliant piece of writing…you got the old man in me raving from your first line!

          And as for where I live it was fine until I moved in! But you know better than to take me too literally.

          I guess I’d better do this challenge too…though you’ve set the bar high!

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          1. I like that. I’ll try it on mine but suspect she’s old enough to just throw it at me!! (has never happened yet!)

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  6. I’m going to do the challenge. My subject is a materialistic 44 year old man and since I write in the first person, it’s going to be, well, challenging. He comes from a comfortable background and is clumsy. I guess I can identify with something about him…materialistic? Not owning up to that one. Clumsy? Sometimes. Comfortable background? Maybe. It’s out of my comfort zone but that could be a good thing.
    Annette

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    1. I’m excited to read this! I think a lot of the time what a man or woman would do is the same, so it’s more along the things they’d say or think where the differences come in – but only in general. I read a story by Jenny last night where she never identified the sex of the character (it was a cop/coast guard type person, so I assumed male) and I could have read it as a man or a woman the whole time. To me that just says, write, don’t worry. Maybe have somebody call the guy “sir” in the beginning or something, but I’d say let loose!

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  7. I’m tempted to qualify this or make excuses for this little story, but I won’t. I won’t say anything. Here it is.

    Matt glanced up from his phone. “Yeah, that’s probably long enough,” he said to no one. He stood from the bench and stomped his feet as he stuffed the mobile in his pocket and pulled out his thick gloves.

    Why in the world his girlfriend suggested this, of all activities, to get his mind off of his research, he could not understand. He’d learned to pick his battles, though. After he had insisted on missing an “important dinner date” earlier in the week, he’d taken Amanda’s tone of voice as a hint that he should probably just “get out of the apartment for some fresh air—maybe take a hike,” as she had put it.

    He did take in the view. That is, he glanced around and saw that there were trees and clouds and birds and a valley filled with more trees and streams and birds. Really, though, that was about all there was to it. The crisp breeze blew a dead leaf right into Matt’s face, and he grimaced as he shook it off and used a sleeve to wipe away whatever residual dirt and bug excrement it had left.

    As he made his way down to the trail, he reminded himself that within an hour he would be back indoors, warm and, most importantly, near his computer again. All he had to do was make his way down the mountain, avoiding the hazards of the outdoors. He’d already hit one spider web on his way up. He shuddered just thinking about it.

    Matt began planning out his evening. The first thing he’d do, of course, is plug in his phone. All the fresh air had drained his battery. A hot shower and pizza to follow, perhaps, to get the chill out of his bones. Oh, and beer. He made a mental note to stop at the corner store on his way back.

    His car was covered in bird poop, he noticed, and it was the only car in the lot. Most people obviously had sense enough to stay inside these days. He reached for the handle, expecting the car to detect the keys in his pocket and unlock the doors, but it didn’t work. He had to actually take his keys out of his pocket and unlock the door himself, like he’d had to do as a teenager and like his parents still did. He got in and hit the push to start button. Nothing happened.

    “Why am I not surprised?” he groaned. He dug out his phone and called Amanda. “Hey, Love. Yeah, I feel refreshed. Uh, a problem, though. Car’s dead. I don’t know. No, I didn’t leave the headlights on. They’re on automatic, still. Well, no one is here to jump start me. I know. Sorry. Look, why don’t you come out and give me a jump, and we can go out to eat or something? Okay. Thanks, Babe. Love you.”
    Matt sighed and gave a little chuckle. At least he was inside, now.

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  9. Dan, I have one ready. It has an image on it. Do I bring it here? At this point it is in draft. I’ll post tomorrow. Do I post here as well as in my blog? I think the instructions say to post here, but I don’t want to take too much room. I didn’t write the exact description of the character and I don’t know how to find it. It was a rich 25 year old living a long way from home who misspoke in some fashion,and the setting was Ferris wheel.

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  10. You can copy past the words of the story; I don’t think the image will come through. You can link to it somewhere or send it to me using the Contact Me button and I’ll see about posting it. We’ll get it figured out!

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  11. Pingback: Flash fiction about HATE! I hate modern-day youth #amwriting #FlashFiction @savvystories | Tess M Garfield

  12. Okay this is what I got…though sorely tempted I’ll resist the obvious ending to what would be a very short story!

    Character
    A decisive 70 year-old woman, who comes from a comfortable background, lives in a seaside villa and tends to talk too much.
    Setting
    On a mountain

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  13. Pingback: Flash fiction challenge: Accidental murder | AngieTrafford
  17. Pingback: Flash Fiction: The Crowd | Allison Maruska
  19. Pingback: The Subway « Firestorm

  20. Character: A caring 52 year-old woman, who comes from a wealthy background, lives in a seaside villa and tends to a huge collection of pot plants.

    Setting: subway

    Stella stopped halfway through the door when she saw the graffiti scrawled on plastic advertisements, debris littering the floor and stains she preferred not to identify on the orange cloth seats.

    “You have got to be kidding me,” she said.

    There were two others in the subway car: a very young white girl sitting next to an elderly black man. Something about his eyes caught Stella’s attention. He was trying to warn her about something. Her skin crawled with the god-awful sensation of sweat trickling down the back of her neck. She was suddenly and brutally aware of her diamond earrings, the semi-business attire from Saks and her Coach everything. She wanted to wipe the Smashbox makeup from her face, rip out her earrings and hide under one of the plastic seats. She would somehow ignore the litter underneath. She would find a way to scrunch her wiry frame under there. She would hide.

    While she was trying to figure out why she wanted to hide, it occurred to her to run. There would be another subway along, wouldn’t there? Didn’t they run all night? But the man’s eyes… The door hissed and closed behind her. A boxy voice squawked something through tin speakers. The hum of the electric rail heaving tons of steel from the station settled straight into her bones.

    Then darkness, barely permeated by the dull yellow lights on the walls. The girl stood up. “Oh hell yes,” Stella heard the girl say. “Today is my lucky day.” The gun came out of nowhere. Stella recognized it – a Cobra Arms Freedom .380. How odd she thought. She was overwhelmed by the searing ache that felt like somebody had thrust a lamp pole through her gut. All sound ceased. Her ears were ringing and all she could hear was her own heartbeat, frantically trying to keep up with the flow of blood from her wound. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a scream. She thought it might be hers. Something was tugging at her coat. Something pulled the purse from her hand. Her ears stung when the earrings were ripped from her lobes. She felt cold now. Stripes of white light flashed between long stretches of darkness as the subway zoomed through a long tunnel. She focused all her attention on them and counted each one.

    The old man came towards her. He planted his cane on the floor, leaned on it hard enough to make it wobble and then slid one foot forward, moving just inches. Stella was starting to get mad, but then she saw the man’s eyes again. They told her, I’m sorry. This is as fast as I can go. Tears streaked down his face, telling her, Don’t go yet.

    Stella had something to say at that point. It was important. Even if they were her last words, she was determined that at least this old man would hear them.

    The man finally arrived and knelt down next to her. She reached up with one hand and clutched at his shirt. She tried to pull him down, but she had no strength left. He understood. He leaned in close to hear what she had to say.

    Stella took in a long raspy breath and spoke with a croaking whisper. “I really hate the subway.”

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  21. Ok here’s my story but I think my hate is not very hateful. Oh well, anyway, the subject is a 44 year old man from a comfortable background in a country cottage. He’s clumsy and on a horse.

    The Imprint of her Lips

    The horse tried to kick me. She didn’t like me. No one liked me today or had a smile. Well, not everyone. My mother approached, and she was smiling. It turned into a smirk when she took the horse from me. “She tried to kick you right?”
    Mothers were always right. I nodded. I was forty four but when she spoke to me the forty part disappeared. “Your girlfriend is in the house.”
    Panic. “You’re joking. Why?”
    “Your father is mixing drinks. She drove up with him.”
    “Oh no.”
    “What’s the matter? She is still your girlfriend, right? Go in and say hello.”
    “I can’t.”
    She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look that I first saw probably just out of the womb. “Do you want to explain?”
    “I’m supposed to be here convalescing.”
    “From what?”
    I pointed to my neck, to the thing I hated most in the world, the thing that my parents, my sister, my ex wife, my present girlfriend and probably the horse hated as well. The thing my friends teased me about, that casual acquaintances tried to rub off before they discovered it was permanent. It was the imprint of her lips. Lisa Fellini’s lips tattooed forever on my neck. The thing that seemed so sexy at age nineteen, dead drunk, and not so much now. The thing that Madeline thought that I had had removed, ah, yesterday. The thing she teased me about, tortured me about actually.
    “From what? Taking that stupid thing off finally?” Mothers knew everything. “Why didn’t you do it, then?”
    I looked at my shoes. “You know why.”
    “Oh, right.” The ice melted and she was back to being my mother, not a woman’s advocate. “What are we going to tell Madeline?” Now we were on the same side.
    “Not the truth.”
    She shrugged. “Why not? The truth is not so bad. I can explain if you want.”
    More panic. “The only thing more embarrassing about having a pain tolerance of zero is having your mother explain it to your girlfriend.”
    “Then you tell her. Dad and I will clear off and you can have a little talk. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
    Understand? From a woman who was beautiful, had killer legs, turned down every man in the office, most with a scathing comment, who wouldn’t speak to me for six months because I was the “boss’s son” and to whom I promised that the offending lips would be gone? Not a chance. This was it, the last day of our short romance.
    “Come on. It can’t be that bad.” Mother was definitely from another generation.
    Madeline was smiling at my dad. She held a martini, those legs crossed at just the right angle. She belonged to the five percent of the population who could wear spandex attractively. Dad was looking, before my mother tapped his shoulder and they left us alone, mumbling a lame excuse.
    She tilted her head, her eyebrows raised. The lies flooded into my head. The plastic surgeon was hit by a bus, the equipment exploded, aliens had…OK, not aliens.
    “Why didn’t you do it?” Her voice was soft.
    I touched my neck. Should have put a bandaid on. I wanted to take her martini and drain it. I bit my lip and sat down. “Because I’m a coward, and a big baby when it comes to pain.”
    That was it. She was going to break up with me, take her legs and go. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and then a miracle happened. She touched my cheek, her fingers cold from the glass, leaned toward me, and laughed.

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  22. Pingback: Flash Fiction Challenge…Hate! – Believing Sight Unseen

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