This exercise is about conflict. The conflict has to be external (Honey, there's a bear at the door). The problem should be significant (Honey, It's huge). The problems should be pressing (Honey, I think it's trying to get in). And it should force your character to act (Honey, do something!) The character should have internal conflicts that affects their ability to deal with the external conflict.
Also, as an extra challenge, I omitted the quotation marks to see if I could render legible dialog without them. Enjoy.
This grocer is a little pig of a man with a chubby pink face on a bald pink head. Behind the counter with him, his two children could be wadded up bubble gum, their faces sticky with sweets. I might want to strike him, this grocer, but I do not. I cannot for the calluses on my hands prevent my balling up of a fist. Sometimes I’m full of hate, but I do not show it because my children must know their father is a righteous man. Still I inwardly curse him for his sneering eyes. I curse him for the way he makes me feel small in front of my son and daughter. Can this man not see that I work hard? Can he not see that he and I are the same, that he and I are both fathers trying to provide for their families? That we share a common humanity? Surely he can see my children and their shabby state, their hunger. I have money, I do. And I appeal to his compassion. But he dismisses me: We do not sell loaves of bread on installments. His children giggle. Excuse me, he says, but I have paying customers to attend to. But I have money, I say as he turns away. I hold up my last crumpled dollars. He turns back and for a moment watches me. At the sight of my children he snorts. He steps toward me and I sense he might give me something, some scraps, anything for which I will gladly pay him. He leans across the counter and speaking softly into my ear says, Convince me. Beg for it. Please, Sir, I whisper back, Take my money. It is all that I have. On your knees, he says. He leans away from the counter again, arms crossed in anticipation of my humiliation. I look down at my children. Their eyes are eager and bright with hope. Maybe daddy will provide today. Maybe for one night we can be full and content. This grocer does not want my money; a few dirty dollars are nothing to him. He wants the pleasure of my dignity stripped away. And what is the cost of that? Is it worth this one loaf of bread to have a seed of doubt forever planted in the minds of my children? How can my children respect their father when they see him reduced to begging? I feel the heat rising in my face. My legs feel like they may buckle, but I remain standing. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is tight, and I choke on my words before I finally say, Never. Get the hell out of my store, the grocer says, and take your dirty spawn with you. His children giggle again. The grocer reaches in to a jar by the register and pulls out two pieces of candy. His children grab them with greedy hands. Outside the store I need a moment to breathe. I might want to cry, but I do not because my children must know their father is a strong man. In the window the grocer’s two children are staring out at my two children, sugar stuffed in their sadistic faces. I take my two children’s hands and start walking them down the street. Where we’re going, I don’t know. Daddy? my son says. You said that man would help us, but he didn’t help us. How come? Because, dear, that man doesn’t love Jesus. Is he going to hell? Yes, son, he is going to hell.
