When Reality TV Goes Wrong (a #weekendfreewrite)

Hullo, hullo!

It’s time for @mariannewest’s Weekend Freewrite! 😀 The #weekendfreewrite is made up of three prompts written in three separate five-minute #freewrites and joined together to make a full story.

You can find the prompts (and join in!) here, here, and here. And they have been bolded and italicised in the writing.

The header image used today is CC0 and courtesy of Pixabay!

I’d also just like to note that I haven’t watched Reality TV since the original Big Brother back in 2001, and I haven’t really watched TV at all since…. 2007 or so. For all I know, this actually happens.

(Also, I’d just like to note… if there was ever a free-to-air channel devoted to Japanese gameshows, it would be on ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT. I would never turn it off.)

Anyway. Onward, to mayhem!



“I… no. No, I can’t possibly go.”

“Why not?” Riba asked mildly.

Persephone inhaled slowly, then looked Riba square in the eye.

“You can’t possibly tell me that you want to actually go see monster trucks. It’s too noisy. Wouldn’t rather stay in and watch TV?”

Riba nibbled at her lip, looked at her watch, then glanced at the door.

“You’re right. I can’t stand the noise. But… I need to see *him* again. I was hoping you could be my wing-woman.”

Riba pleaded with big puppy-dog eyes, but Persephone shook her head, collapsed onto the couch, and wrapped her dressing gown tighter about her body. Grabbing the remote, she flicked to the latest reality programme and grinned.

“Come, join me. We can laugh at these fools.”

Riba swallowed and headed for the door.

“I’m sorry, Perse. I must see Tom.”

“Don’t let the monster trucks ravage your brain,” Persephone sniffed, then stared at the blonde bimbos and waited for them to make twats of themselves on national TV.

~ * ~ * ~

The delivery man went into the main hangar. He whistled softly at the vast array of bodies on display. Twenty women dressed in the finest dresses the cheapest designers had to offer paraded in front of an aeroplane and wiggled their fingers, hoping that perhaps their revealing dress would be the one chosen for the plane date.

Persephone rolled her eyes and grabbed another drink. Two ice cubes –no, three– then shake-a-shake-a-shake into the glass.

An engine revved and she almost dropped the glass, her pristine carpet rescued from the blue liqueur in the nick of time. What the hell was that? Her gaze returned to the TV, but the people on the show looked just as confused as she felt.

The plane hadn’t started: the delivery man bachelor guy chosen for this evening hadn’t even chosen a date yet. Suddenly, a monster truck burst into the hangar and this time Persephone couldn’t rescue her glass as it fell from her hand.

Riba was inside, and she looked terrified.

~ * ~ * ~

There was a huge family in the truck with her. Kids and teenagers galore, an elderly couple, and a man who she guessed was Tom. Tom was behind the wheel and he drove the truck up to the plane, its giant wheels trampling everything in its path.

Dating Show Bimbos scattered across the hangar, wailing and shrieking, their overly made-up faces pouring with blackened mascara down their cheeks, and one leapt out of way with a half-moment to spare as the truck smashed into the aircraft.

This suddenly got a lot more interesting.

Grabbing her liqueur bottles, Persephone ignored the shattered glass on the carpet and grabbed a new one from the rack over her shoulder, conveniently placed for such an occasion.

Raising a toast to her unfortunate friend on the TV, she drank deeply and giggled as this reality show went the way of a Japanese gameshow.



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