Love Takeover

I'm in the process of tidying up my files on my PC before moving over to a new desktop unit, all thanks to Windows 10 no longer being supported. To be fair, my PC is 8 years old.

Whilst looking through files I found a folder of documents I hadn't sorted from the last time (or possibly the time before then) test I got a new PC. Some of the files were so old that they were written on AmiPro! 

Anyway, amongst these files there were a few pieces of writing. Some were duplicates, others were started-but-nowhere-near-finished half-baked ideas, and, I was pleasantly surprised to find this completed short story. . 

It was an attempt to write a short piece of fiction in the style of Mill & Boon. This was written way back in 1998. It's a bit unpolished, the first few lines bug me (sooo tempted to weak but haven't got the time), but I think it was a first reasonable stab at imitating the genre. However, if I wrote it now I like to think it would A) be better written and B) have characters with more progressive and less dated attitudes. That said, I guess part of Mills & Boon's appeal is the escapism of some devil-may-care Rhett Butler character sweeping a gal off her feet. I'm not sure I would enjoy writing more of this genre, though I'd never say never, of course. 

Love Takeover

Derwent Electronics Limited was a business in turmoil.  Robson Holdings hoisted the board up by its lapels in an unrepentant takeover battle. It was only the tenacity of Sara Derwent holding the company together. She refused to allow any meatball with a pair of socks stuffed down the front of his pants to take it away from her.

Ever since her father, Edward Derwent, died four months ago Sara had fought against the takeover bid from Jack Robson’s asset-stripping organisation, and several other rival companies were also making enquiries about acquiring Derwent Electronics.

The bronzed face across the table was the bidder, so no matter how much Sara felt physically attracted to him, she had to hate him for the sake of her company.

‘So,’ the sound of his big Texan accent hung in the air for a moment while he waited to see if he had everyone’s attention. ‘It seems as though that is everything sorted. Miss Derwent, have you anything you wish to say before our lawyers exchange papers?’

 “Oh, what a gentleman”, Sara remarked sarcastically in her mind. “What a daft accent too”, she thought. “But sexy”, said a little voice at the back of her mind. “Piss off, you stupid sex drive”, Sara snapped back in reply to the little voice. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with my sex drive about that beefcake over there who wants to take my company away from me. Still if things were different....”

Sara felt her cheeks redden, realising she had been standing there silently for several moments with all eyes on her. Regaining her composure Sara re-opened her briefcase in front of her. From within she pulled out a bundle of papers decorated in a flowery bow. Without seeing it she could sense an amused smirk from the man opposite. Obviously, he felt she didn’t belong in the boardroom. This made her even more determined.

Sara tossed the bundle of papers across the table and she surprised herself with the force she had used as they struck Jack Robson in the chest. This time she looked up. The smirk was more like a nervy grin.

‘Here, Mr. Robson,’ she said slamming her briefcase shut.

‘Please, call me Ja...’

‘Mr. Robson,’ Sara cut him off.

He looked stunned at her aggression; No more shocked than she was.

‘Those papers are legal documents obtained from the High Court stopping your company from making any further approaches to Derwent Electronics shareholders until we’ve held our annual general meeting and the issue has been discussed in full. The AGM is scheduled for three months’ time.’

This was the sucker punch Sara had been holding back until the last moment. Now was the last moment. All around the room every physiognomy expressed surprise.

Sara felt powerful suddenly and decided to steal a glance at Jack Robson. His half open mouth was still curled into a partial grin, and rapidly turned into a full toothy grin before he let out a raucous belly laugh.

‘What’s so amusing?’

Sara sensed a delicate sweat forming on her forehead.

‘Nothing really. My apologies. It’s just that you look so damn sexy when you’re aggressive.’

The sweat was more prominent now, but Sara decided not to wipe it away. Why should she be ladylike in the presence of this animal?

Jack’s adviser, Mr. Packard, cleared his throat. ‘Miss Derwent, this is merely delaying the inevitable and you know it. The majority of Derwent’s shareholders will undoubtedly vote to sell to Robson Holdings. This action will only cost us all more money.’

‘That’s what you think Mr. Packard,’ countered Sara as she fought to regain the initiative. ‘Over the next three months I’ll be able to raise enough capital to match your share bid and buy the shares myself.’

Sara licked her lips in anticipation of the victory glass of champagne waiting for her. It would be so sweet to drink, even sweeter if Jack Robson was there to see her....

‘Then I’ll increase my bid and I’ll keep doing so until I have bought this company.’ Jack’s words sent a shiver down her back for all the right and wrong reasons.

“That’s it, I can’t keep this up any longer” Sara thought as tears began to well in her eyes. She had done all she could to keep her company but this Texan cowboy was going to take it away from her just like that. Sara stood up and walked out, allowing tears to flow freely down her face.

Outside the boardroom Sara sat down and cried openly. She did not know what to do now. All her plans centred around the company and.... and.... Sara noticed someone standing over her. It was Jack Robson.

‘What do you want now? The blouse off my back?’ Sara said vehemently.

‘Actually, I have something for you. Your company.’

Sara sat up, unsure of what he meant.

‘Listen, Sara, I never wanted your company. I just wanted you. The only way into a beautiful woman’s heart is to buy her something nice, but I knew the only thing you cared for was this company so I bought it for you. You now own it 100 percent.’

Not knowing whether to hit or hug him, Sara stood up and threw herself into his open embrace. Maybe I should have listened to my sex drive in the first place, Sara pondered as she clung to Jack.

‘I’ve got a non-business merger that might interest you,’ Jack said pulling Sara closer to him and inhaling the delicate fragrance of her hair.

She did not hear him, for his words were drowned out by two beating hearts pounding a rhythm for her sex drive to sing along to.

Hiatus

 No, "hiatus" isn't the title of my latest story, though it might make a cool title (makes mental note).

Sadly, in this case hiatus is an action on my part. Or rather an inaction. For far too long, I've had too much going on in my head, juggling too many things and not achieving any of them. So, something had to give.

And, for the moment at least, I chose to "park" my writing. I don't think it's indefinitely. I hope not. But I needed the mental space to focus on other things. 

You can still buy my books on Amazon, and if somehow you enjoy my writing you can find my almost-monthly column, Mark My Words, on NorfolkPlaces. There is even the occasional story or poem knocked up exclusively for that website, so I haven't given up writing completely!

42 Stories Anthology

A few years ago I contributed a story to potential anthology, which was collecting 42 word-stories under 42 genres, with 42 stories per genre (do, 1764 stories, or 74,088 words).

Without much thought I dashed off an story,  titled Do Vampires Dream Of Shepherds With Sheep? - Rather cleverly, the title was 42 characters long. Hopefully you noticed the title pays homage to Philip K. Dick. 

Anyway, here's the link to the anthology - 42 Stories Anthology 

Note, there is also an e-book version. 

Do Vampire Dream Of Shepherds With Sheep? is under the Vampires section, alphabetical on author surname, story 39. 

A Weighted Method of Measuring Problems

 “You’ve got ninety-nine problems, Mr Jay-Zed?” muttered Art Raymond, as he stared at his own jaded face in the shaving mirror. Background music emanated from a Bluetooth speaker stuck to the tiled wall.  

“That’s nothing; I support Darlington FC, pal. That’s your ninety-nine problems and then some. More like eighteen hundred and eighty-three problems.”

Art tried to hold the razor close to his face but his hand shook violently. Art stared at his feet, focused on his breathing and tried to steady himself.

“Course, that’s just that tip of it. Bad choice of football club, that’s one thing. No woman, no job, living above my parent’s garage, a touch of schizophrenia, an ulcer the size of a rugby ball, no right foot, and all my so-called mates have abandoned me.”

This time the blunted razor touched his cheek but Art sensed another wobble and pulled it away. He swished the razor in the sink as though this would help.

“If there was some kind of proportional, erm, let’s say a weighted ranking system for problems, well, mine would be in the thousands.”

Imitating Jonny Rotten, Art stared at the mirror, clutching a microphone razor and snarled. “Nooooo future. Nooooo future. Nooooo future for me. I mean it, man.”

Perhaps the unshaven look wasn’t so bad Art decided, and placed the razor down and unplugged the sink. The draining water gurgled as the last remnants sucked down the plughole.  

Addressing the mirror again, Art continued, “All this thanks to an annoying daily habit of supping from 2-litre bottles of supermarket own-brand cider. Oh, that and heroin. Definitely the heroin. Leader of a political party material, ain’t I? Well, if I had a full head of hair and most of my own teeth, then maybe.

“Listen, I ain’t comparing myself to Jay-Zed. I can’t. I’m not from the hood. Firth Moor don’t even compare. I haven’t faced racial stereotyping all my life, I had an okay upbringing. I just messed up bad and there doesn’t seem any way to climb out of this. I quite like Beyoncé, mind.”

A sudden urge to scratch an itch on his phantom foot disrupted his introspection for a moment. With a shoe on his prosthesis, this physical disability was hidden. If only the emotional disabilities could be so well covered, Art considered.

Art took one more glance at the mirror, adjusted his tie and said to his reflection, “Good luck, you messed up idiot. You’re gonna need it even more than The Quakers do.”

On his way to the door Art stopped to pick up his keys and stuffed his notes in to his back pocket. He had no idea why he’d been chosen to speak to a delegation of politicians about addiction. It was not even as if Art was free of his dependence. 

As the door creaked closed, Art stopped and pulled the notes out again and scanned the first line: ‘They say talking about your problems is one way to reduce them…’ Art was hooked on this being true. 

Maybe ninety-nine was an achievable number; It’s good to have goals.

---

I found this forgotten short story whilst tidying up my digital writing folders. It was written in 2019 and duly sent away to a short story website, and it would appear that it fell through the cracks as the website in the website's submission process. Oh well. Anyway here it is.