A taste of Brent’s scary story – The Intruder
The knife. I need to get to the knife. It was the same knife Beth and I used to cut our wedding cake not long ago. And it was there, on the counter of our home… just out of my reach. There was someone in our house. The intruder was dressed all in black, though his face was not covered. Beth was in her bathrobe. Alarm screamed across her face. She was near to tears. My attention was drawn to a bruise across her left check which contrasted sickly against her pale skin and blonde locks. I had to get to that knife.
The man in black drew towards me I was caught stuck between the microwave and toaster, unable to get to that knife. I was frantic now, trapped as I was in the kitchen, my wife beyond my capacity to save. But I had to do something. I suppressed my fear and replaced it with a growing, boiling rage.
I burst forward, leaping through the air towards my assailant. I seemed to hover over him. I would have collapsed down on him, if it were not for a quick stab of white-hot pain. It crackled over my whole body. I felt shock and then went still for a moment before my anger burst forth again, overcoming the agony until the whole room started spinning out of control.
The man in black must have stabbed me, but I couldn’t tell with what. The lone lightbulb which hung on a cord above him swung wildly, spotlighting the dim room’s cheap particle-board furniture. I swung along with it. Then, the lightbulb exploded, showering the room in luminescent sparks while glass shards stabbed into the yellowing linoleum.
A Bite Of… Brent A. Harris
Q1: You know you want to…. Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?
Only a very little. It’s probably not what you think. That’s all made up. The real stuff, the therapy, is all hidden inside Easter eggs that only I know. I’m like an onion. In that I have many layers, I can make you cry, and I smell.
Q2: Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?
Not yet, but there have been some un-named people *Ricardo Victoria, Stephen Hunt, Rob Edwards* that have dangled precariously close to the edge. Not that I would name names. I owe Stephen Hunt a particularly grizzly death scene.
Q3: You are at a dinner party. Name the four people living, dead or fictional you would least like to be sitting with.
Probably just about any politician, actor, or celebrity. I don’t do fake. I like real people who are probably (hopefully) just as petrified of everyone else as I am. And most of all, I can’t stand authors who make up answers to interview questions in a vain attempt to score humour points. Awful.
In between herding Nasutoceratops and breaking in Allosaurs, Brent A. Harris writes about things that were, things that are, and some things that have not yet come to pass. His current work in progress is a horror novel about a house that wants to kill you.