Friday, May 13, 2016

I'm Too Old for This Shh...

About a half-hour ago, I had a run-in with a bizarro author by the name of Vince Kramer. He’d been on my friends’ list for quite a while, but I really didn’t know much about him. Until tonight. Here’s how it went down...

A friend asked me to expand upon my disability (as some of you may or may not know, I suffer from a rare condition of the eyes known as retinitis pigmentosa, which causes one’s vision to slowly, and sometimes rapidly, deteriorate). In turn, this friend confided in me about his lupus diagnosis and how the disease has affected his life. For a while, we had a back-and-forth about our conditions and I found it rather therapeutic. Hope he did, too.

Not long after, I decided to peruse my Facebook timeline, something I almost never do, and I came across a lengthy rant by this Vince Kramer, who expressed how hard life can be when you’re tall, good looking, blond, and well-built. How frustrating it can be when you’re so often wrongly seen as a “womanizing jock asshole” when in reality, you’re actually quite “shy and nice.”

In all honesty, my stomach turned at this. I suffer daily due to my vision loss, as does my friend due to lupus, and this Vince Kramer is whining about being too pretty? Really?? So, I left what I thought was a completely harmless, albeit snarky, comment that read as follows: “And I thought all those starving children in Africa had it rough.” Minutes later, he sends me a DM which read:

“That's a fucking retarded thing to say. Are you fucking retarded? I mean, what the fuck does that have to do with anything? You're an asshole.”

I was initially struck by how inarticulate the message was (this guy’s a published author??). Second, I thought that maybe if I explained things a little better and maybe even apologized for my surly remark, he just might see things from my perspective. But—and I’m sure this’ll come as no surprise—I couldn’t respond because he blocked me. Womp womp.

This has been quite the learning experience, I must say. Suffering daily with diseases like lupus and ailments that cause one to lose a large percentage of their vision is one thing, but when you’re a handsome, broad-shouldered guy who is often judged solely on his appearance, all else simply pales in comparison.



Monday, May 2, 2016

Shattered Goals

About six or seven years ago, I sat down to write a list of things I’d like to professionally accomplish. I wouldn’t call it “a bucket list,” as it doesn’t contain feats of mental and physical strength, like jumping out of an airplane, or climbing Everest. It’s merely a list of around a dozen plateaus I’d hoped to reach as a professional scribe. I’m proud to say I accomplished some of these goals and prouder still that I haven’t accomplished others.

One thing I’d always wanted was to win a Bram Stoker Award for my efforts in fiction writing. I’ve wanted one of these awards so badly and for so long that I printed out a picture of one and tacked it to my cork board as a reminder to work harder and continue plugging away so that maybe I could one day achieve this honor. In the world of horror fiction, having “Bram Stoker Award-winning author” before your name really means a tremendous lot. Or at least it used to.

Another in my list of goals: becoming an active member of the Horror Writers Association. I have no real excuse as for why I never joined. I suppose I continued to allow life and personal projects to get in the way year after year. Needless to say, I’m beyond grateful to never have had any association with the HWA, or the Bram Stoker Awards, especially after some pretty horrific events have been brought to light.

I will not rehash these stories here, as they are not my stories to tell. For those of you unable to quell your curiosities, some minor Internet sleuthing will undoubtedly answer all of your questions. So much has come out about the HWA, the Stokers, and some pretty high-ranking members that I admit I’m ashamed to have ever wanted any part of such a crooked organization. All this time I believed to grasp that brass ring and reach a higher strata occupied by so many authors I’ve respected and admired over the years, these were the steps I must take. Oh, how wrong I was.

I have no interest in winning a Stoker, no interest in reaching this higher strata if being a part of this upper echelon means being what some of these truly detestable people are. So as not to confuse the issue, I want to stress that thee are, in fact, respectable members of the HWA and not everyone involved are of questionable morale. There are enough, however, for me to believe that they are, in fact, corrupt. Therefore, I shall continue to keep my distance.

For now, I will remain dedicated to my craft and keep hoping that one day this dedication pays off. Whether that means landing a contract with a major publisher, acquiring the interest of literary agents, or winning an award presented by a more respectable organization remains to be seen.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology

On this sunny spring afternoon, my excitement knows no bounds. As a matter of fact, I’m positively bursting at the seams and oozing a variety of fluids (I should probably get a new chair).


It is my extreme pleasure to share the news of an upcoming anthology from the delightfully demented minds at Comet Press. The tome, entitled Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology, will contain ten gruesomely over-the-top stories from such authors as Eric LaRocca, Brian Rosenberger, Kristopher Triana, and...ME!


No, I’m not, nor have I ever planned, to be known for writing anything in this particular genre, but part of me wanted to be involved simply to prove that I could do it. When I sat down to pen “Modern Celebrity,” I really tried hard to push the envelope. To write something so insanely twisted that those who know me (and especially those who don’t) would question my mental stability. And apparently, I succeeded, because I made the cut and I’m damn proud of it, especially since the competition was so...well, stiff.


Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology will be released on August 22nd. Until then, whet your insatiable appetites by checking out the tentative table of contents (located here) and please visit the official Comet Press website for news and info on their vast library of sadistic literature.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Pay Phone -- Now Available in a Brand New Revosed Edition!


Pay Phone, originally released by Arctic Wolf Publishing in the spring of 2010, is back in a newly revised edition, which contains a brand new introduction chronicling the evolution of the novel!


Revisit the terrifying story of Jake Taft, a ruthless serial killer who uses a pay phone across the street from his third-story apartment to lure unsuspecting victims into his web, and of Chelsea Summerfield, a struggling actress trying to make it in the big city. By pure happenstance, their paths meet and thus begins a brutal and sadistic thrill ride that will surely leave trembling more and more with every page!


Pay Phone is currently available in both paperback and Kindle editions, but for those of you who just can’t wait, scroll down for an exclusive sneak peak at the novel’s introduction and find out what real-life experiences inspired the story!
An Introduction
Brandon Ford
Fall, 1995. I was fourteen, a freshman in high school. I remember the burning sun and an unseasonable warmth as I stepped out of the subway station to begin a short walk across the park. As I passed a crowded bus stop, I heard a loud, distinctive sound cutting through the air.
A ringing phone.
A pay phone stood mere feet from the horde of teenagers awaiting their mode of transportation. I watched them, watched the phone, certain someone would grasp the receiver before I had the chance. To my surprise, the crowd of more than a dozen youths stood oblivious, or more than likely apathetic. Curiosities piqued, I quickened my pace, so sure the ringing would stop before I’d made it. By then, more than ten rings echoed in the warm, late afternoon air. My overstocked backpack weighing me down, I reached with a tentative hand and grasped the receiver. Lifted it. Placed it to my ear.
“Uh…hello?” I called in a quavering, puberty-laced Peter Brady voice.
Though the woman on the other end of the line spoke in a low, sultry voice, did all she could to come across sensual and seductive, I could tell she was long past her prime. She sounded in her mid-to-late fifties, some trace of a nicotine addiction behind her unusual timbre. I don’t recall how she opened the conversation or which name she asked for, but I know that name belonged to a man. I had my doubts this man existed, even after she displayed a strong sense of surprise when I told her the number she’d dialed was not to a personal residence, but a pay phone just off Broad and Oregon.
I figured our conversation would end there, but it seemed she had other things on her mind and keeping me on the line was obviously part of that agenda. She asked where I’d come from. How my day had gone. If I was alone, or had any friends with me. And finally, how old I was. I gave brief, but polite responses, feeling more than ill at ease. The more she spoke, the more seductive her tone, and that sense of discomfort grew.
I told her I had to go, that I was expected home, but she wouldn’t relent. “I was hoping for a little company today,” she said, breathy and eager. “What would you say if I asked you to come over to my house?”
“Uh…” I stammered, choking on my own words. “I…”
“We could have some fun together,” she went on. “If you’re interested.”
The more she tried to persuade me, the more I wanted to flee. But something held me in place. Something kept me talking. I looked at the small crowd waiting for the bus. Wondered if they knew what was happening. I felt more and more embarrassed just standing there holding the receiver.
“I don’t think… I mean, I…”
And then she said it. The four words that caused me to involuntarily pull my lips back in a tight grimace. The four words that left my eyebrows knitted and nose scrunched.
“Do you like titties?”

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Open Wounds -- Available as a FREE Kindle download for a VERY limited time!

Open Wounds, my demented coming-of-age novel of rape, revenge, and self-abuse, is available as a free download for your Amazon Kindle from now until March 9th!  If you like ‘em dark, twisted, and disturbing, this one’s for you.  It’s The Girl Next Door meets The Bell Jar meets Go Ask Alice.  Am I tooting my own tooter by making such comparisons?  Probably.  But do I give a tiny rat’s ass?  Definitely not.  I worked incredibly hard on this novel and I’m really proud of the end result.  So, head on over to Amazon and pick up your free digital copy (while you can)!

==> CLICK HERE <==

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

That Hoodoo, Voodoo That You Do: A Dark Rituals Anthology

From Angelic Knight Press, That Hoodoo, Voodoo That You Do: A Dark Rituals Anthology is a mammoth tome, featuring nearly 400 pages of spells, witchcraft, and more, penned by some of today's most talented voices in small press horror. Authors include Jeffrey C. Carter, Rose Strickman, Mark Mellon, Jake Elliott, Timothy Baker, and yours truly. Edited by Lincoln Crisler, That Hoodoo, Voodoo That You Do is now available in paperback and digital editions!

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Decayed Etchings -- Back in Print!

After several months off the shelves, my very first collection of dark fiction is now available in brand new paperback and Kindle editions!  Originally published by Black Bed Sheet Books in the summer of 2011, Decayed Etchings contains 18 stories filled with “gruesome revenge, delightfully twisted circumstances, vicious irony” (Dread Central) and “will leave you begging for more!” (Brittle Endings).  Head on over to and pick up your copy now!