Delusions of Grandeur
Bio
Influencing a small group of bright minds with my kind of propaganda.
Stories (54/0)
The Porta-potty Artist
One article a month, it’s hardly anything at all. That’s what I typically produce. But, I’ve recently started writing in the early mornings. Because, well, it actually works… You rise, up out of bed, no matter the weather, and you turn on the tunes, and maybe you pour a cup of coffee (preferably with some cocoa added in there). And, you start writing. So, you’re already pouring some value out there into the v a s t digital space (or, would you prefer that I use the term: the cloud? But, you know what it really is, it's a giant warehouse — the size of a football field — on the outskirts of a city near you; housing tens of thousands of servers, all wired together; with cooling units too, for these same servers), and into the minds of your fellow subscribers, first thing in the morning. You’re up, and about and being productive — whilst most everyone else is asleep. Such a consistent routine, over the very long haul, becomes, rather befitting of some of the greats.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Filthy
"My Family is Transgender "
That’s what’s written, on a median strip, somewhere out there. It could’ve been written two years ago; but even so, I don’t fancy disclosing its location. I can respect an individual’s right to privacy. You’ll just have to take my word for it; it exists — written with a black marker, with a font at about a hundred or so; and, alongside it (with another marker, as commentary), it is written: “That’s sad; That’s rad." Yes, this is the truth, you can bet on it. And, I suppose, I may just have a thing or two to say about it, myself.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Confessions
The Story of Summerland
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. From this vantage point, she saw him typing away inside the veranda. He was working late, again. ‘This ghostwriter ... would not get an ounce of sleep,’ she thought.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Wander
The Revenge of the Grandfather Clock
We drove up the snowy, winding road, toward the cozy A-frame cabin. ‘Charlie will meet us there,’ Lori thought, as she steered the SUV into a portal entrance between two mountain peaks just in time to see the rain from the brewing storm begin to crystallize and form snowflakes. She watched the snowflakes fall and settle atop her windshield. Soon after, more flakes breezed by the beams and girders within the dark tunnel and crossed in front of the glowing yellow lights that were mounted above; which, happened to be rather dim and sparse, and she thought that the lights were particularly unhelpful as she navigated. But, the light of the fading day, at the exit point — out the opposite end — was a much better guide. She sped onwards. There were three tunnels in succession, she recalled, from previous road trips to this cabin. 'We’re almost there,' she whispered. And at that very moment, the radio went static in the tunnel.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Horror
Do You Remember Blockbuster Video?
After a quick search, I discovered that there’s only one Blockbuster Video left, and it’s in Portland, Oregon. Blockbuster Video reached its peak back in 2004, which is roughly 18 years ago — which means, that there’s a whole new generation out there: Generation Alpha (no doubt living in their parent's basement), that, probably hasn’t even heard of Blockbuster Video. That being said, a fair amount of readers on Vocal might thus be pursuing this article and wondering: just what IS Blockbuster Video?
By Delusions of Grandeur 2 years ago in Families
The Real Uncensored Story of Ogopogo
Legend has it — and fake news has been trying to bury this story ever since I made a meal of one those, particular, Kelowna inhabitants — that I lurk just off the coast of Knox Mountain, in this sort of bay, a wee bit from a place called: Paul’s Tomb. It may be, for this reason, that Kelownafornians erected a sculpture of me and then promptly sank the darn thing into the water, at a depth of 25 feet. But, anyhow, it is often here, upon the side of the gorge, where the unfortunate would-be trekker might just lose his or her footing, and, quite unceremoniously, fall from the jagged ledge — and plummet into the cool, dark, waters below. Occasionally, it is here, too, that I happen to snatch one of these Kelownafornians by the ankle and swiftly drag them with me far, far, down into the depths below, whilst he or she is still squirming like spawning salmon during the month of September.
By Delusions of Grandeur 2 years ago in Fiction