Delusions of Grandeur
Bio
Influencing a small group of bright minds with my kind of propaganda.
Stories (52/0)
Resuscitating Nessie
"Well, where is she?" "She washed up on the shore, just like I told you." "Oh, she just washed up on shore, did she? — and you’d have me believe that she’s real, that she even exists. Like all those other hallucinations of yours — or what was it that you called them again? Ah yes — portals! — gateways into your fantasy world. All I have to do is follow you down the wormhole, that’s it, isn’t it? You’d think I was born yesterday, too, wouldn’t you now? Why, you know what you could do for me? You could go and write some of that fresh bullsh*t down for me. Chisel a few lines into some stonework, even, or perhaps carve out a sculpture of this whale of yours, as you see fit. No, hold on — better yet: Write a full ream of that fantastical delusion out for me, would you? You can’t even make this stuff up! Listen, kid, when you’re all done writing and you’ve got a copy ready, hand it over on glossy coloured paper — make it out on aqua green — coloured A4, you hear? I want a record of it — a hard copy. I reckon one day — sorry to say, probably when you’re long gone, that’s just the way it goes for the lot of you writers; ain’t it the truth, boy? — maybe it’ll sell for something substantial, you little nincompoop you. All you’d have to do — I’d swear it on Nessie herself — is write some of it down, and maybe date it with your own hand; and just like that, they’d make a Nobel Laureate out of ya. That’s how it’s done, kid. Ten, twenty, fifty — or perhaps a hundred years from now, some sorry soul may be forced to dredge through some of your delusions in a literature class. And during this quest — whether it's the first they've heard of you or not — you may just make the grade as someone's new favourite author; it’s possible, you know? Anything is possible. But, someone — no doubt about it, kid, some ‘cowboy general’ — will finish one of these books with your stories within, and slam the book down on the desk in front of him with one hand, in an emphatic fashion, right in the middle of class, while the teach is going on about allusions and metaphors — and preach that you were mad as a hatter and there’s no sense in reading any of your works, at all. But, of course, you take the piss better than anybody, don’t you? If I were as high as a kite I couldn’t dream up a piece quite like this nonsense — not in the least like you, kid. And, supposing I tried, I’d probably still have a seizure before I even got to the climax of the story, and even then I’d probably fall into some sort of coma, no doubt that I’d never wake from. So, there’s only one explanation for it, kid: you've got a tumour. Yes, that's got to be it! I just often wonder how dangerously big it’s gotten; yet, it doesn't seem to stop you from writing like a magician, does it? If I were you, I’d take a crowbar to it before you start tripping over your feet, but in the meantime, there’s certainly no harm in writing down some of these sensational ‘event horizons’. You keep putting off your next written piece — but boy, I’d say this is it, kid. You know what else they’ll do? I'll bet the real fans, the ones with all your stories on their shelves at home — they’ll take certain quotations from your work and have them framed in their bedrooms, I tell ya, they’ll do it! Go on, now: I want it in writing first before I go on any of these expeditions with you.
By Delusions of Grandeur 18 days ago in Fiction
"Spare Change, Sir!"
It’s not even 6 a.m. on my walk over to the café. But I have got a few minutes, and a few coins in my pocket to spare. In the damp morning air, that’s not quite bustling with commuters yet, I quickly glance over my left shoulder — at this woman, in desperate need — and I stop, jiggle my pocket, and I pull out the change for my morning cuppa. Why the heck not? I’ve still got a bill in my wallet, and I can break that for my Joe, instead. It’s certainly not the first time, and I can’t imagine it will be the last.
By Delusions of Grandeur 7 months ago in History
It Was An E-scooter Dream
At this point, you may just be thinking this to yourself: ‘Well, that little dingleberry, he’s forgotten. He’s written absolutely nothing here for over a month… He’s not in the least obsessed — with his work; that is… if that’s what he even wishes to call it. He’s certainly no Howard Roark. Where. is. his. masterpiece? I know! On vacation! That's where he is, that Jughead. Well, I’ve been patiently waiting for his next piece, and upon my word, the river stream from this fountainhead is all but dried up now, and what is left dripping is something straight from Hippolytus de Marsiliis; he’s definitely not slaking my thirst. Do you know what he is? I'll tell you. He’s an Ellsworth Toohey. Yes, that’s exactly it! Why, we’ll teach him, won’t we? We’ll squeeze some words out of him, yet. We’ll shake and wring them out until he chokes on his own words from waterboarding. Jolly ol wait and see — we’ll do it! He’s fresh off the boat, that one, from wherever he's been drifting; and he’s breaking all the damn writing rules and promises wherever he's shored up. That’s even worse — worse than any poppycock he’d ever bother to regurgitate here for my amusement.’
By Delusions of Grandeur 8 months ago in Humans
Signalling ET
It’s up there on the top shelf; the moratorium on Thought. A directive, issued and revised by the current reigning bureaucrats in office, to silence, you, the reader of this file. It’s marked strictly personal and confidential. Within this file, the plans and details of the probe that had been cast into the vast cosmic space, and the message broadcasted in 55 languages whilst engraved on a pair of Golden Records, are retained. The message was shot like ‘an arrow through the dark’… with the hope, that, it could, perhaps be translated by some distant intelligent life form, somewhere out there. And, for years the voyager I probe sailed on and on through space, in one constant, and tireless direction, never to attract outside interest… never to return home…
By Delusions of Grandeur 10 months ago in History
The Private Mechanic
"What makes you think you can write anything good," he says and glares over in my direction with a stern expression on his face. Then his lips part and his eyes open wide with that same blank stare that is too familiar to me now that I'm older. He looks back down at the table in front of him. There is a cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The smoke is rising from it, gradually, and he reaches for it. I say nothing in response, so he leaves the table from where he's hunched over and goes to the mounted engine stand behind him.
By Delusions of Grandeur 11 months ago in Fiction
The Fountain Pen
I came a few hours ago… to secure my seat. I had just sat down on the bleachers, before anyone else arrived, in my row. The second seat from the stairway… and up one level against the back wall. You might see me now… if only you looked on over this way.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Fiction
Goal Setting for the Runner
Goal setting for performance enhancement is extremely powerful, provided that it’s correctly implemented. As Abraham Lincoln once put it, “A goal properly set is halfway reached.” In other words, identifying goals or convincing people that goals are important is usually not the problem; rather it’s getting people to set the right kind of goals. Goal-setting research, including key theories and psychological effects, as well as specific recommendations for marathon runners and sprinters will be addressed here to assist these athletes in goal implementation.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Longevity
Head-Smashed-In
Take a short trip back in time… to when Dinosaurs Buffalo ruled the countryside... The 'Buffalo Jump' is a prehistoric method of hunting that involves corralling and driving bison directly off of a cliff! That's right, we're talking about mass casualties. Just imagine the level of uncensored graphic content... it might just rival a zombie apocalypse.
By Delusions of Grandeur about a year ago in Earth