The Famous Literary Group

This website is written by diverse community of people.

We are

one of the very few literary groups who cares more of a bottle of Jack than of you. Yet, you are here going through the work of such people. And the sights are heavy on you; and it is not sights of understanding. But you do not look away for that you believe in the correctness of your doing; the attention is merely surreal - and the response is indifference; and y are famous - sippin’ Jack with us.


We are building the literary castle out of wood. Wood is a lovely malleable material that suffers from humanly imperfections. Every single three shines with the spirit and every burnt log turns the spirit into pile of ash.

The tendency to explore, the desire to understand, and the need to sound, predestines you to wonder, to contemplate, and to accept the feeling, for a glass of a whiskey., It is not the glass that makes the whiskey, it is the journey from the field to the bottle., You prepare a fermentation set, out of the nicest and strongest wood, you throw in grounded corn; rye and malted barley, then add some yeast, brown sugar and hot water., The fermentation gives off a strong odour, but you love it., You keep it in the basement, away from the sun., You keep it at 34 C, To favour the yeast., After three days of the fermentation, you separate the pulp from the juice., You assemble your distillation set, distillation flask; burner; condensation pipe, thermometer; collection flask., you got 100 litres of fermented corn; rye; malted barley, you got same sized whiskey barrel, but the volume of the distillation flask, is 2 litres., The distilling is a slow process., The thermometer shows 80 C, ethanol is sliding down the condensation pipe, you watch every drip., First batch is ready, your chest is tingling., You pick the shiniest glass, give it the unnecessary wipe, include a few ice cubes, and pour it in., You feel the connection with the glass, with the basement, and yourself., You are in a sacred place, your whiskey is on the table, you take it in your palm, you smell it., It is the finest drink, thirty seconds old., It tastes like distilled port wine, just super strong, emphasized with a subtle flavour of the brown sugar., The Drink with The Journey., ** The End **


Fluffy Duck and Iron Heart

2019, Edinburgh

The mornings around this place are often miserable. It usually rains and when it does not the beauty of the grass carpets, the calm surface of the passing river, the falling leaves of by standing trees, is hidden in mist. But that is so much unlike today. If someone took a magnifying glass and placed it between the sun and the earth to focus all the sunshine to some place, the place would turn in ash but do not get me wrong we have here nice 25 degrees. It is just the unusual weather difference that makes it feel like the day is on fire.

I am in my mind contemplating about the Origins of life and the Adventures in human beings. Then, yeah, I stumble over a flat surface: “One of my legs must be longer than the other.” I infer, do a step more and see an Iron heart. There’s also a duck that is jumping around having fluffy fashionable features on. She is being genuinely happy. At least the style of the jumps seems to be somewhat energic. Her jumping is more like dancing with no shame, with no fear. It is the source of the contagious joy of the squirrels, the dogs, the cats, the birdies and all the other beings around. It probably sounds pretty familiar to Marianne Williamson: ‘And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.’ And that’s how the Iron heart feels about it too. A subtle smile appears in his face as the duck ends her show.

Normally, the Iron heart is focused on being iron. Shiny mirror-like surface, neither happy nor sad but something between. The smile, no matter how subtle, means that his emotional neutrality has been disturbed. The Iron heart identifies as masculine while the duck is a feminine being. The contemporary society expects men to approach woman and initiate the first contact. It’s one of the great challenges out there for many men. It requires courage and completeness of the person. The price for the courage is very inner personal empowerment. However, if the first contact is initiated by women the conventional society perceives it negatively which sounds like: women can be objectified but not to objectify. Simone de Beauvoir wrote many pages to report on this topic, but it has gone by unread and unheard by many; and still while men are socially rewarded, women are stripped of their ‘virginity’ and labelled as crack-ass whores.

While the Iron heart is fully aware of the presence of the cute Duck. The duck does not seem to pay attention to the Iron heart apart from a few flaps of her wings directed to him. The flaps produce quite powerful air flow that leans against his body and makes his legs shaking. She is trying to scare him off. As a result, the iron heart feels a little bit unsettled, maybe not quite enough for her, by the kind of attention he has received. He goes to metal shop to change his rather neutral colour to one that would be more attractive. “Not that easy bro, do not let her go that easy.” He thinks for himself. On the way back to the duck he buys some breadcrumbs. He gets back to the duck’s place. A wonderful riverbank washed with a slow stream of the moving water followed along with high trees and the sighs of the last spring days. The heart throws some breadcrumbs towards her. The falling crumbs catch her eyes and she goes all ‘kvak, kvak’ about it. Once the crumbs are finished, she is waiting for another load to come, and it does.

I have to say that the Iron heart quite smashes it when he throws her the breadcrumbs. It is really good idea. It has not only caught her attention, it also fills her mouth. As a spectator you can see an arising affection between these two.

When the heart runs out of the crumbs, he goes away but the duck follows him. He turns around and, to entertain her, paraphrase one of the adventures in human beings:

A guy comes to a doctor. ‘Oh, doc I feel so embarrassed, but I have a bottle of ketchup in my ass and cannot get it out. ‘

’Well, okay, lie down here and we’ll take a look.’

‘Well, that’s pretty deep inside there. I now try to get a grip of it.’ He pushes two of his fingers in the ass of the guy but cannot quite reach it.

‘Well, we’ll have to use some ointments to relax the entry. ‘ The doctor tries again. As he goes deeper in him, he stretches the anal sphincter until his wrist is all in and finally gets a two-finger grip on the bottle. He squeezes it and pulls. As he does that the bottle slips and gets even deeper inside the intestines.

‘Well, I am gonna need some extra hands here.’ He sends this guy for x-ray.

The doctor hangs it on light emitting x-ray table and as he is checking it up it gathers quite a crowd. He leaves it hanging for a few minutes and goes few steps back to the guy and when he returns to place the x-ray to his patient’s folder, the x-ray of bottle of ketchup in an asshole is gone. Someone has stolen it.

The joke is finished. The Iron heart keeps staring at the duck with great expectation for a few seconds until the duck realises the joke has just finished and stretches her wonderful orange beak crafted by centuries of evolution with a flat smile. The Iron heart then jumps in sheer happiness making laud noises. That scares the duck and she flies away back to her riverbank.

Another day the heart brings some more breadcrumbs. The duck notices his presence. She looks at him, then at the furthest turning of the river and then at the iron heart.

Since the iron heart had scared the duck with his laud noises, she doesn’t feel comfortable to fly to him. Instead she keeps looking at him and then you hear the engines and she takes off with the unshakable confidence of double decker commercial aircraft having a really cocky expression in her face and then you hear her last: “kvak” and she’s gone.