The Famous Literary Group

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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 **


Foreword


Roll The Dice - I

Edinburgh, philosophical, fictionated, subject to change, story of the past written in present tense

I speak for the man
who takes a bullet in the back of his head
to protect what he loves and believes in.

As his body goes down and his cheek falls on the old tough sun-dried soil the dust rises saying a story about the man who’s down for what he loved and believed in:

Downtown this man is called the toughest cowboy. He treats people bad and is well known for it. He makes people avoiding him and paying him respect out of fear. He is a gambler. He supposedly gambles with life and certainly with dice. Life is a game for him, and the dice is a purpose. He plays The Glory of Numbers and when he rolls, he keeps watching the dice as they are rolling away until they stop and then he does it again and again and sometimes he gets lucky and a few sevens in a row and while he is pulling the cash towards himself, he is questioning what luck is.

On the way from the town this cowboy takes an unexpected turning. Not far away from that turning is a farm with cattle, he is heading there. He picks a bunch of rope, that is curling on the top of the fencing that surrounds the herd of the cattle, creating loops out of both ends. The loops are put over the cow heads. As he pulls the cows forward making them walk through a gap in the fencing, he has created, he stands in the middle of the rope like the highest vertex of a triangle. On the way out, he notices an untouched bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on a table nearby a wooden building, it has got a beautiful rectangular bottle that is reflecting the moon light; he grabs that.

He earns bunch of money on selling the cows in a cow shop pretending them to be his own. When he gets home, he tosses the pack of cash on the table saying: “hi” to his wife and then shouting to her: “get me the dinner, y little bitch”. Then, he stumbles over the nasty wooden floor straight into a chair. He opens the bottle of Jack and downs half of it. While she is tiding up their home, the toughest cowboy shouts insults to her: “y got a chubby face and a fat ass. Who’d ever want you. ” “I have never seen anything that hairy before. We could use you as a little brush.” “I am the toughest cowboy here and if you did not eat that much, you would have smaller ass and that would make you a better cowgirl.” Now, he gets her attention. She is staring in his eyes standing aggressively, holding a heavy flowerpot. She is just about to throw it at him, but he stands up. Takes the pot from her hands. Puts it aside. They are facing each other; He grabs her by her hips, she is holding him by his elbows, then he lifts her up on the kitchen table. He rolls her skirt up, she unlocks her knees and he dips his dick in her. Before they fall asleep, she is painting hearts on his back and he is explaining the causes of his limitless love to her.

“I love you because you have never made me think of you as disloyal. I love you because, at the times when other men tested me, no matter how tough or handsome they were, you always stand by my side.”

And continues with telling her his reasons until finishing with saying:
“I love you because of your eyes. They are honest and when I look down them, I am close to be stirred into their blue color and when I look directly to see their deepest part it is like seeing the bottom of the ocean and the crustaceans and the molluscs that live there.” And then they laugh.

“Do y believe that we go to heaven eventually?” “The Bible is a good influential and sacred literature. It teaches people how to be good, but experience says that they are not always that. I like the imagination of reaching the state of being good by myself, but it does require knowing what is good and what is bad. For me it is simple if you eliminate all the bad things then you become good.”

"So, what is good?” “On the very fundamental level the good lies in survival. You are good if you favour life. On a higher level where survival is granted by society the good is generative. Whenever you do something good, a good deed, it will manifest as an acceptance in your surroundings."

“What is acceptance?” “Acceptance is metaphorically a ball made of floating material that is sinking in liquid. On the verge of the ball emerging into the sea you witness what acceptance is. If you accept something, you generally contain something.”

“You see those cross religious and cross non-religious issues between cultures, and you doubt that we are good, but we probably are, we just do not know each other and thus we tend to rejection. However, what we really need to do is to cross educate ourselves on who we are and how we live; and accept that. But that was a little bit off topic.”

“Referring to Dante Alighieri’s Hell atheists do not go to heaven, no matter how good they are. According to him, we are bound to end up in the first layer of hell. If that is the case what would you do?”

“Well, the recipe of an ordinary cowgirl is to follow the good in life. And at the end of it to stuff my suitcase with goodness and bring it to hell.” And then the cowboy laughs, and the cowgirl is pretending being deadly serious.

Next day, the cowboy brings some logs of wood to set the fire up. The cowgirl prepares the morning tea. He has a contemplating expression on his face, and she asks what is the look about? “Sweetheart, I am just thinking about the dice. How likely it is that I get the number I need when tossing. If you roll a single die it is once out of 6 possible outcomes that you get the number, you need; and they are all equally likely to happen. So, for any of the six numbers the chance is 1/6 that you get the number you need. If you play with two dice the situation becomes more complicated. Now there is 36 possible outcomes so what is the probability that I get the number I need in this case? When I count the possible sums of these two dice. It comes out that 7 occurs the most often (fractionally 6/32); then 6 (fractionally 5/32) and 8 (fractionally 5/32) and so on. Two (fractionally 1/32) and twelve (fractionally 1/32) are the same likely and the least likely to occur.“ He answers, and she is impressed by the dept of the analysis. She grabs the dice saying: “If I throw seven, I have the nicest ass in the county!” and she throws the dice and gets 3 and 4 which adds up to 7. The toughest cowboy jumps up grabbing the cowgirl’s hands shouting: “It must be the truth then; I have a woman with the nicest butt-cheeks!”. They keep holding their hands trying to beat each other’s superlatives. The cowboy takes his cowgirl to the bedroom. He takes her shoes off and throws them behind his back. One of those shoes accidentally lands on the top of a wardrobe just right next to an old rifle and cowgirl’s favourite hat that is decorated with a cute pink bow and that she has misplaced a few weeks ago. He touches her face and squeezes her cheeks to make her lips pout and then lovingly kisses them. The cowboy is all naked and the cowgirl has her top and white decorated knickers on when suddenly, after the steaming morning tea and the flaming homey fireplace and the kisses and her hair between his fingers, three man enter their cottage hastily pushing themselves in, making their way straight into the bedroom:

“Where is that motherfucker, the fucking mule.”

Before the cowboy manages to get out of the bed, he is being hit hard in his face swallowing one of his teeth. The punch blurs his perception. His jaw, hand, and leg is being grabbed. While they are carrying him out of the cottage, he is fighting them back as much as he can. They beat him badly in the corridor of the cottage, but he still attempts to throw punches. Those punches are disoriented, and he ends up facing the wooden flooring. He is grabbed by a single hand and pulled out of the cottage over the nasty wooden floor.

The visitors are the owners of the cattle, he has stolen from. It is three brothers. Three angry brothers. Two of the brothers are standing above him outside the cottage while he is kissing the ground. One wears a red scarf over his face. The scarf is thinly stripped with white color. The other one has got smooth face. He is the youngest one. The cowboy gets up on his knees, hearing the weeps of his wife. His wife is in the bedroom with the third brother.

The third brother is the oldest. He is known down in the village pub for speaking to no one but his brothers. There is a legend about him going around. Once, a passing stranger walked in the pub. The first thing the stranger did was that he ordered two drinks; and the second thing he did was that he sat down to the table where the third, the oldest brother resided shifting over a glass of moonshine saying: “that’s for the brave”. But the brother stayed silent and instead of grabbing the glass that was shifted to him, he took the stranger’s one and then quickly the other one. Now they were sitting at the table staring in each other’s eyes. The brother was calm, but the stranger was raging. Suddenly, the brother lifted his right hand, making it look like he wanted to shake the stranger’s one but instead of making this gesture he grabbed the stranger’s head and started smashing the table with it and nobody dared to stand up for that man. And the time was passing. And the head was changing shape. And then he tossed him out of the pub and the stranger was gone forever.

“Tell me where our cattle are, and you might not need to suck it.” The brother says with calm rough voice to the cowgirl pushing her neck into the mattress. She weeps. The weeps are delineated by constricted pathways. Thinking about getting the rifle from the top of the wardrobe, she moves herself into a good angle for a strike. He is just right above her. She lifts up her knees towards her chest and uses both of her feet to kick that man in his pelvis making him fly across the room until he is stopped by the wall, the cottage shakes. The brother in the red scarf who is outside shouts towards the cottage “hey, is that one sneaky?” and as a response, he gets the cowgirls intense weeps.

The cowboy is on his knees aware of all the happenings around. Yet, he looks kind of detached or indifferent to what is going on. The toughest cowboy is called toughest for a reason. He decides quick and takes no shit from anyone. Integrity leaks out of his face and when he is in a company of other people, they sense it and even before first words said they look up to him with some kind of sincere understanding for who he is.

“Where are our cows, you fucking mule! Where are they?” The brother in the red scarf questions. Instead of an answer though the toughest cowboy grows a massive vein on his forehead as he has just noticed he has got a tantrum in his dick. “Answer you shit! Do you think I am joking here with you? Answer! I’ll fuck your woman until you tell me where you have hidden my cows.” The brutality of this visit is increasing. If only all the anger could bring something good.

The cowboy must act. He calculates:
“The cows are gone.”
“I got the cash.”
“The bottle is empty.”

The guy with the scarf stands in front of the cowboy and the young one stands behind him. Being naked in the dust, the cowboy is waiting for the guy in front of him to throw a punch. When the punch is thrown, he stands up and directly with an unusual amount of force punches that guy in his cheek and with his sharp knuckles pushes a way through the core of his neck towards his spine and he feels how his fist stops against it and this brother starts horridly grasping. Meanwhile, the guy behind him reacts by drawing a pistol out of his belt, the toughest cowboy has expected himself to move quicker, and it was quite quick but not quite quick enough because the trigger is pressed and the toughest cowboy is shot in the back of his head for what he loved and believed in.

I myself nodded yes on the correctness of the the calculations the cowboy made. All the necessary variables were included apart from one, which was the state of his body. Only was he able to stand straight, he would overpower those two brothers. He thought of himself as a king, as he has always been the winner, but this time he forgot that he was on his knees. He let his unconquerable spirit to command. He saw himself winning and then he put it into action. Contrary to his effort, he ended up dead for being inadequate. The toughest cowboy on the way to the ground shed a tear.

But the question is, did he really end up dead for being inadequate or did he just choose to die as a man? Did he shed the tear for realizing his miscalculation or for the fact that his woman was left helpless? Did he decide to push the enemy even though he was destined to lose? Could it be that he rolled the last bits of his resistance towards the odds, he could not beat?

As he was reaching down towards the old tough sun-dried soil, there were no doubts in his face. His cheek hit the ground with certainty and his last seconds of consciousness were accompanied by his wife’s weeps and the scenery of the two guys walking back towards the cottage.

It is three of them in the bedroom. One grabs the cowgirls head and forces her face in his crotch. She pushes herself away from him pressing her hands against his hips. The destiny is set; there is no chance for her getting out of that room. She is lifted up, then thrown towards the middle of the bed and pulled back to the edge by her legs. She keeps her knees together but one of the brothers with help of the rest makes his way in between. He slides her knickers on side and the heat and spasm that shoots through her body let one of her boobs out of her satin blouse. Adrenalin rush. Her heart is racing. She fights back and shrieks and roars. Her naked feet are waving above the strange man’s back. The brothers cannot stand the shrikes she makes. “I will shut her up.” She is slapped in her face, which harvests no results. The force goes up and eventually they hit her in her jaw and then she sees only a line of hypnotised bunnies and her look is glass empty.

The clap of the door. The boys are done. The notion of accomplishment signed in the shining eyes and happy faces. They are getting on their horses. Those brothers. Leaving a broken soul and a dead man to denote their visit, they truly have the rewarding feeling and they are validating each other while scratching their dicks. “Fuck the cattle. I got more then I wanted. Let’s get a jug, boys.”

Yeah, dispute over cattle. How little this dispute seemed. It could have also been a dispute over a cup of tea. Yet, for some such dispute can be a display of an urgency that requires a hunt for an instant solution. The cowgirl and the cowboy had been shaped up by liberate upbringing and nothing had had more importance then genuine love. Within their family circle, argument exchanged for compromise; envy exchanged for empathy; violence exchanged for nourishment; and finally hate exchanged for tolerance that allowed their minds to branch out. By contrast, the brothers’ minds had grown up in different reality; they had always been pushed to the extremes by a fatherhood governed merely by alcohol or dissonance. Every situation called for an immediate solution accompanied by competition where the winner was rewarded, and the loser punished.

Her man is dead, and she is in the blankets. Her eyes facing the ceiling. Her complexion pale. The cowgirl’s body rests; and the lover and the tea maker in her is not present. She is unconscious. Her blouse is still on. Her hair is in the hands of the old wooden bed frame. There are no tears on her face. But after all the weeps and fighting, the silence that has encircled her body provides the saddest most deformed picture.

Unconsciousness as a word in its essence comes with the connotation of indifference. Unconsciousness is pretty much space with objects put around that are stale and attracted to nothing.

The staleness of her face. The indifference of her body. She is the object in an empty room in which everything is static, and one would say that this is it up until you gaze in her eyes and you see the familiar blue lining and the sea creatures living at the very bottom of her pupils; the life; but the life is all caged and it wants out by its nature, by its inborn desire for being conscious.

Did a tree fall through the roof, she would be lying in the bed as still as she is lying now. That’s because she’s unconscious but now her ‘self’ starts hearing one gallop, two gallops, three gallops and the wind smacks against the cottage and tears the windows open, and the dust enters the room hastily pinching her face.

It is not the tree, merely it is the pinching sensation of the dust in her eyes that helps her to wake up. In the dust or the darkness, a brisk of light, a subtle change in position or a drop of water can promote the living and provide the willpower for the flower to grow. And you can see the same vain, just as her husband had, growing in the middle of her forehead.

She jumps out of the bed, she grabs the rifle from the top of the wardrobe and points it out of the opened window, counting, one and two and three and then triggers the cock and one of the brothers goes down.

They are trying to pick him up and shoot back but she nearly injures another of the brothers, and they know they are in troubles, but brothers do not leave one another behind and so they risk their lives while she is feeding them with lead bullets. They finally manage to get the third brother on the horse and now whip their horses to make them run as quick as they can.