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 **


Ronda's On The Run - III

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

“The man is dead. She’s gonna be an easy target, boys.” One of the brothers says.
“The bloody bitch can shoot. She nearly got me!”
“Have y ever seen a woman shoot? Nope. So shut up. She got to touch a weapon the first time. She got lucky.”
“But it is the fact that she actually grabbed the rifle.”
“Yeah and she made a hole in you. Stop acting like a pussy. It’s just a scratch anyways.”
“You are as thick as two short planks, if any of us ends up messed up it is your fault.”

Her horse is tethered to the fence that goes around their potato plantation. She feeds the horse with some carrot and hey. Meanwhile, she goes to the cottage to pick up some of her things. By now she has entered and left the cottage a few times and never noticed that there is her man lying on the ground dead, not even giving him a thought, like he’d never exist. She runs down the stairs outside the cottage and trips on a flat surface. She balances it out but then gets the view of her cowboy. He is there on the ground. Her knees weaken. She runs towards him. She goes down and puts his hand in hers. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And the reality soaks in the brain as blood soaks into white towels.

Her heart is beating so loud. One can hear the heart valves moving. The temperature of her body has increased. The heat given out bends the light around her. Her face is wet. One would expect it to be tears but it is an actual sweat. One would assume that a person sweat from this hot mid-summer day but it is an actual hypertension and her face is going to pop. She’s so weak. She loses her breath. She drops down on her back and stays there.

While she’s by the side of her man, the wind is sweeping over her having a cooling effect.

She entered the cottage a few time without noticing her man lying dead but not only has she not noticed him, he did not occur in her mind at all. But why? I think that her ordeal was bearable but she just wasn’t capable of coping with her man’s suffering to the point that led to certain memory suppression and as a consequence of it to denial of her man’s existence.

She’s still on the ground, lying next to her man’s corpse holding his hand. Her eyes closed. Her heart calming down. She shivers and her return to reality is emphasized by her man’s cold hand. She looks in his face, but it doesn’t look good anymore, she presses on his heart and returns back to the cottage to get her rifle and something. On the way out, the something shows itself; it is a brown leather envelope.

The horse is ready and she’s about to set off. The space is somehow wider as if she could perceive a little bit more of the world. She gives a last look to her man and with closed eyes settles all the debts typical for lovers.

She’s riding towards the village. She tethers her horse to a post. As she is walking down the road people just glance at her. Nobody ever gives her just a glance. Normally, she receives long uninterrupted looks, especially from men. This time she notices a guy standing by the place she is visiting, a store of some kind – The Shady Place. This guy gives her a glance and the colour in his face goes from healthy pink to deadly white. She checks her clothes but finds nothing wrong with it. “Maybe some gossips preceded my visit.” She thinks.

Under normal circumstances all the men usually keep a long eye contact with her hoping to engage in a conversation. She’s got blue eyes. Long, lightly blond hair, she is about 5.6 ft having good fitness. She’s pretty which is emphasized by the brightness of her smiles. As a consequence of it, all the eyes points toward her as if she would be nothing but a delicious bright smiling cake. She couldn’t stand the attention at her younger age.

The glances, the looks and leering were sourced in something so superficial. It led her to evading all kind of unnecessary social occasions. It took time for her to settle with the reality of being the centre of attention for none of her skills, ideas or ambitions but for the way she looked. It took years for her to develop enough resilience to face it. At some point she realized that it is an actual gift not a curse. She started using it to her advantage and to get people off her way or in her life or to be where she needs to be to get the most out of every situation.

On the way out of The Shady Place, the guy who has been standing by when she was entering, is ignoring her presence. The thought of herself being ignored holds onto her mind for a bit. She untethers her horse and gallops down the village. Having her shoulders back and her shin up, she’s riding her horse like a princes a unicorn without any obvious rush. But you can say that there’s something wrong about this princes. The calmness and steadiness of the horse’s moves are somewhat grim. The horse can probably sense the tension that’s not obvious from the picture but leaks through the cowgirl’s tailbone straight into the horse’s spine.

The village is and old trade route, with houses put along, made wide enough to get the horses, carts and all sort of other vehicles through. The street is dusty, the ground is yellow tough with crackles in it and there are domesticated, yet wild, dogs scattered around. While she is approaching one end of the village to exit, the brothers occur on the scene. They are about to enter the village from the other end. The distance between them is about a mile. Seeing those brothers, she grabs the rains and smacks her horse’s ass with her palm, but the horse’s skin is insensitive and doesn’t react to it. She pushes the spurs attached to her shoes between the horse’s ribs and the horse goes “ayeee” rising on its hind legs, and then strikes the ground with all its weight and strength and the earth gives out dull sound and vibrates into its surroundings and the villagers can feel it in their feet and the dogs lower their heads to sniff around trying to get the scent of what is going on. And the horse is on the run and looking fresh, energic and strong, it is far better than any of the ones in possession of the brothers.

The brothers notice the dust rising ahead of them inferring it is her. Being smacked over the neck with reins, the horses start rushing through the village. The guy who was previously standing by The Shady Place is now at the main road. The moral leprosy of this guy shines out of his eyes emitting the light on peoples back when the sun is gone. He has got the look but he is not a full man and when the brothers are passing by he uses a gesture to show them that the cloud of dust there is the cowgirl and the brothers stick their spurs into the horse’s tummies and smack the rains yelling “eyeye” to get the horses quicker.

They follow her. She initially runs along the road and the brothers are having a solid tempo. The mood among the brothers is high as well as the moral. One follows the other. It even seems like they compete among themselves. “Whoever gets to her quicker fucks her first.” Says the leading brother and you see the increase in proactivity, and they all are exercising the best riding technique they had been thought by their father.

For a moment, had we only excluded the chase and the ulterior motives that pushes them ahead, this running-about would have been a nice example of boyish competitiveness every parent would be proud to see.

Changing the direction of the run, she enters a forest. The entry is made at a spot where the environment does not allow an easy access. The plants are interlaced into a thick bush. The trees are prickly and grown in a close proximity. The ground is elevated.

The brothers enter at the same spot. The leading one gets in relatively smoothly but the other two struggle. Their horses are older and heavier. The brothers must employ all the means to get the horses in. The second brother overcomes the obstacles having his horse cramping. The third brother doesn’t manage and is forced to get off the horse. He grabs the horse’s reins, walks up the elevated ground, and starts pulling the reins upwards making a funny sound “C-C-C” and reaching out with one hand pretending he’s got sugar in it. The horse reacts to the sugar tease and exert all energy to get up to his master - it is a fun to look at. The brother is on the horse’s back again and you can say he has not lost his eyes on the prize and can still visualize himself fucking the girl first.

The quickest brother rides by side with the wind. The air is blowing through his long hair. The sun rays make his face changing from bright to dark. He rides well and loves the chase. It is in his blood. It in everyone’s blood. The biology of male body is well defined, and has he let the genes of the hunters flow through him without suppressing it.

The horse moves in the forest with ease as if the path was clean of obstacles. The horse tackles confidently the variation of the ground, the roots, the invisible holes and helps the brother to lead the pack. This brother has been his father’s most devoted listener and has learnt the riding technique well. Now, he is approaching the cowgirl every minute having not more than twenty metres between each other. He rides the horse standing. He is ambitions. He pushes the horse ahead. Holding the reins, he tilts forward pressing his spurs into the horse’s rib cage with such a force that it penetrates the horse’s skin which makes the horse shriek and then suddenly the horse stumbles and goes down, the brother rolls forward. The horse runs away and he continues the chase on foot.

The second brother is moving steadily forward. His horse is tired but still moving. Sometimes stops and the brother commands: “Move, move you old meat.“ The meat moves and carry on galloping until catching up with his brother who is ahead and who calls to him: “Quicker. Quicker. She’s just right there!” and the brother smacks his horse and smacks the rains yelling “ayye” and the horse jumps forward fresh and energic. Makes two more gallops and then stars cramping being resentful to any command the brother gives. “This horse is not moving anywhere. Hook the horse to the tree and follow me.” The other brother says. And they continue with the chase on foot together.

Soon the last brother starts catching up, however, his horse is breathing hastily. The rib cage is contracting every second. Yet, the horse is moving ahead doing it step by step “On you go, horsiee!” The brother shouts, expressing his sheer affection to his animal. All the brothers have now nearly caught up and carry on with the chase together. They move like wild animals performing their most natural behaviour. You can see that the chase satisfies the brothers deepest identities.

The enthusiasm for hunting reduced the intellectual part of the perception and gave more space to the instinctual behaviour rooted in their genetical nature.

The cowgirl is running for her life and she should be manifesting the genetical need for survival and maybe she is, but from a side it doesn’t seems so, it rather seems like she’s being melancholic.

She sees the trees and its not just numb columns pointing upwards. The ground is covered by moss and the moss is smooth and clean and she is eleven and her mum tells her: “Sweetheart, this is moss, a plant that gets thirsty in high temperatures. It dries quick if the shade is taken away but otherwise it is a modest plant that grows beautiful if it gets the chance. It is like us.” She remembers she couldn’t understand the meaning of it but now since that event in the cottage she understands the metaphor and gets tears in her eyes.

Nearby there is fish that rests and then shoot away in a narrow stream she is passing by. This is a place she used to go with her man. They were sitting by and he told her that the pinkish ones with the middle lines and dots on their bodies are trouts and that those little ones swimming about are babies of those fish and also baby stripped basses about which no one really knows where they got here from as the fish grows too big.

The most folklore explanation is that the female basses had laid eggs in the river that’s down the stream of this flow and the males fertilised it and those babies made their way up the flow of this stream looking for safe place.

And the ride continues and looks very natural and intelligent. Her horse is now not grim at all. He is just what she is. They stumble over the root, but they do not fall. They are innate animals of the forest rushing up the stream to hide.