The Famous Literary Group

Disclosure:
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


Smooth And Frisky - II

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

When the cowgirl shot after the brothers, she was fully aware of the mark that would be imprinted into their minds. She knew what the consequences would be. That the brothers would never let it slip but she ignored that. Her decision might have been quickly made but that was because the only thing she wanted to do was to retaliate for what they did and not to leave those bastards go away without the pay back.

The moment when she pointed the rifle out of the window was special in a few ways. Firstly, before she recovered from the shock, it had been the sudden rise of wind that had forced the window to open providing a little step forward towards her consciousness.

Secondly, the wind brought in a cloud of dust that ended up in her eyes making her to awake from the shock.

The slightly odd or to some extent mysterious thing here is that neither the wind in this area ever blows that strong nor the dust moves sufficiently high enough above the ground to be able to enter people’s homes, yet it did.

Behind many subtle implications lie a bigger pictures of something that’s not normally present. We can see it only if we pay attention to its outcomes. Just like the case of random sparks when touching some random surfaces led to discovery of the phenomenon of electricity.

Have you ever walked down the street and got a dry flying dandelion touching your shoulder? Did it make you look at any specific direction? Or maybe a leaf dropped on your nose aching for your attention in an area where there are no threes around? Did you touch something and got a spark between the surface and your finger? Can it be that all those things are trying to communicate something more complex?

In the context of this story, the wind smacked the window and the dust entered the room. While the cowgirls man was being dead outside the cottage and his blood was soaking in the sun-dried soil. Can it be that in this case of the wind and the dust there is some other phenomena, we don’t fully understand, manifesting itself?

She pointed out the rifle and there was no doubt about what she had to do; but now she has wrapped up her things and she’s on the run.