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.

...

And there the tree stems, as magnificent as an old deer, peacocking with wide tall green crown and glossy leaves

rooted in soil as the famous castle

and one can hear the air humming through and the branches crack simultaneously with the hearts and the bones and the teeth… And the antlers

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

The Daily Scrap

  • You write The Daily Scrap.
  • Length has to be between 600 and 3000 characters (≃ 500 words).
  • Contribute: Add a new Scrap

Update

To accomplish a successful update you will need to accompany your work with the email and the password you used when firstly submitting The Daily Scrap of yours.

Characters: 3000

That Moose Got His Antlers Snowed On

-
by Charles IV

The moose ate grass that looked juicy. When he pulled it off the ground, it gave off the sound of ripping off. He brought his head up together with his antlers that looked large and magnificent. It was a strong moose standing steady having merely his mouth moving from side to side.

Our old house was located on the countryside and visits of that sort weren’t as unusual but this one was special because we were playing cards in the living room when one of us in suppressed excitement said, ”nobody moves or make a sound, there is a moose outside the window,” and we slowly turned in the direction. He stood a few meters away as framed in the window as old canvas.

We were moving to the window super silent observing one another with big smiles as if it was a game. When we got to there the moose got closer, so close that we could see the details of the fur, the nose, the dark circular bulging eyes and our faces reflecting in them; and the antlers.

The view triggered silence in all of us, the moose stood still too and he was probably aware of us as much as we were aware of him, probably we observed one another. We did not move, we did not even breath and the moment was static until a single snowflake swung down the sky through the painted canvas and landed on one of his antlers; and everybody went wow with this childish enthusiasm and the moose proudly chewed on the grass a couple of times then turned around and walked away.

Last update: 07. 01. 2023

Laminate Your Portrait

-
by Charles IV

Maybe understanding of what focus means is the problem. Then accept this as an educative lesson. Focus means to invest your attention into something and so if I tell you to focus on your life, I expect you to invest attention into it rather than investing it into life of someone else’s.

The reason for it is that you are spending too much time contemplating about what I do which is for your purposes unnecessary. It does not bring anything to you, you are just loosing time and drain my energy when reflecting upon my life.

So, for the sake of all of you, shut the fuck up.

Last update: 07. 01. 2023

Cubist Portrait

-
by Charles IV

It is a sort of blurry, kind of blue but it does have bits of red in it, there seems to be a sort of pattern emerging from the middle of it. It might be a tea, maybe a flower maybe a squirt of ink shaped to give cubes.

There is another one.

One of that sort that needs a title by its side.

It is on canvas put in frame of monumental thickness. It wants to be seen but when you look at it from a distance, it provides only sort of inconsistent blur and on a closer approach, it is like seeing an image assembled from puzzle pieces that don’t belong to the same set.

It is a portrait in which there is a man with face resembling a misshaped box wearing a shirt and a blazer over it. But the title implies the portrait being actually a portrait of a woman, a woman having one large eye, out of a pair, and a cone in place of her right ear.

She has her mouth full of whatever, let’s say words, and she wants to spit them out.

[1] Cubists

Last update: 08. 03. 2022

Exploding Like Spiders Across The Stars

-
by Charles IV

I had been searching for that particular state of mind for long and then when I was crossing a street on the way from supermarket it emerged, a feeling of stability and strength combined, it was close to hearing a melody leading to the lowest octave and disappearing confidently with each oscillation into silence, an orchestra playing together a masterpiece ending with the destiny common for all.

And I danced to it as if every walk side was mine; and every street and every square and every pub was part of it. It was my stability and strength combined and maybe the tip of her fingers touching my hand when we were twisting around.

We were looking into one another's eyes and talked and talked. I pretended not really being fond of long talks - because I am a big man and I don't talk - but I was, and I wanted her to talk more and to have her attention lasting for longer.

And the masterpiece played beautiful just as it played a decade ago, resonating through the air, and walls going even beyond the concrete tingling the bells and the leaves of trees.

It took only a decade to get to cross the street on that day. And the journey cost me multiple heart breaks, it lured me in multiple fights, it kept me in extreme solitude and made me doubt myself.

Simply, I was afraid too little and was too big to do a swift move. And as rolling down towards a concrete wall, I was flattening the grass carpets on the way to fight off, the windmills, the cubists of the town.

Had I had more opened heart, I could have been snug in a bed with a birdie with blue eyes having her there melting as an ice cube wearing only a sweater with geometrical shapes.

One is enough and two is too many - but if either of them were top less I would think of the one wearing triangles and squares.

Because she was like string taunting in the space emitting heat, echoing itself in the surrounding and reflecting back overlapping sounds that felt like a reflection of the outside street in the window of our room. She was low noise humming in my hands, she tinkled on my heart like a close whisper in one’s ear and then you heard the lisp emanating from a pit into life.

It emanated in circles like a vortex of some type, taking the clouds off the sky. The space inhaled and extended as if it was lungs and held its shape. Suddenly there was a ball bat off that was flying high until it popped and slowly fell down naturally in a massive squirt covering the heads of the cubists, until it reached the ground and then everyone went wow.

And you stand aside, eyes opened, jaw dropped stunned by what you were seeing. You didn't know anything about my journey because you had just seen me crossing; a man with a big smile, and you had heard others saying that I was a mad man. And they were right, I was as mad as a hatter. But you loved the show until it reached the silence. [1].

Last update: 27. 02. 2022

Another Composition

-
by Charles IV

I had been searching for that particular state of mind for long and then when I was crossing a street on the way from supermarket it emerged, a feeling of stability and strength combined, it was close to hearing a melody leading to the lowest octave and disappearing confidently with each oscillation into silence, an orchestra playing together a masterpiece ending with the destiny common for all.

And I danced to it as if every walk side was mine; and every street and every square and every pub was part of it. It was my stability and strength combined and maybe the tip of her fingers touching my hand when we were twisting around.

We were looking into one another's eyes and talked and talked. I pretended not really being fond of long talks - because I am a big man and I don't talk - but I was, and I wanted her to talk more and have her attention for ever.

And it played beautiful just as it played a decade ago, resonating through the air, and walls going even beyond the concrete tingling the bells and the leaves of trees.

It took only a decade to get to cross the street on that day. And the journey cost me multiple heart breaks, it lured me in multiple fights, it kept me in extreme solitude and made me doubt myself.

And you stand aside, eyes opened, jaw dropped stunned by what you were seeing. You didn't know anything about my journey because you had just seen me crossing; a man with a big smile, and you had heard others saying that I was a mad man. And they were right, I was as mad as a hatter. But you loved the show until it reached the silence. [1].

Last update: 16. 02. 2022

The Composition

-
by Charles IV

I had been searching for it for long and then when I was crossing a street on the way from supermarket I heard it again, the melody, an orchestra playing together a masterpiece.

'Hey, hey, let it play. It makes me want to dance. It is making me happy.'

And it played as beautiful as it played a decade ago until someone put it out. But now it was back, and it was playing great.

It took only a decade to get to cross the street on that day. And the journey cost me multiple heart breaks, it lured me in multiple fights, it kept me in extreme solitude and made me doubt myself.

But you didn't know anything about my journey because you had just seen me crossing; a man with a big smile, and you had heard others saying that I was a mad man. And you didn't give a fuck about the composition [1].

[1] Mark Manson

Last update: 22. 01. 2022

Subject to Change

-
by Charles IV

Story of The Past Written in Present Tense is Subject to Change.

If we agree on the fact that people act out of habit most of the time and that our behaviour is predestined by behaviour of others, then building up your own behaviour pattern that is new and have positive impact on the people around you is: fighting off what is predestined and creating your own future and also building up the destiny for other people.

The destiny however is set tightly and many times in history happened that those who managed to rapture through the traditional behavioural pattern and produced new perspectives on the world were standing all by themselves facing the destiny of other people.

There have been many who did not manage or partially managed to withstand the oppression and as a result their growth toward their own potential was slowed down, channelled, or suppressed. The society’s destiny acted like the oppressor of the mind and as a consequence of it, the full potential of the secondary life purpose took a bullet in the back of its head. Just like The Man.

Last update: 19. 06. 2021

Society of Readers

-
by Charles IV

If the society image is defined by the deeds done by individuals;

Let us say that the most people in the country cook well. Then we are the nation of the people who cook well.

If the greater percentage of people live by the quote: “The person wants to be a police captain, soldier, engineer, nurse, doctor. What can we do to help the person to get there?” Then we are the society that supports one another.

If the society spends a lot of effort on bringing up a lot of thinkers, then we are the nation producing a lot of thinkers.

If the most of the society read, then we are the nation of readers.

One’s action defines one’s character [1].

[1] Mayur Ramgir

Last update: 12. 06. 2021