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.


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 **


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].