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.

...

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

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].