Young Writers Society

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm baaack after some time...I kinda skipped past the weekend, but well I hope to be at least at the end of chap 6, when you release the next one

First Impression: Hmm...okay...this is a fun continuation, I was expecting a bit more from something with that title..but this looks like we're just kinda slowly settling into the story here...and the anticipation for when this man actually gets into the project itself is building up more and more.

Anyway let's get right to it,

Books of the Past and Future

The inside of the house was nearly as impressive as the outside. The whole structure was built around a large spiral staircase that went up the center of the house, with wings on either side, a sitting room to the right of the entrance, and a French kitchen to the left. The entrance had a very fancy-looking antique rug, and expensive works of art hanging up and around.

Avery explained the house was from the 1750s and had been owned by a French tax collector. He said that I’d be staying in one of the rooms on the top floor, and that he’d had already moved all my luggage up to the room. He explained I could take the rest of the day to adjust, and I'd have my first meeting tomorrow at 9:00, and that he’d drive me there.

All sentences seem to run on, and all I wanted was to be acquainted with the bed up in my room.

After saying goodbye to Avery I wandered into the sitting room. The room had had large windows at the on either wall, which let in green sunlight filtered through the large trees in the back. The light illuminated the carpeted room, with its blue wallpaper and shelves of mildew stinking books.

Many of them looked as old as the house, if not older, with hardcovers that had cascading cracks and embossed titles. But there were also modern works. I saw nonfiction written by people I knew from book signings and conventions, and a couple of fiction books I had read in my youth, including Harry Potter and others I had not read in my youth, like twilight.

I collapsed onto a yellow couch and looked around the room once more, the furniture was all antique, the upholstered couches and chairs made of colorful velvets, the coffee table was a large chest that long ago had lost its paint to weather, and had become a grey wood color, with brown of the rusted metal.

Well, likes, present tense. She still exists, despite breaking up with me. Well actually future tense, since I am writing this in the past, but also in just my personal time she doesn’t exist for me but did, except in the past, and when you're reading this she may or may not still be alive. But let’s not think so hard about tenses or the rest of this book will be very difficult to read and write.

I dropped the book like a hot coal, and stared at its cover, a cheesy picture of the temple and Pompeii with the exploding volcano around it.

“It’s a rather good book.” A voice piped up from behind me. I turned and saw a woman standing in the doorway. She was a tall skinny woman, probably in her sixties. “I’m just finishing it,” She had a British accent. I left a silence, not sure how to respond, so she just filled the silence. “The author argues that Man must worship something, and if that something isn’t God, it will be something else, money, self, politicians. He goes throughout history and looks at every time a culture is secularized and fills the vacuum of God.”

“I know,” I blurted, though in hindsight that’s a rude way to respond to someone telling you about a book.

“Really? Have you read it?”

I paused, answering that question would just confuse matters more, “My father wrote it.”

She stepped farther into the room, “You're the son of Paul Meyer? Your father is a genius! His book is amazing. Did he ever write anything else?”

“No, that’s his only work. He died shortly after writing it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” She said, coming down and now sitting down next to me. She seemed older up close, frailer.

“It’s fine, it was a long time ago.”

She looked at the book and chewed her lip. The awkward silence built, and I wondered if I was possibly dreaming because this was the strangest human interaction I’ve ever endured. I didn’t even know who she was yet.

“Is this your library?” I asked dumbly at the same time she blurted -

“Can you sign it?”

Now, this situation might’ve devolved deeper and deeper into confusing awkwardness, but luckily I realized how weird this interaction had been up to that point, and I was not polite enough to hold it back, so I began to laugh, and soon I was doubled over, and the British women soon joined in.

I reached out my hand, “my name is Matt, I’m here… with the project, are you, Martha?”-

“Oh, but I’ll leave you alone now. You need your rest for the interview with Athena.”

“Athena?”

“Project Athena, it’s what they’re calling… the thing they’re working on here.”

I laughed suddenly again, a fear overcame me which I had been pushing down for days. My tired, confused, overstressed brain could no longer hold it down. Suddenly I was a child, and this matronly woman might save me. I leaned forward and grabbed her hand on the table like I was drowning.

“Is it real then? This project? They’re actually doing it?”

She smiled knowingly and patted my hand. “Yes, they really are doing it. My husband helped them get here, and you’ll help them finish. Now you go upstairs and wash up dear, and I’ll have supper for you on the table, and then you can go to bed for the interview tomorrow.”

I nodded, and took her advice, apologizing for my sudden burst of emotion as I left. I climbed the spiral staircase, arrived in my nice room, and collapsed onto the bed.

“Owww,” I said, reaching under me and feeling around. Right in the middle of my back, I had been stabbed by an uncomfortable mystery lump. I sat up and reached under the blankets, pulling out a book.

“Stupid Art Of War attacking my back,” I said, setting the book aside. I washed up, changing and getting new contacts.

I nodded, not in a state to wonder why he was reading such a book. I took a bite of my soup. “Oh my goodness this is wonderful,” I said through a mouthful of food.

“That’s very kind of you. But I’ll leave you to it. If you need me, just ring the bell downstairs and I’ll be right up.”

“Paris probably,” I muttered into the morning. I yawned and stretched and walked outside. The yard smelled of distant cow pies, dew, and grass. I explored the garden, it was large and reminded me of my Tennessee grandparent's garden. The mossy walls were magical and felt truly European. Upon discovering an old church on the premises, I couldn’t help but poke around. But I didn’t like the feeling of being watched. It was no fun to be reminded that if God existed he was looking at me. After searching the shed, I tired of the yard and took to the road. The old gravel road led between tall trees, which made it look like a tunnel. I went over an old stone bridge and river, which I threw a couple stones into. After the bridge, it was just quite pastured until the distant hills and trees. I returned to the house, as the sun began to touch the far horizon, the same one with the city on it. I searched the house. It was full of antiques and pretty things and the whole morning’s experience made me want to read fairytales. This feeling was spurred on when I discovered the attic, old, gloomy, but also cozy, with one small window. I peered out through the dirty glass and saw the sun rising over round mountains and hills.

I charged downstairs and out until the backyard, climbing up the stone wall, hoping to get a better view on that than the attic. It wasn’t high enough, so I scurried down, slipped, fell, and lay on the ground talking deep breaths. And then climbed the tree, I had to stop multiple times to catch my breath but eventually squirmed into the top branch.

I leaned against the tree as I sat and swallowed, wiping sweat from my forehead. physical movement wasn’t my expertise.

But there it was, project Athena. A huge half sphere sticking out of the ground, like a mountain of human ability. It was absurdly large. It took up one fifth of the horizon. It had to be 3 miles wide and tall at least.

Larger than the sun rising next to it, larger than the mountains around it, larger than the skyline of new york.

God in his infinite wisdom had made time, and man, in his finite wisdom, shattered it, with the very tools God had put in his hands.

Hey!!!! Forever here with a short review!

So, first your question. It's a good idea to put the epigraph. I went back to the other chapters to see, they too were pretty good. Now, my question is do they serve a purpose here? Maybe yes, maybe not. From what I can infer, his father was a very intelligent human being. The words are seriously very very philosophical and has a deep meaning in them. Chances are that Matt(I just realized that is his name, in the previous chapter, I really used a wrong name for the reviews, oops) will be influenced by his father's book or maybe his father's book has something that will be immensely helpful in their research and experiment. A lot of possibilities.
Some nitpicks:
1.

It is a danger [red]totoo[/red] look to close at anything, in doing so, we might see our own reflection,

“Everyone wants to go to France!”

“Paris probably,” I muttered into the morning.

No, too tall. They have to be mountain

Larger than the sun rising next to it, larger than the mountains around it, larger than the skyline of new york.

God in his infinite wisdom had made time, and man, in his finite wisdom, shattered it, with the very tools God had put in his hands.

Hi MaybeAndrew,

Mailice here with a short review!

I liked the chapter. It had a nice tone and I liked the introduction of Martha and how the story developed from that.

Let's start right away, with something I noticed; the title says this is chapter 4, but further down in the text it says it is chapter 3. What I particularly liked about this chapter was how you managed to use this cosy and interesting style where I felt comfortable reading it straight away. It felt like the beginning of a holiday trip, where you arrive at a hotel and are welcomed by everyone. You did a good job of keeping the pace.

I liked Martha, but think you could describe her a little more than just the bit she looks like. For example, how can Matt tell she's slim? What kind of clothes does she wear exactly? Otherwise, I really liked the dialogue and also how the story "calmed down" a bit here in the sense of the calm before the storm. You've definitely done a good job there.

What I also noticed while reading, however, are some spelling mistakes, such as missing letters or little things like that, where I just think that a quick re-read will eliminate these errors. In general, I liked the chapter. I liked how Matt was portrayed well here and how you got to know a bit about him and yet the plot also moved on.

Other points that caught my eye:

The inside of the house was nearly as impressive as the outside, the whole structure was built around a large spiral staircase that went up the center of the house, with wings on either side, a sitting room to the right of the entrance, and a French kitchen to the left.

Avery explained the house was from the 1750s

I said goodbye to Avery and wandered into the sitting room.

The Worshipers Delima, By Paul Meyers

I turned and saw a woman standing in the doorway. She was a tall skinny woman, probably in her sixties.

What is the current age of Matthew? Did u specify it? If yes, i have forgotten. Pls tell me