By Benjamin Kane Ethridge
Herman and Janet Erikson are facing a situation of grief and agony after wasting their daughter in a success and run. They've given up on one another, they've given up on themselves. they're dwelling daily. One afternoon, to make a terrible scenario worse, their puppy is going lacking within the coyote-infested badlands in the back of their estate. Herman, resolved in fighting one other tragedy, is going to discover the puppy, thoroughly unaware he's on a hike to the River Styx, which in line with Greek delusion used to be the border among the residing international and the realm of the Dead.
Long in the past the gods died and the River dried up, yet a bottle containing its waters nonetheless continues to be within the badlands. What Herman discovers in regards to the darkish energy contained in these waters will switch his existence forever...
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Extra info for Bottled Abyss
You gotta get home to Ruthie,” he wheezed as sweat glossed his waxy face. “Yeah, yeah,” Abe said, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle in his desk. The radio droned the barely cogent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the five boroughs—not to mention the entire globe. Abe took a tentative sip of the whisky, then downed it as he sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of uncorked chaos below. As he peered down, three taxis collided, the driver of one bursting through his windshield like a meat torpedo.
Stragglers who’d broken off from the herd shuffled back and forth, having breached the gate that someone in a panic must have left unlocked. Mike cleared his throat and a couple looked up, their dulled eyes twitching in recognition of something delicious. One let out a faint but audible gasp and began to limp in Mike’s direction. “Be careful,” Ellen said as Mike leaned out further, bent at the midriff. “It’s like you actually care,” Mike threw back at her, but when he did so, he smiled. Ellen sidled up to her husband and put her hand on his back, feeling guilty about pushing his buttons, especially so early in the day.
Now he was grateful for them—except the scented ones. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. The fresh, fruity, cinnamony, flowery aromas reawakened his dormant sense of smell, unfamiliar odors rousing the olfactory receptors, which in turn refreshed the revulsion from the overwhelming tang of rot outside. It had only taken one Apples ’n’ Spice candle to teach him his lesson. He’d lit the wick, basked for a moment in the delicious bouquet, and then puked from a crushing whiff of the ceaseless alfresco parade of putrescence.
Bottled Abyss by Benjamin Kane Ethridge