By Benjamin Kane Ethridge
Herman and Janet Erikson are facing a predicament of grief and ache after wasting their daughter in successful and run. They've given up on one another, they've given up on themselves. they're residing day-to-day. 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 combating one other tragedy, is going to discover the puppy, thoroughly unaware he's on a hike to the River Styx, which in response to Greek delusion used to be the border among the dwelling global and the area of the Dead.
Long in the past the gods died and the River dried up, yet a bottle containing its waters nonetheless is still within the badlands. What Herman discovers concerning the darkish strength contained in these waters will swap his existence forever...
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Extra resources for Bottled Abyss
I can still hear him though. ” Now I roll my eyes. It always comes back to that. Every spooky place in America, it seems, was built on an old Indian graveyard. I’m as sick of hearing that as I am of being told that the only real Indians live west of the Mississippi. But Willy isn’t finished yet. ” he asks. Wilbur holds out his hand. I settle back in my seat. I understand. It’s not the time or place to get into this. ” I think it’s a faint hope. People don’t change overnight, even in a healthy outdoor atmosphere.
But I can’t stay here forever. I look at my watch just as I hear the clanging sound of a big cowbell being hit by a stick. Time to work together, build teams. Happy little birds, be solitary sparrows no longer. We’ll meet the rest of the camp staff and then be told what group task we have to accomplish for the two remaining hours before dinner—maybe nest-building. Dinner will be our first meal in the dining hall. We were all given lunch bags from the school cafeteria when we left Pioneer Junior High, which we ate on the bus.
His eyes catch mine; I can’t look away. A little smile curls his lips. ” someone behind me declares. ” I quickly turn my head away to look behind me. It’s Willy Donner. He’s holding his cell phone and frantically tapping away at its keys. He holds it up again. “Look,” he says, his voice as tragic as that of a shipwrecked sailor. ” “Cell phones do not work here,” a know-itall voice intones. ” It’s the square-built man in the khaki uniform. He’s close enough now for me to make out the name tag on his chest.
Bottled Abyss by Benjamin Kane Ethridge