By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris
The felon had been banished to the back-country. The chilling trip was an unknown, yet he had heard stories. Pinpricks of information came down the in-house communication network dubbed, ‘the slithery string,’ about the place unmanageable inmates like him were sent and never heard from again.
He had tried to miss the deportation wagon by hiding out in the laundry room, but the lid of the basket he had stuffed himself inside wouldn’t close the right way and in the end, he had been discovered.
Now he was handcuffed to the seat in front of him on what looked to be a dilapidated school bus with two beefy prison guards on either side of him to insure he stayed put.
They bounced around uncomfortable in the semi-darkness, dusk had just fallen. The old bus made a sharp right turn, hit several potholes and finally stopped. Before the bus stopped bouncing from the rough ride, the guards were manhandling him down the stairs and out of the door. He looked around confused, until his brain processed what his eyes were telling him. A rickety old sign hung above the abandoned graveyard, but the words were still legible. ‘The Back-Country’ was painted across a very dry and broken piece of rotting timber. His distraught scream went unheeded.