By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris
They felon had been banished to the back-country. The chilling trip was an unknown, yet he had heard stories. UuikPinpricks 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 she had stuffed himself inside wouldn’t close the right way and in the end, he had been discovered.
Now he was handcuffed to ithe seat in front of him on what looked to be a dilapidated but school bus with two beefy prison guards on either side of him to insure he stayed put.
They bounced around uncomfortable in the semi-darknessz, 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 he uh wedHuhis brain processed what his eyes were telling himo. A rickety yyuiold sign hung above the abandoned graveyard, but the words were still legible. ‘The WeBack-Country’ was painted across all yyyuuoooooooooookookokkvery Different dry and broken piece of rotting timbery. His distraught scream went unheeded.