The Wall

The Wall
By Lindsay Brambles
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Introduction:
This story, my very first short piece of fiction, was written back in the
summer of 1979. I had spent a couple of years working on a fantasy
novel and as I let that sit fallow for a time, I turned my thoughts to
writing some short fiction. There was a bit of a boom in the SF field
back in those days (largely because of STAR WARS), and I thought I'd
try my hand at cranking out something for the market.
The concept for the story came out of reading an article about the Iron
Curtain, which back in those days was still an overarching presence in
the world. The Cold War was still hot. Germany was still divided. And
there was still a Soviet Union, which, in the immortal words of Ronald
Reagan, was regarded as an "evil empire." At least by many in the
West.
How much of what we believed back then was truth and how much
myth remains in question, but the world was certainly a different place
compared with what it is now--and we, I suppose, we're quite different
people. The enemy, too, is a different breed now, and far more elusive
than the monolith of Communism that scared the bejeezus out of so
many of us. But in many ways the game played remains the same: it's
about the culture of fear, of societies living in a constant state of

apprehension, ever awaiting the next strike from an enemy who lacks
all moral probity.
Back in the seventies we had a wall between us and them, largely built
upon the foundation of mutually assured nuclear annihilation. Now the
wall is different, and it's built more upon a foundation of ever
evaporating rights and freedoms that has given the enemy the sort of
victory over us for which we were once willing to risk nuclear war.
There is certainly an irony to be found in that.
The war on Communism was a war about a way of life; but the war on
terrorism has become more about life itself. We now find ourselves
sacrificing things we were once willing to die for in order to gain a
sense of security. But at what point does that price become too high? At
what point do we become the very image of our enemy?
In a way I think The Wall applies as much to the present as it did to the
day when it was written, despite the changing face of the conflict in
which we find ourselves embroiled. The story is a simple metaphor and
can be interpreted as you see fit.
Anyway, here, for your edification, is The Wall. As with Zero-Option
(also available freely on the Internet) I encourage you to distribute this
work. Feel free to put it on your websites (as long as proper attribution
is made) and to post it elsewhere. If you enjoy this story be sure to
check out my website at www.freewebs.com/lindsaybrambles for
information on my novel In Darkness Bound ( ISBN: 1-4241-6560-1 )
now widely available at online book retailers. Also check out
www.dertz.in for Zero-Option,
downloadable for free in a multitude of formats from this excellent
website.

THE WALL
By
Lindsay Brambles

"Sometimes," he said, squatting down by the fire and holding his hands
to the open flame, "I think that I hear voices from the other side."
"Voices, Sartas?" someone laughed. "And what do these voices say to
you, lad?"
"Were they women's voices?" asked another, his leering face looming
up out of the darkness and into the sallow glow of the firelight.
"Perhaps some fair-haired temptress willing to relieve you of the
weighty burden of your virginity." More laughter, lecherous in tone,
and quickly joined by a chorus of rough and lustful glee, which in the
closeness of the dark seemed almost feral and far less than mere jest
and honest teasing.
"I can't speak as to whether they were male or female," said Sartas,
trying hard to keep the tremor of embarrassment from his voice. "But it
did sound at times like laughter. Of the sort that good men share about
a fire and over a meal." He assayed a grin as he cast his gaze over his
colleagues.
"No doubt a fiction of the sun," offered Tavarius in a commiserating
tone. He sat across from the young guard, idly poking at food on the
beaten metal plate that was set at his feet. He skewered a square of
meat