Years later, looking back, only the oldest would remember a time before the fence.
Stood beneath the rusted thorns they would talk of melting pots and ghettos, while in the sentry towers barely-pubescent soldiers would fantasise about killing.
At dusk the first wolves would melt out of the darkness, their hungry eyes flashing a warning to any fool who might try to upset the natural order of things.
“Be thankful,” the old ones would say as distant searchlights sliced the gathering dark, “Just be thankful it’s not you in there.”
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This is a 100-word flash fiction story, prompted by the picture you can see up there, as part of Friday Fictioneers.