The Garden was finished before anyone in it was born. The rain arrives on schedule, in the amount that has been decided. The manual has never been improved on.Nobody touches anybody. Children learn it early, with the short rod, because correcting is cheapest when they're small.Sela is twenty-two and has never had a low year. When the tremor takes the hands of the old man who grades pears beside her, she stands up and says, "I'll take that." Nothing forbids it. There is even a provision.Two hundred and nine times. Over twenty months.Somebody is keeping the number.“The Garden’s Wall” started with a question I couldn’t put down. What would a society look like if it decided, sincerely and on the evidence, that compassion was a defect to be bred out? Not a cruel place. A reasonable one, where the punishment is measured, the reasoning is sound, and nobody enjoys any part of it.The answer turned out to be a garden, and a wall nobody built, and a gate that opens outward, and forty-one people put through it in a single lifetime.If you enjoy these stories, please check out my many short story universes at shortstoryverses.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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