Dwelling on the Gyre

The Gyre is  our home, our source of food, our life. Our everything. We drifted here one day, just like all the other detritus of the world, and stuck. It’s our Gyre now, hundreds of years later, we have made it a city of a sort.

Long ago, when the world was clean and people lived on land, the gyres were just points in the ocean, where organic matter gathered and sank below the waves to replenish the food cycles deep beneath. That time is long past, but we have superceded that ecosystem, in a way. Humans now provide the organic waste, although it doesn’t matter any more. The death of the oceans heralded the greater death to come.

There are other gyres, we are told. Those few strange individuals that ply the waves carry stories of three, some say four, other gyres. It’s not such a bad life, I guess. We could be stuck on the strips of baked earth that remain.



The heart wants what the heart wants. She pondered on this as she watched her hero, her muse, twisting and cavorting on stage. Her heart knew what her heart wanted, and today it would receive it’s gift. It was glad. 

Later, as she hunched in a pool of congealing blood, the phrase came back to her, and she giggled around a mouthful of chewy flesh. Suddenly, she jumped to her feet, the half-chewed organ clutched  tight in her hand, and tracked bloody footprints into her sanctuary. She gazed around, for the millionth time, at her beautiful creation. Pictures, news items, hand-scribbled notes, set-lists, all connected in a vast and tangled web of heart-lines. Just one space left, in a whole room full of desire. She placed the mangled heart into its place, and watched the blood spread across her network. 

It’s what the heart wanted. 


The Saviour Machines

With thanks to the inimitable David Bowie:

The boy sprinted into the dusty, desolate village, yelling.

“The saviour machines are coming,” he said, terror and exhaustion cracking and squeaking his voice like a broken child’s toy. “They’re coming!”

As if to emphasise his statement, the clanking roar of the machines could suddenly be heard in the distance. Everywhere, people dropped what they were doing. Children were scooped up by wide-eyed parents and corralled at the other end of the town. A few teens started to lead them away towards the town’s secret enclosure.

The older members of the community stared, resolute, toward the approaching cacophony, and several headed out into the dust bowl without a word. They had seen it all before, and knew it was their turn. The machines came on relentlessly, mindless missionaries of a false idol. The god must have it’s pound of flesh.