Fiction

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 That time is long past, but we have superceded that ecosystem, in a way.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.

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