The Joy of Sigz
A David Sands Competition story by Julia Hawkes-Moore
An entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition
The Joy of Sigz by Julia Hawkes-Moore
After the Catastrophe, it had taken only one generation of Humankind for Sigz to become universal. How long had Sigz been present on planet Earth? The general Scientific opinion was forever, but humans had only glimpsed them as as haloes, auras, orbs, will-of the wisps, dust-devils. They were now considered as Angels. I hated them.
The great Storms which hurled themselves across post-disaster Earth were no issue for the Sigz. Fraught with ancient passions, riders could bob, soar, dive and dip with glee - or fury at the profound global losses. The injured and disabled, like Lazarus, stepped up from their wheelchairs into airy freedom. Many just shuddered and shivered with panicked misery for hours and days, before some stability was restored by the Sigz caresses. I tried to help, but was too angry to be tolerant of whingers. There was too much to do, and no-one else was doing anything!
Sigz initially gathered like shuddering bunches of grapes around any working communications towers, but as devices ran out of charge, that stopped. There was no news, no more explanations. Flashing a light was enough for a Sig to be approached by others, to converse and soothe.
Sigz had no agenda, they just wanted to serve with joy. They first became popular in the North, as refuge from snow and ice. However polluted, cold or hot the air around, the Sigz temperature was fresh and perfect for it’s rider. The awkwardness of clothes was banished. As pet-keeping necessarily fell out of fashion, Sigz met all needs for tactile delights at their owners’ whims.
As clothes decayed, everyone became naked as they had arrived on the planet. The translucence of each Sig provided privacy as the owner wished. Each dimmed to black as the owner slept within. I could not stab or pierce or even prod a single Sig.
Lovers could merge their Sigz into luminous revolving balls of marbled passion. Making more babies became the sole purpose of many humans. There was no consideration of what hell those babes were being born into. Waiting beside a mother giving birth was a glowing ball of light ready to envelop and protect the new-born child. I beheld a triplet mother have three Sigz waiting happily, gently bobbing in anticipation. As each babe was held up into the air for the first time, their Sig melded around the fragile new body, cleansing and purifying, caressing and warming. Staying fused with the Sigz of their parents, until teenagers stepped away entirely into their own Sig. Scientists studied the length of tendrils of connection between families, stretching out until micro-cellular. Impossible to snap or cut, yet never tangling. Believe me, I tried to slice that umbilical cord in every way I could, and failed.
There was no racism to Sigz, they gained the skin-colour of their precious occupant. Flawless smooth skin-textures wrapped around the body. They could contract to strengthen a toddler’s first steps, or expand into a globe supporting a comfortable sleeping human. The fact that Sigz could fly was avidly welcomed by earth-bound humanity. Whatever the weather, the temperature of the Sigz was perfect for each occupant. Everywhere you looked, orbs of soft light floated, with more purposeful people zipping across the sky in arcs of intent. Some flashed with need to communicate with another human. Most Sigz just dawdled idly, which made me angry.
With the air fouled by the chemical smoke and fumes of the the Great Disaster, riding in Sigz had become an obvious solution. They purified the air, and finger-like nipples proffered ambrosia and nectar directly into hungry, dry and thirsty mouths. Everyone reported the liquids as being their own favourite flavours. Mine were fresh peach-juice and tiramisu, which was annoyingly pleasant.
As a soul who had striven to learn and study as a Midwife, I watched for years as neighbours drifted comfortably, or fell ill and died. Lacking protein and fats, youth grew pale and spectre-thin and died. As they died, their Sig contracted, greying into a shrivelled husk, shrinking, consuming the body, then blinking out into non-existence. There was nothing left to commemorate, just an absence of decay and rot.
I stumbled across the blasted heath which used to be my home-town. My own Sig bobbed behind me, proffering rest and sustenance - to which I occasionally succumbed. I would kick the Sig like an unwanted balloon, trying to run from it, jump and leap, slash it with my precious scalpel. But it waited patiently, just beyond my compass.
Humans were all in deep shock at the devastation of their planet. A few birds and animals were reported to have survived, but predators did not last long after Armageddon. The harrowed earth crawled with cockroaches, weevils, and Sigz.
As I struggled to scour the earth for useful articles surviving the catastrophe, at first others joined and helped me search. We rescued a few people trapped in cellars and caverns, alerted by their small bobbing Sig tentacles flashing in desperation. But the others gradually gave up, and shrugged away in their Sigz, leaving me alone and cursing.
As the years crept by, I observed fewer people outside their Sigz. After the first decade, a few plants began to poke tendrils out from the ash, and the greening began to replenish the atmosphere with the oxygen of Life. I tried eating a few plants but I did not recognise enough to be certain. All the ten thousand years humans had strained to improve agriculture were worthless.
Humans became soft and thin, former obesity hanging in crumpled folds and flaps of skin. The Sigz I recognised were growing fewer. I tried to teach clusters of small bony children how to speak and count, singing, telling stories about how the World used to be. But for them it was all unimaginable and dull. Bored, they drifted away to sip and drowse. What use was singing ‘The wheels on the bus’ when there were no wheels, no buses? Why count beyond fingers and toes and how many Sigz can you see? Why sing carols, hymns, or recite prayers to a God which cleearly does not care?
Seeing me approaching, Sigz began to bounce away, avoiding engaging with the tattered madwoman. I used to be valued and loved – but now I was an irritation. I wept and screamed and swore at the ending of all hope. The Past had gone, and there was no Future.
Eventually I too gave up, reclining in idle comfort and just watching. Often I saw adult Sigz shrinking and withering and dissolving into death. Everyone I knew was ceasing to be.
The children in Sigz became teenagers, and roamed about mating with any willing Sigz of their own size. Marauding gangs of sleek youth patrolled and argued in a dodgem-car manner with other gangs.
It was a kindling of peace, as the first shoots of brambles, nettles and trees began to arise. I could foresee great forests reclaiming our little planet. I glimpsed a few tiny animals scuttling through the undergrowth, dining on leaves and cockroaches. I watched a flower bud and unfurl, bloom, spread seeds, wither and die.
Our Earth began to reclaim herself - and this time would be peopled only with Hell’s own Angels.
About Julia Hawkes-Moore:
Architectural Historian, Published Author, Librarian, Teacher and Cook. Julia lives in lovely Herefordshire, caring for her old Mum and dabbling in history.
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