Sarah dreamed; monumental boulders, herself shovelling a thin channel of mud from between, talking to Thomas Jefferson.
"This was Yosemite, or like Yosemite, before the flu."
"The flu?"
"75% of the world died within two months between looting, riots, fever shakes."
"I remember too well."
Stone walls loomed to both horizons, clear deep distant blue gaps grew to massive sky overhead then vanished in the other direction; as Sarah stared skywards, phosphenes danced through black space directly above her.
"The space station falls from Pisces to Aeries every day; three died of the flu there, still falling there. Astronauts were too healthy; the healthy died the most. They say autoimmunes are like that."
Thomas Jefferson sat wedged across the two converging walls, above where Sarah had already shovelled; back against one wall, feet another, smiling curious tranquility.
"Space station?"
"In 1920 our machines could fly, in 1960 they flew high enough to fall for years without hitting the ground. Men spent lives, fortunes to fall unburdened by their own weight."
"Have you flown?"
"As a child. Us survivors have blackened brains now; we manage, concentration is harder, nobody's that good at anything now."
The stones dwarfed the couple; the channel mud so shallow, Sarah's spade had to be used from the side to get at it, now the mud retracted into the stone as she stared at it.
"Where are you putting that mud after you scrape it out, Sarah?"

Does that statement warrant waking, Sarah?
Sarah rolled face against pillow, pulled blanket tighter. The plastic bag full of liquid upon her brain strained upwards; fluid within left contours of her mind, collapsed into a plasticine tear drop, grew heavy in her hand. She set it back down, slowly.
Back to sleep?
Consciousness suffocated; her bed reached out arms, held the small of her back, pulled her tight smelled her hair looked through her eyelids with moving pictures.

Pet chickens scrabbled ground; fleeting desperation devolved panic.
"Beware ME!" pink-dressed Sarah cried, lunged birdward.
Fowl scattered accord thousands year instincts; Sarah never closed within armlength.
Chickens bocked, strutted relief from across chainlink fence;
Poultry-ignoring Sarah's net successfully captured a butterfly, crumpled against grass.
Wingless insect died several minutes after Sarah continued, Monarch earring adorned.
Called inside, dinner; her mother disposed trophy earrings, served spaghetti;
ate, escorted bedward, Sarah pencil doodled about circles, homework toiled Skip-It style,
Woke next morning homework incomplete, yelling ensued, spanking, tears, bus ride.
Tom longingly stared from the seat behind, Sarah silently accepted;
They reached fourth grade together, her neck curls bounced up from her seat, he watched her leave.

Singular thought from Tom transitioned dream to reality;
Bag punctured, liquid drained through Sarah's brain, dissolved restriction, invigorated synapses;
"Starlight travels straight, skirts solar gravity, freckles recessing children below
Glare withers squirming mutilated butterflies,
Boy's memories curves towards Girl's curls, memory past event horizon."
Coffee poured into the pot, Sarah's eyelids opened eyes thoughtlessly; smell centered reality, that thought never flowed again.

Suburban squalor devolved about her; electricity erratically ran on low voltage lines from the nearby landfill methane cogen, three stations still broadcast, the Internet ran by the local community college only reached a few miles away, chickens went feral in abandoned homes.
"The power grid once was national, Internet global, mankind stellar..."
"where does that coffee come from, Sarah?"

Thomas Jefferson lived, died across the street; only his mom lived, left later. Tom made Sarah blush enjoyably when he looked at her; she'd run away, chase chickens and butterflies. There were many more butterflies now, she lived alone, her parents weren't around. To get pregnant was to die.

She was 20; beautiful, early July day, she skipped school at the college and drove towards the beach, past the pointless barricades on the freeway that ran through her town, her dad's old diesel pickup still ran fine. Parts for cars were getting hard to fine, occasionally came in with the fuel, food and coffee shipments from the Government. She drove through four more barricades on her way to the beach; they let people through on beautiful days like this. A few people were there, barbecuing with tents; signs posted a four day camping limit so squatters squabbled over homes nearby. The water was much bluer than Tom remembered. She'd like to live here, but she had paper's saying her parent's house was hers and wouldn't want the risk to move into an abandoned place. There were a couple banks, most wanted deposits in gold but would take copper and silver, or enough old money.
Sarah, Sarah, you're not going to do your homework today. How will you ever afford anything big?
Boats sailed in and out of the marina; cheap transport and quarters, they were quickly looted by survivors. There was much more activity on the coast than along the roads she drove to get there.

Hiding under a threadbare towel she changed into her floral bikini in the broken-up parking lot, like a girl ran into the water with a surfboard she had found in an abandoned garage a couple years earlier. Two hours later she found her truck had been stolen.
Sarah Sarah Sarah, why can't you think things through? Why can't you do the right thing?
A frustrated tear leaked from one eye down the face of the world's potential, amidst a bustling decaying marina town, strangling pandemic parasitic cysts accumulated in the crevices of her brain and those of the squatting men watching and conspiring to take advantage of her.
"What can you do, girl?" Thomas Jefferson sat behind her on the bus home, now staring blazingly unwelcome with cruel intent at her wet hair. "Can't you ever do anything right? Won't you?"

 

It's better with indentation. The forum won't let me add the indentation.

 

Begle, I think this is lost on a diesel forum website. Nice writing though, if not a little too abstract for my liking.

 

I wouldn't have it any other way.