We all wait in anticipation for the coming of the Great Gopher. It is promised in many predictions that he will appear in the divine fur. The children all tumble and run under the thick ticking of the grown-up’s toes. The stomping feet of followers of the all-powerful Great Gopher brings out a rhythm, neat and calculated through the wild wind.
Someone’s hand touches my shoulder, but I refuse to look away from the Great Gopher’s hallowed ground. Around me, more and more of the Great Gopher’s followers moan. I repeat their cries for some sort of sweet salvation.
The sun above us sings. It stings us with its showering song. I don’t care for its reach. My skin will only crawl when I see the almighty paws of the Great Gopher reach up to the sky.
I know I will cry, and I wonder if others love the Great Gopher as much as me. Will our tears be collected in jars to grease the gears that turn the world? The Great Gopher has spoken of such things in the past, and at last, it will happen.
Five days pass.
The sun’s singing has stung me into a red stone. Still waiting, still stomping, still ignoring the wings of the wild wind. The Great Gopher speaks of pain in his many parables, but I wonder now if the Great Gopher has ever even seen the singing sun with his absent beady eyes.
Many members of the congregation fall to the floor full of rotting red children. I still stand and worry of what will come, now that I’ve doubted the unspeakable glory of the Great Gopher. Since he’s waited so long to appear, his lovers now seem to be shrinking.
Few of us stand, and the ones who remain like me are all shriveled. We’ve become sour. The smell of our standstill lives lingers in the wind that is now calming, soothing, and sending a sensation through the wrinkles and cracks of my landscape.
I am now alone, standing, wishing the children would run with smiles and hands raised to praise the gopher that stands before me, cute and confused. It is small, scared, and sniffing the crispy corpses with an animalistic ignorance.
All that falls from my eyes is steam. The dry tears escaping my impaired eyes scares the little creature and it scurries away into the wild with everything else unaddressed.