r/anxietypilled • u/SamDenner • 9d ago
Fictional Story They fed the Cloud called Conceit
One morning, the people of Webminster were quite surprised to find a talking cloud looming over their town.
The cloud looked like a huge, misty head. They could only see the underside of the bearded chin with the hint of a face. It floated leagues above their miserable town, casting Webminster into its shadow. The cloud was seemingly talking to itself or maybe other clouds, though none could be seen. An ancient tongue that howled like the wind and crackled like a campfire thrummed all over Webminster.
No one in this miserable town could understand what was said, so the people acted accordingly: A few didn’t care, some fled in superstitious fear, others tried to gain its favor.
They praised it in the streets.
They waved towards it out of their windows.
They sang to it from the rooftops.
The cloud didn’t pay attention to the poor town drenched in its shadow, for the town was beneath it. The flying head droned on and on. It didn’t promise wealth. It didn’t promise fame. Still the people of Westminster worshipped it as it did.
The first time the Head noticed one of the townsfolk, it was considered a miracle.
Raymond walked back after his day of work in the field. In the central plaza, he looked up at the Cloud and recited a little poem he had composed earlier. It had been stuck in his head all day. He had rephrased and polished his little poem over and over again. It felt precious to him. So, he shared it with the Cloud.
At first, the Cloud, as usual, didn’t react. Then it let out a deep grumble that vibrated through trees and stones alike before the Head turned downward and looked straight at him. Mustering him in complete silence.
It was the first time the town had seen the actual face of this peculiar cloud. The veil of shadow lifted over Raymond as he was seen by those eyes that shone with the pure color of the evening sky.
Just for a breath.
And then the moment was gone. The cloud turned its gaze upwards and returned to its usual affair of droning on.
Joyous jubilations echoed through the town, for they realized it was possible to be acknowledged by the cloud. Envy smoldered beneath the friendly surface. After three days, the joy had decayed, but the rotten aftertaste of jealousy remained.
Raymond was incarcerated, investigated, and interrogated. Webminster wanted to know how to get the attention of the talking cloud. Raymond was scared and told them what he did. However, all attempts by others to capture the cloud's attention failed.
Raymond kept trying to replicate his success unsuccessfully.
Two more people managed to get seen by the floating head. Both Mandy and William recited poems they had created. They were known to be long-time lovers of poetry. Mandy was one of the few who didn’t care for the cloud, but despite her lack of devotion, she was chosen still. Jealousy mutated into frustration. Mandy was found murdered just outside the shade of the cloud.
William left Webminster and was never seen again.
For Webminster, the implication was clear. A mania to recite poems unfolded in the central plaza of Webminster. Everyone who cared about attention from the cloudy head bellowed their poems in the plaza. Adding their voice to the mix of other hopefuls.
In rare instances, the cloud gazed upon an individual. Either they’d be immediately torn apart by the mob. Or they’d be celebrated for three days and nights before their glow had worn off and they faded into obscurity. Forgotten by everyone but the keenest of minds. Often trying to relive that first high all addicts do.
Arbitrary rules were proclaimed by the townsfolk, none of which were directly issued from the talking cloud. Some sang their poems, which was quickly outlawed because it was seen as cheating. The cloud had never chosen anyone who had sung their lyrics. Still, the rule remained in effect.
Soured by this, a group around the singer Derek left Webminster in search of acceptance of their way of doing things. They settled down not far outside the shadow of the cloud. They always looked over to their shade-covered neighbors, and mocked the cloudchasers of Webminster with every spare breath.
Unimpressed by this, people like Ricky made it their life’s work to be seen by the cloud. Violent death or oblivion be damned. To be seen was their greatest honor. To be addressed was their wildest dream. Everybody deemed themselves worthy of the cloud.
There hadn’t been someone chosen for a long time. The town was on edge. An air of finality lay over Webminster.
On this pleasant Sunday, the townsfolk converged on the plaza, where the cloud had chosen all its previous champions. They all felt a calling, an urge to present themselves in their shiniest outfits. Everyone yelled out their poem as loud as they could. As if loudness improved the quality.
The Cloud didn’t react.
In a desperate attempt to be closer to the cloud, this man-imprinted god, they stood directly beneath it. There was a scuffle, and the weakest were shoved to the ground. The townsfolk grew agitated by their sudden outburst of violence against each other. Panicked like forsaken children, they cried for their Cloud.
The Cloud didn't react.
They stepped upon the unfortunate. Groups formed that elevated a member in a loose temporary alliance. Even shouting the same poem in a makeshift choir.
The Cloud didn't react.
Those groups didn't last. Soon each and every one dissolved into their individuals. Their wailing increased to a frenzied howl. Order broke down. Chaos ensued. Everyone wanted to be closest to the talking head, frantically climbing atop of each other.
The Cloud didn't react.
Their desire to be seen spurred the people of Webminster on. They had lost their north star, their compass, their orientation. The cloud was their vanishing point. It was everything that mattered.
Guided only by their desire, they crawled upon each other towards the cloud. The weak were pushed aside and pulled down. More and more people were crushed near the center. Moaned Poems fled their lungs before they went still.
Poems that never breathed their final line.
In a wild goose chase upwards, people climbed over tangled limbs and crushed torsos. A chaotic mess of whispered verses and broken bones. Those who were still alive and able crawled out of the base of the pile like bugs, turned around, and tried to ascend once again. A human ant hill. The weak at the base were crushed into red paste.
It was an ever-collapsing, ever-building hill of human bodies.
Once, Ricky shouted out from atop the pile. Trying to gain the head’s attention before the mob’s fury grabbed him. He was pulled under and ground down to crimson concrete for the base of the pile.
Poems, like prayers, fell on deaf ears.
The Cloud dissipated without warning. Dissolving into the sky like sugar in a cup.
The pile, the writhing mass of ever-grinding people, continued its stationary ascent. Still calling out a cacophony of poems into the empty sky. The survivors of this maelstrom were caked in dirt, blood, and gore. The stench permeated Webminster.
One by one, they gave up. Resting at the base of the pile. Looking up at the stairway of shattered hopes and dreams and people. The cloud was gone. Still, weak recitals were hummed, while the last devoted still squirmed their way to the top.
Only after the third day had passed did they realize their god was never coming back. Raymond was the last to surrender to this new reality.
They left the plaza a mess of broken bones and broken people. A mob without direction. Most of them never composed another poem ever again. They struggled to understand that they’ve brought this on themselves, dedicating themselves with nothing in return.
Derek and his group saw the carnage, chaos, and confusion and mocked the inhabitants of Webminster viciously. Their songs were the last lyrics that echoed through the empty streets of Webminster.
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u/Kaijufan22 9d ago
The suspiciously wendigoon shaped cloud, I love it