Betrayed

[Triskele]

He looks to a city dripping with derision for the bourgeois, a tangible sensation of distaste for the corrupt raising his hackles arrogantly. Such a terrible and subtle hate gleaming like droplets of rain in the summer sun. Neon flashes of music covered tar, pierce the gloomy smoke. Black curls waft from his lips, swirling hesitantly amongst the dull sheen of a thousand broken minds. It is here amongst the sneers and the snarls that he walks, effeminate jeans hugging his emaciated frame in desperation, for fear no one else will. Tightly fitted shirts drawn with the images of hate, contrasts sharply with the billowing black coat that hangs to his feet. He takes a long drag on his cigarette; the burning embers tear away the paper. A fiery chimney to from hell sucks out his life to feed his pain, as he trudges down the dark street. Hiss… a single drip of rain extinguishes the last shreds of his sanity, sending it twirling into the curb where he cast it. Then he whirls darkly into a melancholic bar to drown the thoughts that chatter angrily in his head. Small rounded glasses within reach, their mere ounces of liquid, each hold a key to the escape he is desperate for. Fingers reach out to clutch at precious oblivion, when his phone rings. A cellular chain linking him to all the people he wished he had never met. He tersely answers it, brief, and haughty responses quickly knife the conversation. Click… he shuts his phone, “Late, always late” he mumbles, dashing the clear liquid down his throat for courage before stumbling on. Hobbling, insectoid steps quickly click his way out into the rain he sought to avoid Mumbling about his associate’s betrayal to the rain that he now blinks away, he floods off. Striding with long, angry steps that force him through the city like black acidic fluid, burning all in his path with fear. Anarchy now blazes in his dark eyes with a furious passion to live on. He his not late, he is the now, the future, the inspiration to the thousands that live in dark alleys. His tattered coat flapping in the wind, drawing a moody silhouette to the eyes that peep. These minds glance in fear at the prophet of the future, even as they whip down the ones he set free. Now almost running he stops suddenly at a broken door, lighting crackles in the broken sky. Its fierce light illuminating his jagged face, lines of thought pulled tight as he kicks open the cellar door. His eyes striking the dripping blood of his social death, a knell sounding out the inevitable. His comrades now lie with inspired eyes clouded over in death. A myriad of dark red holes peep out of their clothes, cold crimson pupils show his mind the truth it failed to grasp. His sharp thoughts coursing through with the electric realization of what has happened. He slams his knees to the ground and howls. His last shred of companionship denied him. His brilliant ideas curl in the black ink of the past, now scattered and dripping scarlet with his friend’s life blood. It is here amongst the torn remnants of his future that he is found lying; his still sharp ears hear the click of deaths eye cast in metal. This dark and pitiless gaze sees his future amongst the bars of a lackluster life. The time dripping slowly like the congealed passion of his friends, his only thoughts of futile revenge. A brilliant mind betrayed by its foresight, dark genius abandoned in a life of solitude. Betrayed because it upset the balance. A hardened criminal mind gentled by hate, his long life shattering his sanity as he wastes away, destroyed by the futility of a meaningless existence behind bars.

[07loneil]

This is cool! I like the symbolism in the story, it paints a really vivid picture! You have a really great vocabulary, and use words in an enchanting way.

however, I would suggest breaking it up into paragraphs, it is harder to read a block of text. As much as i like the metaphors, they occasionaly obscure the story, and maybe you should try to give more indication of what is actually happeneing.

Overall, this was very good. Could use a little work, but is good and has a good premis and great descriptive language!

[Riesa]

He looks to a city dripping with derision for the bourgeois, a tangible sensation of distaste for the corrupt raising his hackles arrogantly.

Such a terrible and subtle hate gleaming like droplets of rain in the summer sun.
Neon flashes of music covered tar, pierce the gloomy smoke.

Black curls waft from his lips, swirling hesitantly amongst the dull sheen of a thousand broken minds.

It is here amongst the sneers and the snarls that he walks, effeminate jeans hugging his emaciated frame in desperation, for fear no one else will.

Tightly fitted shirts drawn with the images of hate, contrasts sharply with the billowing black coat that hangs to his feet

He takes a long drag on his cigarette; the burning embers tear away the paper.

A fiery chimney to from hell sucks out his life to feed his pain, as he trudges down the dark street.

Hiss… a single drip of rain extinguishes the last shreds of his sanity, sending it twirling into the curb where he cast it.

Then he whirls darkly into a melancholic bar to drown the thoughts that chatter angrily in his head.

Small rounded glasses within reach, their mere ounces of liquid, each hold a key to the escape he is desperate for.

Fingers reach out to clutch at precious oblivion, when his phone rings.

A cellular chain linking him to all the people he wished he had never met.

He tersely answers it, brief, and haughty responses quickly knife the conversation.

Click… he shuts his phone, “Late, always late” he mumbles, dashing the clear liquid down his throat for courage before stumbling on.

Hobbling, insectoid steps quickly click his way out into the rain he sought to avoid Mumbling about his associate’s betrayal to the rain that he now blinks away, he floods off.

Striding with long, angry steps that force him through the city like black acidic fluid, burning all in his path with fear.

Anarchy now blazes in his dark eyes with a furious passion to live on.

He his not late, he is the now, the future, the inspiration to the thousands that live in dark alleys.

His tattered coat flapping in the wind, drawing a moody silhouette to the eyes that peep.

These minds glance in fear at the prophet of the future, even as they whip down the ones he set free.

Now almost running he stops suddenly at a broken door, lighting crackles in the broken sky.

Its fierce light illuminating his jagged face, lines of thought pulled tight as he kicks open the cellar door.

His eyes striking the dripping blood of his social death, a knell sounding out the inevitable.

His comrades now lie with inspired eyes clouded over in death. A myriad of dark red holes peep out of their clothes, cold crimson pupils show his mind the truth it failed to grasp.

His sharp thoughts coursing through with the electric realization of what has happened. He slams his knees to the ground and howls.

His last shred of companionship denied him. His brilliant ideas curl in the black ink of the past, now scattered and dripping scarlet with his friend’s life blood.

It is here amongst the torn remnants of his future that he is found lying; his still sharp ears hear the click of deaths eye cast in metal.

This dark and pitiless gaze sees his future amongst the bars of a lackluster life.

The time dripping slowly like the congealed passion of his friends, his only thoughts of futile revenge.

A brilliant mind betrayed by its foresight, dark genius abandoned in a life of solitude. Betrayed because it upset the balance.

A hardened criminal mind gentled by hate, his long life shattering his sanity as he wastes away, destroyed by the futility of a meaningless existence behind bars.

it's powerful beyond powerful, make it readable. each line stands alone, you should respect that about your own writing.

awed,
riesa

[Triskele]

thanks all, i have thought about the obscurity of the subject matter, and just how vague it is, also have done some work to make it a bit more readable, here is an updated version...

Betrayed
He looks to a city dripping with derision for the bourgeois, a tangible sensation of distaste for the corrupt raising his hackles arrogantly. This terrible and subtle hate gleams like a droplet of rain in the summer sun. Neon flashes of music covered tar pierce the gloomy smoke as black curls waft from his lips. They swirl hesitantly amongst the dull sheen of a thousand broken minds. It is here amongst the sneers and the snarls that he walks, effeminate jeans hugging his emaciated frame in desperation, for fear no one else will. Tightly fitted shirts drawn with the images of hate contrast sharply with the billowing black coat that hangs to his feet.
Stuttered steps falter to a hesitant stop, his tense body almost wanting to go forward even as he pauses to write in a battered pad. Scratches of a long harsh script speak, as if only to the writer. It whispers as though the bitter concepts contained were too acrid for paper to contain. And yet, this bitterness holds a melancholic prose that belies the harsh politics of the piece. Almost reflecting the writer, these expansive lines draw the reader in to one dangerous new thought after another with an eloquently penned revolution. Bold and bright statements are interlaced with the sly undercurrents of a new age. Swirling black lines meant to open lives to new meaning douse the old in the eventuality of a bloody coup. Tersely, the notepad snaps shut. Almost sinister in his brevity, the walking man capers on, a new spring in his step. This newfound energy discovered in the stabs of a weapon that outfights the smoking gun. Vapors rise from this weapon, only to light the pleasure of death.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette; the burning embers tear away the paper. A fiery chimney from hell sucks out his life to feed his pain as he trudges down the dark street. Hiss… a single drip of rain extinguishes the last shreds of his sanity, sending it twirling into the curb where he cast it. Then he whirls darkly into a melancholic bar to drown the thoughts that chatter angrily in his head.
The dank smoldering fumes of ancient dispassion wisp about the room. This habitat for degenerates lights the smoke into columns from unadorned stage lights. Staring deeply into the hypnotic fog he sees the shapes of his past. A broken window, a shattered crib, the lonely nights and the long fights that drove his love away all swirl into the smoky light. To think of the tears and the rage spent out on his lonely bed he begins to shrink in himself. The bittersweet tang of a long thought memory it too much for this broken man. To hide from the pain Sebastian Gedanke thinks back to the happy memories, but again they elude him. The ever twisting smoke leads him back to the disappointment, his parent’s promise of a new life led only to the billowing factory smoke of the industrial world. Seeing an escape from this migratory pain he slaps the green gold idol onto the bar top.
Small rounded glasses within reach, their mere ounces of liquid, each hold a key to the escape he is desperate for. Fingers reach out to clutch at precious oblivion, when his phone rings. A cellular chain linking him to all the people he wished he had never met. He tersely answers it, brief, and haughty responses quickly knife the conversation.
Click… he shuts his phone, “Late, always late” he mumbles, dashing the clear liquid down his throat for courage before stumbling on. Hobbling, insectoid steps lead him out into the rain he sought to avoid Mumbling about his associate’s betrayal to the rain that he now blinks away, he floods off. Striding with long, angry steps that force him through the city like black acidic fluid, burning all in his path with fear. Anarchy now blazes in his dark eyes with a furious passion to live on. He his not late, he is the now, the future, the inspiration to the thousands that live in dark alleys. His tattered coat flaps in the wind, drawing a moody silhouette to the eyes that peep. These minds glance in fear at the prophet of the future, even as they whip down the ones he set free.
Now almost running he stops suddenly at a broken door. Lighting crackles in the broken sky. Its fierce light illuminating his jagged face, lines of thought pulled tight as he kicks open the cellar door. His eyes striking the dripping blood of his social death, a knell sounding out the inevitable. His comrades now lie with inspired eyes clouded over in death. A myriad of dark red holes peep out of their clothes, cold crimson pupils show his mind the truth it failed to grasp. His sharp thoughts course through his mind with the electric realization of what has happened. He slams his knees to the ground and howls. This final shred of companionship denied him. His brilliant ideas curl in the black ink of the past, now scattered and dripping scarlet with his friend’s life blood.
It is here amongst the torn remnants of his future that he is found lying; his still sharp ears hear the click of deaths eye cast in metal. This dark and pitiless gaze sees his future amongst the bars of a lackluster life. The time drips slowly like the congealed passion of his friends, his only thoughts of futile revenge. A brilliant mind betrayed by its foresight, dark genius abandoned in a life of solitude. A revolutionary betrayed because he upset the balance, upturned the tables, and showed the aristocracy the cluttered market their democratic temple had become. A hardened criminal mind gentled by hate, his long life shattering his sanity as he wastes away, destroyed by the futility of a meaningless existence behind bars.