A white strobe of thunder lit the trash strewn alley like the birth of a new God or the muzzle flash of a cheap revolver, revealing in stark bleached detail the detritus of souls damned decades too early, hunchbacked and leering, clothes mismatched and torn, more old tablecloth than coat, covered in the ghosts of old meals scavenged from those hardly better off. The tableau is completed with the look of savage terror in eyes of the young, too young, lost and soon to be tormented, thrill seekers. Bored of a life spent never wanting they have come to see what delights a city after dark can provide.
And like a life the light was there and gone, and all thats left is the mighty roar of thunder, or maybe it was a cry of pain, the sounds mingle and become one, and then. Nothing. No sound but the soft murmur of cloth being parted, and then hurried footsteps soon fade to entirely.
They alley is devoid of sound and light. It is a vacuum, now awaiting as bad start to someones day, but even that is hours away. Blood pools in small spurts, describing some violent new river on the cobblestones. Soon, too soon, even this ends, and a journey either starts or ends.