G. Matthew King, with thanks to Xavier Thompson

	The streetlight's glow is dim, its tired beam barely taming the
shadows of the oily city asphalt.  Now and again, sounds cut through the
motionless humidity; sirens, laughter, cursing, humanity.  The world
outside.  Around the corner the neon lights will be shining so brightly,
offering some hint of escape from the soulless despair that most would
label a Hell of our own making.  That Hell made real by the groping hands
and meaningless encounters the leave you with nothing but emptiness.  But
that is life these days, amidst the cement, neon and steel of the world
outside.  The alleyway will seem to offer an escape.  Alleyways often do.
Shadows, a cooler dampness to the air; it promises relief from the heat of
the outside.  Step farther in to see the alley-proper.  Steaming filth
will cover the ground where garbage bags have been ripped open by hungry
animals.  Some of them once humanity.  The sordid refuse of that
once-humanity will cling to your shoes, and the sounds of your footfalls
will echo obscenely in the quiet of the shadows.  You will walk farther
in.  An instinct, some form of animalistic need, maybe just morbid 
curiosity, but you will be drawn farther in.  You will notice the smell of
the alley after a few steps.  It clings to your tongue and fills your 
lungs.  It worms its way into you; a feral stench screaming of silent
desperation burying itself into your soul.  Making your mind cloud, your
stomach turn, and your legs weaken under you.  You will stagger a few
steps farther in, trying to regain your sense of balance and sense of
self.   That is when you will see her.  The waif, the runaway, the Goth
chick, whatever label you choose.  The label no longer matters.  She lays
where they left her.  The rapist, the children, the politicians, the
preachers; they have all had their way.  The saints and sinners alike that
is what humanity really is, and has always been.  And still she will lay
there; blood-soaked and twisted, torn and discarded.  Just another piece
of human refuse, in death as in life.  You will fall to your knees to
vomit.  And as you do so, that is when you will see the black ribbon about
her neck, the flash of silver at her throat that tells you the name of the
soul so abused.  Hope.

4/28/99--5/2/99