That Which We Are

Made weak by time and fate.

She smashes one of the thugs in the skull with her hickory cane. He drops like the sack of shit he is. Another charges.

But strong in will.

She ducks under the punch then butts her head upwards, catching him under the chin. Bone crunches; lights out. A hand grabs her from behind, yanks hard. She spins with the force, drives a wheeling elbow into his temple. Down.

To strive, to seek, to find...

The fourth backs away in disbelief, then flees. She picks her shawl up from the pavement.

...and not to yield.