Alrighty Then - What Next? (Pt. 2)

From my heart to Yours
For You, my God...
From the tallest mountain in my world
She took her love for Him
& penned it. 

Hello, everyone. Am working on the story of Zaniah from yesterday. Will post on it at some point during the day. In the meantime, what is your take on the poem above? Tell me the theme, mood subject, etc. of the poem. (to be cont.) (Took the liberty of going back in to yesterday's blog story and changing Zaniah's shoes. Can you figure out why?)

Zaniah came to, and through what seemed to be a black and gray haze, realized that an attempt was being made to violate her. Every ounce of self-preservation that she had learned from her years of scrapping with the bullies in the orphanage, came to her rescue. She screamed, bucked, kicked, swung and clawed. Her foot connected with the eye socket of one of the assailants. All of the time that she was kicking, swinging and clawing, she was screaming Mr. Woodward’s name. One of the hoodlums straddled her chest and tried to pin her arms above her head with one of his hands and to choke her with his other hand. She knew that she was going to die, but she meant for these two to remember that they had been in a tangle, with a wildcat.

Her arms were raw from raking and grasping over her head to find a weapon, any weapon, when her hand closed over her shoe that had come off when she had been pulled from the gate. All in one fluid movement, she connected with the nose of the assailant that straddled her. She heard bone crunch as liquid spurted from his nose. Her assailant got up and sprinted back up the street into the inky blackness.

 

Zaniah heard someone over her head from behind and used the shoe as a battering ram.

“Ouch! Sh__! Hold it! Hold it, young’un! It’s me, Mr. Woodward!”
Zaniah said, “Oh Mr. Woodward, you need to fix the streetlamp. It’s gone out again.”
“Oh Lord! Bea,” he yelled.  Call an ambulance, quick! This girl’s gonna bleed to death and done gone limp in the process!” “Feisty little ole scrapper, I’ll tell you that; ain’t you, young’un?” he said to himself.

 

Sirens whirred and blue lights flashed as Officer Tillman stepped out of his patrol car. “What’s going on here, Woodward?” he said.

“Aw, young’un done gone and got herself assaulted is what. From the amount of blood, she’s not the only one who is wounded, though.”
“Did you call for an EMT?”
“Yeah, Bea did. Should be here by now, being as the office is only a block over. One of our best tenants… Was moving out tomorrow. Sorry to see her go this way, though. Sho is sorry.”

Well, blog readers, wonder what the storm will entail for little Zaniah? Wonder what? Umph, umph, umph!

Doing What I Can, While I Can,
Alma Jones