Dora didn't know where she was going on the tree trunk - what she was doing. Her fingers took her farther than her mind ever could.
She was allowed to do this. Now that she'd turned twelve, she didn't have to follow the people's rules.
Each of her digits grew tightly clenched around the wooden stick in her hand. She stared the bark down - eyed at the wriggling little ants. Every one of them was alive with bright energy.
And like that, in Dora, there was a shift, a snap. She furiously swung her stick into the back of the tree and whacked it. Repeatedly, the tree was beaten, and she punctuated her acts of violence with breaking screams. "Damn - trees!" She didn't like the way the bark flew from it and into her eyes with every smack. "Ah - AAAAHHH!"
She was so angry. She hit it like it was Swiper the Fox.
It saddened the purple sack that had slipped down by her sneakers. Strewn over the oddly-yellow concrete ground, Backpack's straps obscured parts of her vision. Her eyes had a landscape view of the dull pink sky as worry invaded her quivering gaze. "Dios mío! Something is very wrong with Dora."
... To be Continued ...