The Chosen One

Marcy is bored.  Shopping is boring when she doesn't get anything out of it.  Mom is busy arguing with the cashier, because Mom always argues with people.  Marcy thinks Mom might be winning- she can always tell, because Mom's voice gets louder and people start looking at her.

Marcy hangs off the edge of the counter and kicks it.  The wood makes a satisfying boom with each kick.  It cuts through the christmas music playing on a loop throughout the mall.

"Marcy, stop that," Mom says, interrupting her own argument.

"I'm bored," Marcy tells her.  "I wanna go home."

"We'll go home after I convince this nice man that these gloves are in fact on sale, and that I deserve a discount since the scarves I returned had holes in them."

Marcy sighs and starts kicking the counter again.

"Marcy!" Mom says in her you're-in-trouble voice.  "Just go sit over there until I'm done, alright?"

Marcy trudges over to the display stand and sits between the mannequin's legs.  Mom goes back to arguing, but Marcy is still bored.  She fidgets, playing with the mannequin's pants.  The mannequin has a weird pose, like it's pointing at something.  Marcy looks- maybe the mannequin wants to talk to that other mannequin across the store.  But Mom told her to stay here, so Marcy can't do anything to help.  She starts climbing up the mannequin's leg instead.  The knee is bent just right so that she can clamber onto it; once she's there, though, she can't figure out how to reach the shoulders.  She stretches her hand up, but if she reaches too far she'll fall off.

Something touches her back, steadies her so that she can grab the shoulders and swing from them.  She looks around and gasps.

The mannequin's hand had moved.

By Night

The last of the day's sunlight danced on the lake.  A flock of swans moved through the shining streaks of gold, their pure white feathers taking on the pinks and oranges of sunset.  Occasionally, one would dip its head in the water gracefully, or flap its wings; for the most part they moved like ghosts, not leaving a trace of their existence on the world.

At the edge of the lake, something rustled in the trees.  One of the swans, the largest and most graceful of them all, lifted its head; the others continued on without concerning themselves.  The rustle came closer, and then a man pushed through the edge of the trees.  He panted heavily as he looked around.  It was a long way from the town on the hill, and he had run all the way here.

He saw the swans and the blood drained from his face.  He collapsed to his knees, his head bowing.  He no longer had the strength of will to keep it raised.

Another rustle, from the same direction.  This time a woman burst through, panting as well.  Her skin was scratched and bruised.  She'd had to fight her way through the undergrowth.  She didn't know these woods as well as he did, couldn't find the secret paths that had led him through unscathed.  She looked around just as the man had, but her eyes landed on him, not the swans.  She approached slowly, though she had run after him before.

"Freddy?" she murmured.  The swans shifted their wings at her voice; the one that watched the man swam closer.  "Freddy, are you okay?"  She hesitated, then reached out to touch his shoulder.

He twitched.  "You shouldn't be here," he said, so quietly she wasn't sure she heard right.  "Go back to town, Lily."