Wrote Unscramble Novels & Stories

I muttered. It wasn’t a message. It was alphabet soup. A jumble of letters that looked like someone had a seizure while playing Scrabble. A T I W L A S Y D I turned it sideways. Upside down. Nothing. It was just… gibberish. Was it a code? A word scramble? Did Sarah’s brain fry before she could finish writing ‘get me a better doctor’? The squeak of shoes on linoleum snapped my head up. Speak of the devil and he shall appear with a bad attitude.

➳ Wearing a cheerful smile, Madeline strolled around the neck of the woods. It was the Mystic Moon's annual Fighter Day, a day dedicated to celebrating the strength and courage of the Pack's warriors. The pavements around the territory were decorated with banners and graceful archways, blooming flowers of all colors were planted all around the land, and a joyful aura flowed through the atmosphere. The men engaged in friendly fights to refine their skills, while children ran and played together in the distance.

Heron “So your telling me the most eligible bachelor in the country proposes to you and you say no?” the exasperation in Clem’s voice was a welcomed comfort on this rather drab morning. It had not stopped raining, and I had to take off my display cases, that would barely fend against the wind. Though being under the canopy meant they weren’t drenched to the bone. Clem looked stary eyes as she rested her hands beneath her chin, her braids swooped up in an intricate bun, “You have to go back and say yes.”

On the page. In my head, I scrawled the word in big, ugly handwriting, underlining it twice. UP. The ink hated that. It lurched around us, trying to swirl the other way, trying to drag us down, down, down. But the words didn’t care. They twisted. Lifted. Rearranged themselves into something new. Around me and Corvin, lines of text rose in spirals, sentences linking end to beginning, forming rungs. Paragraphs bent at right angles. Question marks hooked onto commas. Em dashes stretched, stiffening into rails.

And with her family. I walked into the kitchen and started cracking eggs into a bowl. The house was quiet except for the sound of the whisk and the soft hum of the refrigerator. I made scrambled eggs the way she liked them, soft and creamy. I toasted bread and sliced fruit onto a plate. When I was done, I arranged everything neatly near the microwave and scribbled a note on a small piece of paper. “There is food in the microwave. Warm it up when you wake up. I will be back soon. Rest.

A small white card. I unpinned it with numb fingers and read the words written in sharp, clean handwriting. "Wear this tomorrow. —T"