For the world-builders, plot-twisters, and napkin-scribblers. This section is all about embracing the chaos of creativity and finding your weird, wonderful voice. Whether you’re a neurodivergent wordsmith or a genre-bending plot architect, you’re welcome here.
I was 37. Sweat rolled from under my helmet and onto the rim of my glasses before it fell to the concrete. The intense heat didn't help, as the sun reflected off the bowl. My breath, slow and labored. My red helmet was covered with stickers, and it helped people spot me from afar. Honestly, I thought my larger body did enough of that, but as a part of this contest, I just looked like some kid's dad. I was a competitor, and I just had the run of my life.
