Clermont Library Short Story Contest 2026: Teen Winners

First Place Teen Category

The Stellar Bearer by Emma Jenkins

I’ve enjoyed my life. It’s plain, simple, and boring. It’s the perfect life for someone that doesn’t like to get involved in anything. The most exciting thing about me is that I like astronomy and I love music. When I was younger, my grandfather always told me stories about stars. See, he was an astronomer, he studied the stars. He always told the best stories, and I still almost believe his stories are real. That was before he had been sent to a mental hospital at the start of my freshman year.

He told me stories about these celestial beings that originated from stars themselves when I was younger. He made up names for them as well, but I’ve forgotten them. My dad tells me to disregard the stories, considering my grandpa made them up. His stories were amazing. It’s sad that I believed them, but I was a young kid, so I guess you can’t exactly expect much. They just seemed so vivid, like they were real. However, I know better now, they were made up, lies.

Since my grandpa was sent away, my parents wanted to clean out his house so they could put it on the market. Unfortunately, I didn’t have school the week they wanted to do it. My school had recently gone on Spring break, which meant I was stuck helping them clean it out. They put me in charge of taking any boxes they didn’t want to the big dumpster out front. Luckily, I was able to sneak away and head to the attic. It’s where my grandpa kept all his amazing artifacts. He showed me some of the artifacts up here one day, and I was mesmerized by it.

When I got up there, I was surprised to see a chart on the wall. I have never seen this chart before. All the times I was up here with grandpa when I was younger, but not once had I seen this chart. I looked at it more closely and saw that it was a star chart. I carefully took it off the wall, if anything, I wanted to keep this. The chart was frayed on the edges, but besides that, it was in decent shape; considering how old it looked. It had many different constellations on it as well. The names of the constellations were put right beside each one. On the chart, the only names I could make out were five constellations: Orion, Draco, Lyra, Cassiopeia, and Aquila. I made sure I was gentle as I put the chart on a table nearby for safekeeping, before turning away to go through other things in the attic.

As I looked through different boxes, I saw a faint glowing light from the corner of my eye. When I turned around, I became confused by seeing the star chart glowing. I went to it to see if I had put it on top of a light. However, as I went to reach for it, it felt as if I was being sucked into the chart. I fell for a long time; my surroundings was empty space. There were these white dots all around me. That’s when I realized that those ‘white dots’ were stars. But there was no way those are stars. However, they looked very real to me. Just as I was getting a better look at them, I fell face first into a field of grass.

I groaned as I sat up and looked around in confusion. The grass was purple and had these sparkly dots on it. I quickly realized that I wasn’t on Earth anymore. I looked around at my surroundings once I had gotten up off the ground. It was a valley for miles and had mountains lining the distance. Once I had come to my senses, I began to examine myself for injuries and that’s when I found a strange glowing mark on my hand. It looked like a shining star. I tried to rub it off, but it didn’t come off. That’s when I noticed another person was there now; someone I hadn’t noticed before when I was scanning my surroundings.

He had eyes as dark as obsidian; he had what looked like scales along the side of his face. It looked like he had a shadow engulfing him all the time, even though it was sunny wherever I had ended up. That’s when I spoke up, “Hey uh...sir? Do you know where I am?”

The man just stared at me silently before speaking. “They found a new Stellar Bearer?” He let out an audibly annoyed sigh before speaking again, “I suppose I should deal with you quickly before they show up.” The man then began to send flames in my direction.

I managed to dive to the ground to dodge the flames, barely missing being burnt by the flames. However, at that moment, the mark on my hand began to burn badly. I yelled out in pain and began to try and blow on the mark to cool it off. That’s when a golden mist surrounded me and I was transported to a new location. I looked up only to see four new people surrounding me. One, who looked almost beautiful enough to be a muse, spoke up, “This...is our champion? I thought Quinn Renfield was older than this?”

That took me by surprise, making me quickly speak up, “You know my grandfather? How?” I asked as I composed myself hurriedly, I absentmindedly noticed that the mark was no longer burning.

They all looked at me in confusion before one of them sighed, “We are the Celestial Guardians, and we are not people. We are the embodiments of the constellations, boy.” Another one then spoke with an almost annoyed voice, “Orion, be nice. He is only a child, after all.” The guy, Orion I suppose his name is, looked very annoyed at this, but just grunted, “Aquila, he does not even know anything. How can he become our champion against Draco? Draco would no sooner strike him for the boy to fall. You cannot expect this child to fight him!” He didn't sound angry, just annoyed. Aquila then spoke, “Lyra, Cassiopeia, Orion; this boy is the only way to defeat Draco. If we do not put our full faith and power into this boy, he will fail.” She then turned to me, “Now, what is your name, child?”

“My name is Alex, Alex Renfield.” I said.

Aquila nodded before speaking again, “Well, Alex, it is nice to meet you. I am sure you are confused as to where you are. You are in the Astral Fields. This is the home to the embodiments of the constellations. However, as you can see from looking outside, few are left as embodiments. Most are stuck in their constellation forms due to one embodiment. Draco.”

I stared at her in astonishment. “Draco...like the dragon constellation...? Wait, you’re the constellation Aquila? And you’re the Orion constellation? You must be joking, right? Embodiments? Seriously? Good joke, but constellations are just constellations.” I said in an annoyed tone.

Aquila sighed, “you have no reason to believe us, but believe us about one thing. Draco, the one I speak of, is hurting the rest of this valley. We need you, just like we needed your apparent grandfather decades ago. He managed to help us lock Draco up, but Draco escaped. Now, we need you to help defeat him for good.”

I rolled my eyes, “Say I do believe you, I’m just a kid. What exactly could I do to help you?” They all glanced at each other. “Well...once we give you pieces of our powers; you will be able to use stellar energy to then go defeat Draco. Your grandfather was about your age as well when he came to help us, so we know never to underestimate you humans. Now, do you give us permission to transfer pieces of our powers to you?” Aquila asked.

I hesitated before sighing, even if I believed them (which I do not.) What did they even mean by powers! I stared at them for a long time before sighing again and nodding, “Fine. I will play into your make-believe game.” However, the moment I finished my sentence, I felt a wave of energy flow right into me and could see streams of light flowing from the four in front of me. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel good either. It felt more uncomfortable than anything.

When the glowing disappeared, Aquila looked at me, “You are equipped with pieces of our powers now. I will now ask that you aid us in defeating Draco. We understand that this is a lot to ask of you, child. However, this is our only choice, as we cannot fight him ourselves, less we are drained of our powers.”

I stared at her in shock. I didn’t want to do this. It was the last thing I wanted, but then again, I’ve always been told that my greatest flaw is empathy. I let out an annoyed sigh before nodding. “Fine, where do I find him?”

They looked surprised by me agreeing so easily. They were speechless for a few moments before Orion spoke up finally, “The Obsidian Rift, five miles East of here.” He then pointed in a direction, so I knew the way.

I nodded and then left. When I got out of the building, I headed in the direction Orion had pointed me in. On my way, I tried to use the powers they had given to me. The good thing was, they had also somehow transferred the knowledge to use them to me as well. I tested it on a few shrubs on my way, and it worked better than I expected it to.

When I had finally arrived in the Obsidian Rift, I at once noticed the man I had met before waiting for me. He just silently watched me as I approached before speaking, “I see they have finally told you your purpose. Fine then, I have dealt with many of you before, you will be no different.” He said it with indifference, as if I was no threat to him at all. But, then again, I was a kid, I wasn’t a threat to him at all. However, I pushed forward and formed a spear made of light and hurled it at him. It cut right through the air; you could almost see a tiny explosion as it hit him square in the chest.

I didn’t celebrate yet, I knew he wouldn’t go down so easily. The spear dissipated and I summoned a sword of light and charged him. I slashed through the air at him, feeling the burning sensation in my palms as the light sword was against them. I didn’t let up in my attacks, though he managed to land blows on me with his staff. He knocked me to the ground in an instant and stood over me with a condescending smirk.

It hurt to continue fighting, but I couldn’t give up. I summoned harsh wind currents to hold him against the ground, I then managed to get out a coherent sentence, “You think of me as weak, yes? Well, how about I show you just how weak I am.” I then went to swing my sword at him, but he grabbed it with one hand, though I could tell it was a weak grip. I could have easily continued my swing if I wanted to. However, for some reason, I stopped. I saw the face of agony he had on, the pain, the tiredness.

That’s when he took a chance to speak, “Boy...just finish me off. They hate me, yes? They want you to stop me, yes? So why do you hesitate?” He asked this, but I knew he did not expect an answer.

In fact, I didn’t have an answer for him. I could tell that he was not the bad guy. The other four had portrayed him as such. However, I could tell from his appearance that he had endured this for a long time. I stared at him, not with hatred, but with sympathy. I felt bad for him. I finally spoke, “You’re...not the enemy, are you...?” I knew the answer already, but I wanted to hear it from him.

He shook his head sadly, “No. No, I am not. I never hurt anyone. The others...they saw what they wanted to see.” I stared at him, he sounded so sad, so alone.

“Come on.” I said, anger pouring into my words. He didn’t bother arguing, he almost looked afraid of me. What I didn’t notice at the time was that light had begun forming around me and the wind had begun to pick up. I led him back to the place I had met the other four at. I stormed up to the top, Draco following behind me warily. The four celestial guardians stared at us in shock, “Child, why are you with the enemy!” Aquila looked almost petrified as she spoke, staring at Draco. I didn’t care, however. My anger was far greater.

“He is not the enemy! You can’t just label someone as a villain without knowing them! He became what you made him out to be!” I yelled at her, anger seeping throughout my entire body. I didn’t care if they were these celestial guardians. This was more important for me than to be reasonable. The four stared in shock, as if it were the first time they had been yelled at. Even Draco looked shocked.

Finally, Lyra spoke up, pleadingly “Child...we did not realize. Forgive us, please.”

Draco then spoke, “Boy, maybe you should take a breath before continuing.”

I stared at him but slowly breathed in and calmed down just slightly. “I am sorry for yelling. However, my point still stands.” I spoke calmer than before, but anger was still there.

They looked between each other before nodding, “Child, we realize we have made mistakes. We do not fully understand yet, but, in time, we will. Draco, I am sorry we treated you this way. We have some apologizing to do, but first, we need to get this child home.” Cassiopeia said.

I looked surprised as a portal opened beside me. “You are free to come back any time you would like, just hold that star chart and say, ‘Astral Nexus’ and you will be brought here. Tell your grandfather we say hello.” Aquila said. I nodded before heading through the portal.

When I emerged, I was in front of the mental hospital. I went inside, asked to see my grandfather. They brought me to his room and I spoke immediately, “Grandpa, you were right. They are amazing. Also...they miss you.”

He stared at me for a long time before letting a small smile fill his face, “You are a Stellar Bearer now, Alex.” He sighed, “Enjoy it.”

Second Place Teen Category

Left Behind by Dylan McIntyre

The very first lesson you come to understand while working the lost-and-found is that folks almost never leave behind what they intend to give up. Instead, they tend to misplace what they’re holding without thinking about it.

I discovered this on a Tuesday, which happens to be the slowest day at the station. Mondays are the most frantic with wallets, purses, and cell phones. Fridays are always loaded with umbrellas, raincoats, and regret. Tuesdays, however, drift by like a city bus with hardly any passengers: just the driver humming his favorite songs while the windows rattle with the baggage of no one in particular.

My job was to sit behind the counter that no one ever paid attention to and write down the objects left behind. I recorded things carefully, because somebody once told me that labeling something was the earliest act toward caring about it.

Item 417: One running shoe, left, size eight and a half, fading pink stripe, smells just barely like oranges.

Item 418: Shopping bag holding a singular onion, three crumpled slips of paper, and a handwritten note that says simply milk, bread, call mom.

Item 419: A navy-blue mitten, teeth marks, likely from a dog, maybe from a ravenous child.

The bus drivers would bring their findings in a weak cardboard box like a donation. They never stay. The lost items will not pay them overtime.

I arranged the belongings on metal shelves that buzzed faintly under their breath, like they knew something I didn’t. Sometimes I would imagine that the shelves were sighing under the burden of unfinished tasks and interrupted lives.

You begin to notice patterns in what passengers leave behind. Children misplace jackets. Adults lose their time. The oldest bus riders misplace worn-out baseball caps and never come back for them. Hardly anyone ever leaves behind a book on purpose.

That is why the lonely paperback surprised me.

It arrived along Route 22, the long one that runs across the city like a story that refuses to stop. The grumpy driver pushed it toward my outstretched hand without so much as glancing in my direction.

”Somebody will be looking for this,” he muttered. They usually say something like that.

The book was curled at the corners, the cover washed out to the shade of waterlogged paper. The title had worn itself nearly invisible. I picked it up like it might answer if I knew the proper question to ask. Inside the front cover, someone had scribbled a single word in blue ink. The handwriting slanted forward impatiently, like it was constantly in a rush.

It was my father’s name.

I don’t know how long I stood there gripping the pages. Time plays strange tricks on you when it recognizes you first.

My father had been gone for two years, four months, and eight days, but who is counting except people who cannot stop themselves. He passed away silently, the same way he handled most things, easing himself away from my life like the early bird friend at the sleepover trying not to wake anyone else.

He loved bus rides.

He believed they were proof that strangers could get along, at least briefly, for one moment.

I lowered myself onto the chair behind the desk and flipped through the book. Inside, the margins were alive and crowded. I wasn’t shown neat annotations or scholarly markings. These were arguments. Discussions. Quiet little celebrations scratched in pen and pencil, sometimes crossing themselves out, sometimes filling the space as if afraid of being forgotten.

That part isn’t accurate, one note claimed. Yet it feels like it wants to be that way.

Another read: If I had known this before, I would have handled things differently.

For his whole life, my father wrote like he was speaking to somebody just beyond hearing him. I flipped quickly through page after page after page, my chest tightening like a knot recalling its purpose. At the very end of the book, slipped between the final chapter and the back cover, was an old receipt from a diner that closed down the same year he passed. Written on the receipt, in the same familiar forward-leaning script, was a simple phrase.

Choose the longer route.

He used to say these exact words to me whenever we took the bus together. We would stay on the bus far beyond our stop, just to find out what came after.

My mother couldn’t stand it. She insisted we were wasting valuable time. My father would grin and respond, “Time gets wasted whether you spend it or not.”

I closed the book and glanced around the bus station. The lost-and-found shelves seemed nearer, as if they were leaning towards me. I imagined the other forgotten objects paying attention. The shoe was missing its other half. The mitten must have been curling its fingers. The grocery list was asking itself if mom ever did get called.

For the rest of the day, not one person showed up.

At the end of the day, I was expected to secure the book in the cabinet behind me with the rest of the valuable items. Wallets, keys, dignity, self-respect, and tears. But instead, I gently tucked it into my backpack like a secret I wasn’t ready to explain.

That night, I went through it one more time, more carefully than before.

I traced the scribbles with my fingers, like learning to read braille made of memories. Somewhere along Route 22, my father had been reading. He must have stood up too quickly when his stop arrived that he left a piece of himself behind like a mark he never wanted to leave.

The following day, I carried that very book back to the bus station. Rules are rules, even when it aches to follow them. I logged it properly this time around.

Item 427: Paperback book, heavy, crowded with annotations, owner likely emotionally invested.

It waited on that hard cold shelf for the next three afternoons. On the fourth day, a woman stepped inside the creaky door. She seemed to be exhausted in a way that had very little to do with sleeping. The buttons of her trenchcoat were crooked, and she carried herself like she was apologizing for being there.

“I happened to misplace a book,” she told me.

Folks always seemed embarrassed about admitting that.

”What kind?” I asked.

She hesitated. “One that mattered.”

I reached for the book and laid it on the desk between the two of us. She brushed the cover like it could vanish before our eyes any second.

”I lent this to him years ago,” she said softly, “He promised he’d return it.”

”He left notes,” I said before I could catch myself.

Her eyes filled with tears, not entirely at once, but gradually, like a dark room filling up with light. “He always did,” she replied. “He thought that life was something we were supposed to debate with.” She glanced at my face then, really looked, and a feeling moved between us—recognition, understanding maybe. Or acceptance.

”He talked about you,” she told me. “Said you were the only person who understood buses.”

I tried to smile. It came out crooked, uneven. She slid the book into her purse, then paused.

”Did you want to keep something?” She wondered. “A page?”

I shook my head. “No,” I whispered. “I think it has already done its job.”

She nodded, like that made enough sense to her.

After she went, the room fell quiet. It wasn’t hollow, but finally settled. I stayed working there until the end of the Summer. More things were forgotten. More things were reclaimed.

A violin with a single string missing.

A graduation cap with the year crossed out.

An envelope addressed to nobody.

Every object told a story if you allowed it to. Most people did not. On my final shift, I lingered long after hours. I arranged the shelves one last time. Some items would never be picked up. They would wait until the city decided they’d waited long enough. I rested the tips of my fingers on the shelf and felt it hum.

”You did well,” I told it, feeling a tad foolish.

Outside, a bus pulled away, full of people holding tight to what they remembered to bring along.

I took the long route home.

Third Place Teen Category

Stories We Tell by Maria Blaker

Another rumble of thunder causes Scarlett’s hand to shake, turning the complicated equation she’s solving in her notebook into an illegible scribble. She notices that the eraser on the pencil she’s holding is almost entirely gone, and this realization brings her even closer to tears than she already was. The time on her phone explains her exhaustion: 3:30 AM. Scarlett didn’t complete all of her homework the evening prior, and decided to work on it once the storm picked up a few hours ago, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Her head throbs alongside the crashes of thunder while she tries to understand the worksheets on her desk.

            After opening multiple of her desk drawers, Scarlett is relieved to find a spare pink eraser inside the bottom one. She pauses before closing it, puzzled by the presence of a thick stack of typed sheets of paper. The papers are stapled together neatly and the top page reads: A Tale of Dolls and Delight, by: Scarlett Johnson. She hasn’t seen the manuscript for years, and has avoided thinking about it as much as she can.

            Scarlett first wrote and illustrated her own fairy tales when she was four years old, with the help of her librarian grandma. She was always so proud of herself when she had finished, like she’d done something truly great. Writing gave her so much power, and so much joy, because she could invent people and places in her mind, then solidify them after putting her pencil to paper. She was intrigued by the idea of making others feel the way she felt when she read. She loved reading all books, but her favorite stories featured boarding schools, castles, magical worlds, and lost twins. Stories where a girl who felt alone in the regular world found out she was special and explored a new, fantastical world where she belonged.

Four years ago, Scarlett started writing her first and only novel in seventh grade, and finished at the beginning of eighth. Back then, she still thought that she could be a real author and had two close friends who shared her dream. She and her friends spent all of their free time writing their own fantasy novels and reading each others’, constantly texting compliments and critiques in their group chat. Once her beloved novel was complete, Scarlett desperately tried to get it published. She still remembers the flipping sensation in her stomach as she read the submission requirements on publishers’ websites and envisioned her future as a published author.  She submitted the story to every children’s book publisher she could find that accepted manuscripts from authors without agents. As months passed and Scarlett was not rewarded with a yes, her lifelong ambitions of becoming an author slowly disappeared, along with her brilliant ideas for new stories.

            Scarlett takes the eraser out of the drawer and reaches to close it before she can dwell on the book. She doesn’t need to reread it to know that it isn’t the next great novel that she used to believe it was. Without the ideas and dreams she once had, Scarlett feels her place in the world flickering in and out, like the weak flame of a candle held by a shaky hand. As her fingers grasp the knob on the drawer, thunder crashes nearby and her bedroom light turns off, leaving Scarlett in total darkness besides the faint glow of her phone screen and the flashes of lighting outside.

Scarlett picks up her phone, hoping the power outage doesn’t last long. She turns on her phone’s flashlight and shines it in front of her. Sitting on her desk, next to her notebook, is her grandma’s doll. The glass doll’s green eyes are wide open and framed by finely painted eyelashes. Her tangled blonde hair is tied with lacy ribbons in two pigtails.

The doll had been Scarlett’s grandma’s favorite toy when she was a young girl. She called the doll Emma, and entertained Scarlett throughout her childhood with magical tales of Emma’s adventures. When Scarlett turned twelve, her grandma gifted the doll to her, and Scarlett began writing her novel, inspired by the stories her grandma used to share. She directs the flashlight toward her closet and notices that the door is ajar. Ever since her grandma’s death three years ago, Scarlett has kept Emma in the storage box in her bedroom closet. She has refrained from thinking about the doll, knowing how disappointed her biggest mentor and supporter would be if she could see that Scarlett gave up on writing.

Scarlett’s eyebrows draw in together as she glances at the doll, her closet door, then finally at her bedroom door, contemplating escaping the room. Pale fingers grab her arm, cold like a stone outside in the winter.

“You haven’t thought about me for a long time. Why is that, Scarlett?” the doll asks slowly, staring at Scarlett with unblinking eyes. She sounds older than Scarlett expects, voice quiet and level.

Scarlett hesitantly holds the doll’s thoughtful gaze, unable to decipher whether Emma’s presence and words are real, or the contents of a strange dream. It wouldn’t be the first time she dreamed about Emma. When Scarlett was writing A Tale of Dolls and Delight, she occasionally dreamt of the experiences Emma had in Dollville alongside her companions. “You know who I am?” she asks, giving into her temptation to talk to Emma, the toy in her childhood memories and the protagonist of the story she wrote.

“Of course I do,” the doll answers, surprised that Scarlett would ask such an obvious question. “You’re my writer,” Emma explains.

“Oh,” Scarlett whispers, unsure what else to say. She thinks about the adventures she wrote for Emma, and the personality traits she wrote to mirror her own.

Emma’s delicate pink lips turn downward, unsatisfied with Scarlett’s response. “Are you ashamed of me? Of Dollville?”

Scarlett immediately thinks of saying yes, but knows she’ll feel guilty if she says it to the living, talking doll in front of her. “No one…No publisher liked my story.”

“So? Did you write my story for a publisher to like it? Did you create my friends and our world to please strangers?”

Scarlett avoids looking at Emma, caught off guard by the doll’s question. She thoroughly considers the answer before replying, “No. I started writing your story because I had ideas,” She pauses reflecting on her younger self. She remembers the thrill she used to feel when ideas perfectly fell into place in her mind. “I was excited to write them and see where the story would go. I wrote it because I loved writing, and I loved telling stories.”

            As Emma nods at Scarlett, her bedroom light bursts back on, flooding the space with brightness. Scarlett still holds her phone flashlight in front of her, but the doll that it was illuminating has vanished.

She looks over at her closed closet door, her answer to Emma’s final question playing in her mind. She recalls the slow realization that her story wasn’t as perfect as she originally thought; how the passion and excitement left as she grew up and started focusing on being realistic. Forgotten memories rush to the surface of Scarlett’s mind; writing fairy tales with her grandma when she was four, jotting down poems on the margins of math worksheets when she was eight, giddily opening her laptop to start writing a novel about dolls when she was twelve. Maybe she didn’t need to be a published author at thirteen, or even now at seventeen, to be a published author in the future. Maybe she could write again, despite not possessing the next brilliant idea.

Scarlett’s fingers linger on the nonsensical numbers and equations in her notebook. She shakes her head before she turns the page, picks up her pencil, and begins to write.