Clermont Library Short Story Contest 2026: Adult Winners

First Place Adult Category

Dead Man’s Hill by Brandon Cook

            On a bright, cloudless morning in the summer of 1994, Bobby Timmons made a decision.

            He would think of it, years later, as the defining moment of his life. The moment from which all other moments seemed to flow. He never spoke of it because he worried that people wouldn’t understand what it meant to him, and that saying it out loud would somehow diminish it. And when he grew old, when his heart began to fail and the doors of time were closing shut, it wasn’t memories of graduations or weddings that came to him in the long, quiet nights. It was that summer morning. The day he conquered Dead Man’s Hill…

            Light was coming. The summer sun had yet to rise, but a thin seam of red lined the horizon, and light was coming.

            Bobby Timmons, just ten years old, was walking his bike down the street. He wore a helmet, jeans, and his lucky red T-Shirt, the one with Ken Griffey Jr’s signature on the back right shoulder. The neighborhood was quiet except for the fluorescent streetlights buzzing overhead and the crickets chirping away in the grass. Every house was dark, every window curtained.

            I could turn around, he thought. I could go back home right now and no one would know.

            But he, Bobby, would know. Would not be able to look himself in the mirror if he chickened out again. His fingers tightened around the handlebars, the knuckles bleaching white, and he marched onward.

            The bike was an old Schwinn. His dad had bought it from an estate sale for ten dollars, and it showed. The seat was ripped and pocked with teeth marks where the previous owner’s dog had mistaken it as a chew toy. Dime-sized flakes of blue paint were peeling from the frame. The chain was rusty and squealed like an injured animal whenever he got going at a decent clip. But he loved it just the same because it was his bike. His. And on it he was Jeff Gordon at the Daytona 500. Wyatt Earp riding down a dusty street at high noon. Marty McFly pushing eighty-eight miles per hour in a Delorean, the future rushing like a bullet toward him.

            And what might that future hold? he wondered.

            He walked until the road, flat so far, suddenly inclined, then stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there for a long time, staring up at the steep wall of asphalt before him, rising into the sky like the first climb of a rollercoaster.

            This, he and every other kid within a five-mile radius knew, was Dead Man’s Hill.

            His mouth went dry. When he swallowed it felt like his throat was full of sand. He imagined he could hear all the shouts, squeals and rowdy laughter of the generations of kids who had come to this hill, here in Babson Park, since it had been added to the neighborhood back in the early eighties. He cocked his head to one side, listening, and he felt sure that some of these ghostly voices belonged to his peers, and his peers were speaking like jackhammers on pavement, taunting him.

            “Quit being a scaredy-pants…Just do it already…Chicken!…What a wuss!”

            “I’m not a wuss,” he answered firmly, clenching his jaw. “I’m not.”

            Then he started pushing his bike up Dead Man’s Hill.

            If he had a dollar for every time he’d made this climb, he’d be a mighty wealthy boy today. At least he’d have a lot more money, he mused, than the $12.73 he had stashed in his piggy bank back home. But that was alright because he got a good monthly allowance, and what he was searching for, in the pre-dawn light of early August, could not be bought, traded, or sold.

            It could only be earned.

            But sometimes the price was paid in tears and blood. Back in June a girl named Susan Collins had broken her arm here, and on the fourth of July it had been Connor Kabes who’d lost control and skidded across the pavement like a hockey puck over ice. And those were just the crashes he’d personally seen. How many other souls had met unlucky fates here? Fifty? A hundred?

            Connor lived just across the street from the Timmonses. Bobby remembered his mom’s lecture the night after she’d seen Connor limping home like a war-tested soldier.

            “I don’t want you anywhere near that hill,” his Mom had said, tossing a salad at the dinner table. “Too dangerous. Someone’s going to get killed one of these days. Just you wait and see.” She looked to his Dad for some input but his eyes were focused on the living room TV. The Reds were on and the race for the wild card was tight. She nudged him and said, “A little support would be nice.”

            “Your mom’s right,” he said lazily, eyes still glued to the TV. “Can never be too careful out there.”

            But after dinner, when Bobby was cleaning dishes and his mom was downstairs with the laundry, his father came up beside him. He glanced over both shoulders, as if making sure the coast was clear, then said in a low voice, “I’m going to tell you something, but I need you to keep it between us, okay?”

            Bobby stopped scrubbing and whispered back, “Okay.”

            “All that stuff your Mom said about that hill? I think you should ignore it.”

            Bobby blinked. “What?”

            “Well, not all of it. She wants you to be safe, and I do too. But I also think a young boy needs a little risk in his life. A little adventure.”

            These words stirred something in Bobby. He felt a flicker of heat deep in his chest. “You want me to go down Dead Man’s Hill?”

            Through the floorboards, they heard the metallic clang of the dryer door closing shut. His dad crouched, meeting him at eye level, and spoke quickly. “I’m not saying I want you to. I’m saying that if you want to, you have my permission. Just don’t get caught.”

            Footsteps, coming up the stairs.

            “You think I can do it?” Bobby asked.

            “No,” his father said, and Bobby’s heart sank…but only briefly. Because a second later his father added the words Bobby would carry with him like a talisman for the rest of his life. “I know you can.”

            The basement door opened, and they both rushed to grab a plate and start scrubbing. Bobby, who was practically allergic to trouble, knew how guilty they looked, and his cheeks flushed red.

            “What’s going on over there?” Mom asked, hamper in her arms, eyes narrowing.

            Dad nodded toward the TV. “Reds hit a grand slam.”

            When she turned to confirm this, his dad glanced down at Bobby and winked.

            Now, a week later, Bobby trudged up the hill, pushing his bike against gravity’s strong pull and noting every pot hole and crack so he could avoid them on the way down (if I even make it down, he thought). His hands were trembling. He was afraid, nervous, but not terrified. Funny. He’d thought for sure he’d be scared enough to pee his pants. Of course, it wasn’t time yet. Oh no, not yet.

            Finally he made it to the top. The climb had taken a toll on his legs and lungs so he leaned on his bike to catch his breath. Surveying the land below, he saw the tops of trees, thick and broccoli-like, and the roofs of houses. A few windows glowed now, and birds had begun to call, politely but firmly informing the crickets that the night shift was over. He stared down the long slope of the hill, and felt a shiver of fear on the nape of his neck.

            Today was the last day of summer. Tomorrow the school would chime its bells and open its doors on another year. He would show up wearing the same backpack, same shoes, same uniform. He would probably sit at the same lunch table and fill his notebook with the same careless doodles.

            But he would not be the same Bobby.

            In years past, he’d hovered at the edge of the playground while games of tag burst and scattered around him. In the classroom he’d kept his eyes down, hands folded, praying the teacher wouldn’t call his name. Some days the only word he spoke was “here” during roll call, and other days not even that. It wasn’t that he had nothing to say. Quite the opposite, in fact. When a kid asked if he wanted to play, or a teacher called on him, he could feel something in him surge upward, fast and hopeful like a diver kicking for the surface. But then fear would seize him and drag him back down into the cold, icy depths. That fear followed him into the night. Lying in his bed, staring at the long shadows on his ceiling, he wondered if he would ever conquer it, or if he was simply born afraid, destined to feel silent and small forever.

            For everyone in Babson Park, it had been the driest and hottest summer on record. But for Bobby Timmons, wrestling with his worries, it had been the darkest. At least until —

            “I know you can.”

            Now the line of red at the horizon had softened to gold. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the light, he knew, was coming.

            Bobby’s palms were wet. He wiped them on his jeans. Then he flicked a cicada off his chewed up bike seat, swung a leg over, and gripped the handlebars tight.

            Am I really doing this?

            A sullen breeze played through the trees, and Bobby imagined he could the leaves laughing at him. Off in the distance he was sure he heard voices, floating to him through time and space along the hot, sticky air.

            “Scaredy-pants…Chicken!…Wuss!…Killed one of these days!”

            He clamped his eyes shut and squeezed them tight. The ghostly voices quieted, just wind again, but inside him a new battle was being waged. His mind showed him the hill again, clear and sharp as a photograph, and fear unlike he had ever felt closed around his chest like an iron fist. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. There was no way he could do this. No stinking way. He would have to climb off his bike and walk it down the hill again. No one would know. But it didn’t matter because the ghost voices were right. His dad was wrong. He couldn’t do it. The fear lived inside him, would always live inside him, and he would never —

            He screamed.

            It burst out of him like a geyser, a raw and primal AHHHH! that echoed through the empty streets. He beat his chest once, twice, like the mighty silverbacks he’d once seen at the Cincinnati zoo. His hands tightened on the handlebars. He twisted his grip and swore he heard the bike answer with a low, grumbling purr. Then he opened his eyes, and before his fear could grab hold again, he pushed off. Instantly the front tire dipped. The world tilted forward. And in no time at all he was speeding down Dead Man’s Hill like a freight train, faster than he’d ever gone, wind roaring in his ears and tearing tears from his eyes. His rusty chain squealed like a stuck pig. Trees zoomed and blurred past him in long green streaks. Then for one terrible instant his exhilaration turned to panic. He was going too fast, far too fast, losing control. The bike struck a rock, wobbled, fishtailed. He nearly overcorrected and went toppling just like Connor Kabes, but he managed to maintain his balance, find his line. Now that he had it he knew he would not lose it again, and suddenly laughter tore out of him as he clung tight and the road blurred beneath his wheels.

            And this was the time for living.

            All thought vanished. There was nothing in this world but him and his bike, him and the road, him and the fierce, bursting feeling in his chest. Joy broke loose inside him like a bursting dam, pure and unfiltered, the kind of joy that is the exclusive domain of children and summer mornings. He whooped. He howled. He felt himself flying. And when the steep hill finally leveled out and the bike thumped hard, he did not brake. He rode on, still somehow gaining speed, heart hammering and tires thrumming while his neighbors were brushing teeth and pouring coffee and never knowing that something important was happening just beyond their windows. Never knowing that in that moment, he really was Marty McFly, barreling toward the future — a new school year and a thousand unknown days beyond it — and knowing, for the first time in his life, that he could meet it head on. That he could conquer it. That he already had, on a hot, breathless August morning in the summer of 1994, on Dead Man’s Hill.

            To his left, the sun finally crested the horizon, and light came through the blur of trees in shimmering rays, bathing Bobby Timmons in golden warmth.

Second Place Adult Category

The Prayer Plant’s Farewell by Doug Coates

Moving to a new home is usually a joyous occasion. My aunt had lived in many homes and apartments over the years, yet on that Sunday in May, she moved again. This time, however, would be her last. There wouldn’t be any new surroundings or any new friends.

Following a two-week hospital stay, the doctors and family agreed that hospice care was the next step. An ambulance transported her to a hospice nearby. Her life here on earth was drawing to a close; she wouldn’t be leaving hospice. The only items being moved were extra socks, reading glasses, and the hospital gown she wore. Not your typical move.

Her new single-room home featured earthy colors, a few chairs for family and friends, and a sofa if a relative wished to spend the night. Large windows provided a view of well-manicured flower gardens from her bed. We had strategically placed two of her favorite pictures of her late husband and three sons—one deceased, the other incarcerated—on a table and a window ledge.

Outside, cars passed by, many drivers unaware of the hospice residents living inside the one-story brick building. A few birds nested in the trees near the patients’ rooms and sang their beautiful tunes as expected. The only sounds inside her room came from the TV and CNN, her favorite news show.

She asked the nurses to leave the TV on, regardless of the time of day. Maybe the sounds comforted her; I didn’t know. My cousin and I were her only visitors. All other relatives had passed, as had most of her friends. I told her that the staff would manage her pain and keep her comfortable. Did she hear me and understand? We weren’t sure.

My father had been a patient at this very hospice two years earlier. I remembered a few of the nurses, and I took comfort because my aunt would receive the soothing attention and care necessary to make her last days as comfortable as possible. Volunteers served the meals and attended to housekeeping needs. 

The former resident left a vase of flowers and a plant sitting on the windowsill. Staff found them vibrant and fresh and opted to keep them for my aunt. She loved seeing the dark red roses filling a vase at one end of the sill, and at the other end was a Prayer for Peace lily plant.

Married three times, my aunt had lived a hard life, losing one son to a disease, and her last husband to cancer. Two younger siblings, one of them my father, had passed before her. The director greeted my aunt after the staff settled her in on moving day. She gave my aunt assurances that she would receive great, gentle care from the volunteers and nurses. As I listened to the director's words, the prayer plant on the windowsill drew me in. There was a mesmerizing, calming aspect to its presence.

Five iridescent blooms remained on the plant. Two others had dried up and wilted, one dangling on its stem, the other lying peacefully within the pot. Something about the plant intrigued me. It was as if the plant had a specific purpose in my aunt's room, even though the previous family had left it behind.

Her son, Lucas, and I went in the evening to see his mom and make sure she was comfortable. He pulled up a chair next to his mother’s bed and talked with her quietly. I glanced at the prayer plant, which had dropped one of the five remaining blooms since her arrival early in the morning. Her first day in hospice was ending. Did this plant have a built-in clock counting days? My mind was reaching, I admit, just odd that a bloom would drop on her first day.

On day two, I stopped in at lunchtime and visited with her for two hours. She told me she liked this place better than the hospital. The room was bright and cheery, and she asked that the blinds and curtains stay open, even when she napped or at nighttime. Her hearing was still sharp, and she wanted to hear the outside world, just beyond her window. There wasn’t much time left for her to enjoy such simple pleasures.

Soon, my aunt reflected on her life, and I listened intently. She wondered if she had done enough good to get into heaven. Or did she make too many poor decisions and not raise her children properly?

She asked me if I’d stay in touch with Lucas and help him with his medical issues? I promised her I’d look after him and get a medical power of attorney to manage his illness, medications, and anything else I could help with.

My aunt declined rapidly; the nurses only provided palliative care and pain medicines. She thanked me for stopping by, but in her cantankerous way, she said I shouldn’t be taking so much time off from work just to visit her. She told me she would be fine, and I didn’t need to fuss over her so. 

“Don’t worry about me and my job,” I told her. “My job affords me the ability to take time as needed to help ‌my family and relatives.” She drifted off to sleep again while I talked to her. Over the next few days, she would spend most of her time sleeping.

Day three was much the same as the previous two. Lucas had visited in the morning and promised to return in the evening. The nurses told me later that my aunt had slept late that morning and missed breakfast. When she did wake, she was hungry for lunch. She only picked at the fruit and nibbled at the ham sandwich. 

Even after I came to visit after work, she wasn't interested in eating dinner. She fell in and out of sleep and continued to mumble, saying fewer and fewer intelligible words. The nurses saw that occasionally her body twitched while sleeping, showing she was in pain and needed additional pain meds. My eyes diverted to the prayer plant. A second bloom had fallen off, and I saw a third one drooping and its color fading. I made a mental note of these changes to the plant, but I wasn’t sure why it mattered.

I sat quietly on the sofa, reflecting on her life and her impending journey to join family members who had passed. “Goodnight, auntie,” I whispered close to her left ear. An anxious glance over to the windowsill showed two live blooms and one bloom barely hanging on, but sure to fall soon.

On the fourth day, I took a vacation day and saw her around mid-morning for a few hours. The nurse said the woman's eyes were always closed, and she hadn't spoken since the night before. She was in a heavy slumber, only to be roused if one gently shook her shoulder. The nurses nudged her enough to administer morphine drops under the tongue for pain.

There weren’t any further conversations with my aunt, which made me sad. I had learned to continue talking to hospice patients as hearing was the last sensory function to shut down, even in non-communicative individuals. They were aware of your presence.

I had almost forgotten about the prayer plant, and I walked over to the window and noticed that a fourth bloom had fallen the night before. There was one remaining flower.

On the fifth day of my aunt’s stay in her last home, she slept with heavy breathing and an occasional grunt. She didn’t react at all now when touching her shoulder or face. I trusted the nurses to know when to administer pain medications, now that she couldn’t communicate with us.

While she slept and showed no signs of discomfort or pain, other physical changes had occurred overnight, and the nurse on duty suggested that the end of her life was coming quickly. It could happen tonight or maybe one more day–only God knew my aunt’s life schedule.

While no one has experience with the afterlife, I had told my aunt she was going to a better place, free from her physical pain, and that her parents, husband, her deceased son, David, and her two brothers, including my father, were eager to be reunited with her. They’d be together again soon and probably sit down and play cards like they used to do here on Earth.

As I walked out of her room, I glanced over my shoulder, and the final bloom lay on the dirt, detached from the plant. The alarm on my phone rang at 5:15 a.m., an hour before my usual wake-up time each workday. Had I set my alarm incorrectly? Why was it going off? It wasn’t the alarm on the phone, but an incoming phone call. The caller ID identified it as “Eastside Hospice.” It took a moment to register, but I answered the call, and a soothing, calm voice stated that she was sorry to be calling so early, but my aunt had passed about fifteen minutes earlier.

I dressed quickly and called my cousin, as the administrator hadn’t reached him. Lucas joined me at the hospice. My aunt looked peaceful, with her hands clasped and hair brushed. Of course, I was sad, but I was happy she was completely free of pain. She was in heaven now, and her son, Lucas, and I took solace because she would watch over us from above. 

We sat in her room, whispering about her life and the events leading to her last move. There was nothing to pack up or take home. Once the funeral home picked up her body, there was nothing more to do. After the cremation, a few attended a simple service.

Something stirred in me to glance over at the windowsill and at the prayer plant one more time. The prayer plant's ‘alarm clock’ triggered. Five flowers were in bloom on her first day in hospice, then, one by one, drooped and fell off over five days, one for each remaining day of my aunt’s life on earth.

Third Place Adult Category

The Porchman of Branch Hill by Molly Blaker

     Deep in the heart of the Midwest, in a quiet, small town, there was a hill.  This hill, known as Branch Hill, connected the top of the town to the bottom with a road called Branch Hill Pike.  About halfway down the hill, slightly to the right of the bend in the road, sat an old house.  The house was continuously in a state of repair.  Flaking wood was being scraped and scaffolding was moved a few feet one way or another, as portions were slowly repainted.  While this might be what most people noticed, five-year-old Andrew Brown was drawn to something else.  For each time he left his home at the top of the hill and traveled down the hill to town, as he passed the broken-down house, he saw an old man with a long white beard gently swaying on a swing on the front porch.  

     Sometimes Andrew sat in the rocking chair on his front porch.  He’d stop there to take a rest after climbing the tree or running through the yard.  Or he might sit there for a minute, while waiting for Nana to come for a visit.  He never sat long.  Maybe that’s why he wondered about the porch man.  Anderew didn’t know why he sat there so often.  Was he tired from working all day?  That didn’t seem right.  Sometimes he was sitting there early in the morning.  Was he waiting for a visitor?  No one ever seemed to come.  He always sat alone.  

     “Mama, why is the old man always sitting on his porch?” Andrew asked one day as they drove down the hill on the way to school.  

     “I don’t know honey, maybe he’s tired from working for so many years,” his mom answered, thinking about how she felt after rushing around all morning trying to get everyone ready for school and work.  That made Andrew curious.  What did the porchman used to do for work?  Was he a fireman?  Did he drive a dump truck?  Did he dig in the dirt for dinosaur bones?  There were so many possibilities!  Andrew imagined the porchman much younger. He pictured him spraying water from the big fire hose, dumping a huge truckload of dirt or discovering an ancient T-rex.  

     The days passed, but Andrew wasn’t sure that the porchman sat because he was tired.  

     “Daddy, why is the old man always sitting on his porch?” Andew asked, as they drove down the hill on the way to the park.

     “Well, maybe his knee is sore from running around and playing with his kids,” Daddy replied, thinking about how his body would feel later that night, after playing soccer with Andrew.  That made Andrew curious.  Did the porchman have children?  Did they used to play together outside at the park?  Did they run, climb, hide and jump?  What fun that would be!  Andrew imagined the porchman much younger.  He pictured him playing catch with a happy little boy and pushing a fussy baby in a swing.  

     The days passed, but Andrew wasn’t sure that the porchman sat because he was sore.  

     “Maria, why is the old man always sitting on his porch?” Andrew asked his sister, as they drove down the hill on the way to the store.  

     “Maybe he’s bored,” Maria said with a big sigh, thinking about how she felt at school.  She dreamed of singing on Broadway and traveling the world, but instead she was stuck sitting in a classroom for most of the day.  That made Andrew curious.  Did the porchman wish he was doing something else?  Did he long for excitement?  If he could pick anything, what would he choose to do?  There were so many adventures to be had!   Andrew imagined the porchman much younger.  He pictured him taking risks.  He pictured him zooming along a cliff on a motorcycle and swinging high through the air on the flying trapeze in the circus.  

     The days passed, but Andrew wasn’t sure that the porchman sat because he was bored.

     Passing days turned to changing months, which turned into new years.  Many things were different, but something was the same.  As Andrew grew older, Mama still seemed tired, Daddy was still sore and Maria, though closer to her dreams, still had plenty of boring days.  On most days, as Andrew traveled down Branch Hill, he would still see the porchman with his long, long white beard gently swaying on his swing.  As he grew older, Andrew continued to wonder why the old man was always sitting on his porch.  

     Before long, Andrew grew into a young man.  At sixteen years old he was ready to travel down that hill on his own.  For the first time, he got into the car and headed down the hill alone.  As he approached the bend, the car seemed to be pulled another direction.  

     Without thinking Andrew pulled the car into the old house’s driveway.  Before he could even think about it, he found himself walking up to the porch.  With little expression, the old man looked his way.  

     “Excuse me, sir. I’m not selling anything,” he stammered.  “I, uh, I was wondering if I could just ask you a question.” 

     As his kind eyes softened and a slight grin formed, the porchman slowly nodded his head.

     “Well, you see, I’ve been driving down this hill since I was a little boy.  And for as long as I can remember, I’ve seen you sitting on this swing.  You sit in the summer’s humid heat and freezing cold of winter.  You sit with the early morning sunrise and starlight late at night.  You sit when the fierce wind is blowing in a storm, or the air is still and calm. I’ve asked my family why they think you sit here, and they’ve come up with reasons.  They say you’re tired, sore or even bored, but I just don’t think that’s it.  So, after wondering for a very long time, I thought the only way I could know is to ask you.  Why are you always sitting on your porch?”

     The old man’s slight grin turned into a great smile.  Soon, his smile turned to a chuckle which then became a full-blown laugh.  

     “Well, I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about that.” he began.  “You see, all of those things are true.  I’m tired, definitely sore and sometimes even bored.  But when I sit here, I don’t think about those things.  I guess I sit here to just be.  To be still and quiet.  To just let my mind wander to wherever it needs to go.  Some days I remember.  I remember the days when I was a boy running free without a worry on my mind.  Some days I dream.  I dream about how things might have been if I had done things a little differently in my life.  But mostly, I just sit here and feel thankful.  Thankful for my beautiful family, moments shared with friends that have come and gone, and the days I’ve lived to see.  That’s probably not a very exciting answer, but it took me a long time to learn that sometimes, it’s okay to sit and just be.”

     With that, Andrew thanked the porchman and went along his way.  Later that night, his mom found him sitting in the rocking chair on the front porch.

     “Andrew, what are you doing out here?  Why are you just sitting there?  Are you waiting for something?” she asked.

     “No, mom.  I’m sitting here to just be,” he answered with a small smile.

     “To just be… to just be what?”  Mom asked with a strange look on her face.

     “Come on, Mom.  Let’s go in.  Don’t worry about it,” Andrew said as he stood and gave his mom a hug.

     You see, Andrew never told anyone about his visit with the porchman.  Instead of sharing what he learned, he practiced doing what he learned.  He started sitting on that rocking chair on the front porch for a few minutes each day.  He grew to enjoy that quiet time of just being.  Time to be thankful for his family, friends and the days he had seen.  Time to just be. To just be.