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A.K. Rogerson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2025

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4 Stories

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The Rowan Doll

Weekly Contest #368

           The taste of the village was always thickest before a storm. Copper, cold fat, and the wet, sour wool of three hundred people pressed shoulder to shoulder in the square.           I sat in the fork of the ancient hornbeam, where the bark was smooth and smelled of deep moss. To the flat-foot humans below, I was nothing but a flicker of green leaf-shade, a trick of the noon sun shifting through the canopy. They could not see...

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The Quiet of Winning

Weekly Contest #322

ELLA The night before the award ceremony, Ella stood in her penthouse suite overlooking the city she’d conquered. The skyline blinked like a thousand eyes, watching her, waiting. Her name was already etched into the plaque: ‘Ella Hayes, recipient of the Humanitarian Impact Award.’ The culmination of twenty years of tireless advocacy, policy reform, and global recognition. She should’ve felt proud. Triumphant. But all she felt was the weight of silence. She poured herself a drink she wouldn’t finish and stared at the untouched bed...

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The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

Weekly Contest #321

The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third, heir to the noble lineage of Barkley’s, destined to be the most glorious puppy ever to grace the linoleum floors of 25B Twain Street. I am currently residing in the womb of Lady Barkarella Barkley, my mother, who is – how shall I put this delicately? – a bit of a drama queen with a penchant for chewing antique furniture and barking at existential threats like vacuum cleaners.Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How can an unborn puppy narrate his own story?” ...

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The Forest of Forgotten Footsteps

Weekly Contest #320

The Forest of the Forgotten Footsteps It wasn’t supposed to be a big hike. Just a short loop behind the cabin, a chance to stretch his legs and maybe sweat out the whiskey. Charlie had come to the mountains to ‘reset,’ which was code for ‘avoid his inbox and cry in peace.’ He brought books he wouldn’t read, food he wouldn’t cook, and a journal he’d already lost. The trail started fine. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. His boots made satisfying crunches. But somewhere between the mossy boulder and the tree that looked like it was flipping him ...

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