October

Write a poem that makes October feel like a place you can enter.

Dead Air

Write a horror story about a broadcast, recording, phone call, or transmission that should not exist.

Doc Sherwood

Carol Ann Townend

Raistlin Allen

Katherine D. Graham

Andrew C McDonald

Julie Lacksonen

Natasja Rose

Daniel K

Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock

Imola Tóth

Ariana GonBon

Rain Dayze

📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 10/01/2026

Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted most alternating Thursdays at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.



Vocal

Vocal Bonus Leaderboard: 09/30/2026

Welcome to our weekly Leaderboard update! We're delighted to highlight Vocal's most popular stories. Join us as we recognize this week's standout contributors and their remarkable achievements.



Already Here Challenge Winners

Useful tools can change your life before you think to question them. That’s really what made these  Already Here  entries interesting. Writers looked past the initial “how is this possible?” and paid attention to how quickly something remarkable becomes part of the routine.   The strongest pieces didn’t ask us to choose between being impressed and being uneasy. They understood why people welcome these changes, then noticed what else shifts once we get used to them.



Vocal Bonus Leaderboard: 09/23/2026

📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 09/17/2026

Vocal Bonus Leaderboard: 09/16/2026

My Amber Place

I’m going to October, my amber place, where life unfolds in richly hued shades.             The sun is dim in the morning fog mountain peaks invisible             The air is fresh and damp,   infused with a salty sea fragrance   mixed with a woody, damp, and   musty scent of October leaves                    Afternoon sun burns off the chill and mist             Sparrows sing and tussle among the shrubs below         The large Flicker who calls as he bobs his head and tail          He shouts that October is here, telling the world he is ready.     Tree frogs croak in the afternoon sun, their final hurrah before                    They must hibernate for colder months           Join me in my amber room, let’s look at the russet, umber, and burgundy fingers, now fatigued and dropping down to their ankles and toes.   Walk with me to see the sun’s beams glinting on             sunshine-colored trees, peeking through branches and   ricocheting to porch pumpkins and butter chrysanthemums that             are growing next to the Ghouls that stand in yards, waiting for night  to light them up,     so that they can roar at walkers, and charm drivers “Charm?” you say – “A matter of opinion.”         “Yes.”  Taller and scarier, pumpkin head or scarecrow,           Skeletons and aliens, all competing to do it better.                 “We could bob for apples on the front lawn.                 Over there is a big vat of water,                 with yellow and red floaters. And the prize,                 a caramel-coated apple rolled in nuts.”              “NOOOO,”  shouts the twelve-foot ghoul and                                    reaches out a hand                      “The apples are mine, from a friend.”                 We turn to look where his bony finger points,         and see a bare tree that gave fruit to the kids on the street           while letting the bandit raccoons of the night pick a few.                 I hope you enjoyed the tour of my amber place, the          russet-gold October of falling leaves and slumbering trees.



Poets

Breathing

Marilee sang along with the song on the radio as she drove into town. She was in an unusually good mood, despite having to make a last-minute trip because the eggs she had were rotten. Maybe it was because she was still excited to make peanut butter cookies? Or that she needed to get extra forks anyway? Maybe it was because it was a beautiful day and she had gotten out of bed at a decent time? Or that traffic wasn’t bad at all?



Horror

Act Your Age.

In life we all age.

That does not mean that we have to let our brains take us where biology say's we should go.

Age is but a number!



Confessions

Come Wednesday

Come Wednesday, might this window view be brighter Nor'easter turbulence Dumps another round of rain Nature's unsettled womb; it's personal Forehead to pane Whipping wind pulls my chest tighter Tears Midstream drought Raw, irritated, swollen, moisture-stripped eyes Awkward silence Oriel reflection; side view Less than a bump Side-eyed empty cradle Waiting for the arrival of grace Recalling when hope didn't deliver Fear: am I unable Coastal collision colors corneas clay  Come Wednesday, might this window view be clearer Weather satellite; comma-shaped storm Counterclockwise If I could go back Would I heed the forecast Connect one thing to the next Outline probabilities Foretell context Empty clothesline flaps in the wind Lawn chair flips across the yard Off-season treason Body overthrows heart Head to pane Matrix mindful— pear-shaped lies  Come Wednesday, might this window view be forgiven Sun's reclamation Will Gaia apologize to the garden Or ask her to act as if nothing ever happened Eroded Goldenrod  Corroded potted Chrysanthemums Bruising outlook Landscape stamp on my heart Open screen; hand out Fertility prayers Mother-wuthered seeds palm mitted Heart's black and blue Nature's embryotic reassignment Personal Anemochory; biological memory Oh, when will yellow and purple finally make green  Come Wednesday, might this window view look brighter Terra, don't clap back to my thunder I've seen it earlier Same date, different year Kindly Precipitation prelude positive prognosis May open heavens bless me So I am not repulsed by the gods Because I've been here before Riding Climate carousel  Exit retrospect Function missing extra pulse Heartbeat hymns Short window; today is Sunday Appointment. Anniversary Birth-death-one breath Window view blues Erratic forecast Three days and waiting What will happen come Wednesday



The Odds Of Justice

Clara sat under the swinging lamp, hand on her belly. Cold seemed to emanate from the concrete walls and the steel table. She had no idea who might be staring at her from the other side of the two-way mirror. It was the safest she had felt in days.



Fiction

Into the Valley

You wake up, belly down, in warm, pale yellow sand. With a cough, you raise your head, wiping grains from the sides of your lips like froth from some drink you wish you had.



e__n---o__u---g__h 

Stomach hollow

It's late

Mind jittery

Disgusting calories...

they smile at me

Promising all lies

more slimy lies

greasiness



It’s Not Me It’s Him

The ever-changing scenery scrolls by your drowsy eyes as you gaze out a window. The gentle rocking from side to side of the train carriage only adds to the overall listlessness your body is feeling. Travelling by train is an unusual experience for you, only occurring when your journeys take you across the pond. These trips have become more frequent as the political climate continues to change around the globe, and your particular skill set is in greater demand.



Who?

Content note: this story deals with domestic abuse and thoughts of suicide.

…Sobbing. "Mother, please help me!" A loud, drunken voice yelled, "She is not going to help you; she knows better!" The young man looked at his mother with desperate tears in his eyes, wanting her protection. She stood by the sink, tugging her sleeve down over the purple bruise on her wrist, the way she always did. They shared a moment's stare, looking directly into each other's eyes, into each other's souls. Her lip trembled. For a second, he thought she would speak. The mother broke into tears and hung her head. Then the back of his stepfather's hand caught him across the jaw. A chair crashed to the floor beside him, and the kitchen spun as the young man's vision went blurry. He tasted blood. His stepfather was looking down on him, laughing, and said, "You are as worthless as she is; why don't you do us all a favor and end it."



Humans

not all, but all

I'm getting awfully tired.

Awfully tired of hearing how much men hate women.

Awfully tired of hearing how men would rather stay quiet than help.



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