Category Archives: Flash Fiction

Memoir: The Poet In Spite of Herself

The Poet In Spite of Herself

I stood before the audience, my notebook open as I prepared to read an excerpt from my novel The Curate’s Brother. It is a historical romance based off of Jane Austen’s novel Persuasion. It was one of many readings that I would do to promote my new book that year. The moderator of our panel gestured to me and said, “I present to you our next reader, author and poet, Wendy Van Camp.”

I remember blinking and tilting my head to one side, like a puppy that is not quite sure of a knock at the door. I do write poetry, but until that moment I never considered myself to be “a poet”. In those few seconds, before I began my reading, I had an epiphany. The moderator was correct, I am a poet! The irony was not lost on me.

When I was in grade school, I remember saving money from my allowance in order to buy a notebook that had caught my fancy. It had a green cover with gold foil embellishments and the pages were smooth white paper without lines. I put the notebook in a place of honor among my growing book collection, but could not decide what to do with it. Then it hit me. I would fill the notebook with poetry. I had never written a poem before, but how hard could it be? I was already writing novels, stories filled with Tolkien style dwarves and elves or mermaids who did battle with titans. Not that anyone read the stories but my own young eyes.  Poetry would be compatible with my childhood dream of becoming an author when I grew up.

I cradled my green notebook late at night and sprinkled the pages with little ideas that came to me in my dreams. After I had written a dozen poems, my younger brother swiped the book from my room, read my words and then proceeded to mock everything that I had written. I wilted in embarrassment. My parents mentioned that I shouldn’t be wasting my time writing in the first place. I put the recovered green notebook deep into my stacks and forgot about poetry. I continued writing my novels, but since poetry didn’t make money and was not respected, it would not be part of my life.

The years went by and after graduating college, I found myself working in government and corporate television.  My idea of becoming an author shifted into a dream of becoming the next big director in Hollywood. By this time, I had spent the past five years producing and directing a half hour band showcase series called Musician Discoveries in addition to working full-time at the local cable station. Bands traveled from other states for the chance to perform on my studio stage and be featured in my low budget, labor of love.

After going through a few different hosts for the program and the threat of our studio losing its funding and thus losing access to its equipment, I decided that it was time for a change. I ended my musician series and took my programming out of the doomed studio. Instead, I purchased an expensive prosumer camera and software to edit video on my home computer.

The equipment needed to produce television was thousands of dollars in those days and there was no such thing as YouTube or even the Internet to distribute the work. I would have to leapfrog the program on public channels, hand delivering the broadcast quality tapes to the cable outlets. Yet, I felt it was time to go rogue and create television on my own terms.

I needed a new art form to showcase for the new TV series. Music had been kind to me, but I was tired of it. I thought about paintings. The cliché of being “as boring as watching paint dry” nixed that idea. Then I considered poetry. While I had not written a poem since perfunctory assignments in high school, as a director, I didn’t need to create the content. That would be the talent’s job. Readings were dynamic, the performances would be easy to capture and the thought of shooting on location in the various coffeehouses in the city was appealing in its own right. I put the production together and marched forth, a young intrepid television director with a dream to share poetry on my new program Coffeehouse Poetry.

Realty hit hard and fast. The coffeehouses would cancel my shoot time without informing me. One went out of business and I didn’t learn about it until I arrived a few hours before production. Editing on home equipment was more difficult than the broadcast quality machines I was used to.  I was used to editing on analog equipment and my new home studio was in the then-new digital style.  I was never happy with the production values I could afford on my small budget.

And then, there were the poets.

Never had I worked with such unruly creatives in my life. They were demanding, rude, and unreliable. As the months went by, I sunk lower into depression as each setback destroyed my program.  Every time I received a rude letter or phone call from one of the poets, I felt myself give up a little more. The musicians I used to work with for Musician Discoveries understood the value of exposure that television offered.  The poets did not.  In the end, I produced around a dozen programs before I closed my doors. I bitterly swore to myself that I would never work with poets or have anything to do with poetry again.

Fifteen years later, I found myself shifting away from the long hours and stress of professional television production.  Many of the corporations I worked for were sending their work overseas to Japan or Thailand where labor and studio space was less expensive than Los Angeles.  The major studios remained, but I was facing burnout and the thought of the long commute into the city was daunting.

I remembered my original dream of becoming a novelist. My hiatus from writing was twenty years in length, but thanks to intensive training via Nanowrimo, I learned the techniques of writing books and how to market them.  Science fiction is my main genre, but as a side project, I started an Austen inspired romance series.  Since the romances were easier to complete, I published this series first and became known as an Austen inspired romance author.

During my early years of returning to writing, an author friend suggested that I give poetry a try in addition to the short stories.  Due to its brief form, I could write plenty of them, submitting to more paying markets or use the poems as easy blog posts.  I thought about the idea but cringed inside.  The scar that Coffeehouse Poetry left inside me was a large one.  I put the idea aside.

One Friday afternoon, after I had finished placing my wares into a science fiction convention art show, rain threatened overhead. The heat was oppressive in the atrium next to the art show where all the workshop/panel rooms were located. I had planned to stay for the ice cream social that evening, but it was several hours in the future. A writing panel would help to pass the time until the social event started.

I looked at the placards in front of the workshop doorways, but it was early in the day and most of the programming had not started at the convention. However, there was a scratched-in workshop available and its room was close to where the ice cream social was located. I ducked inside.

There were six or seven people in the room, I assumed that they were fellow attendees who would join me in the workshop. The placard said that this was a Scifaiku workshop. I had no idea what that was, but as long as the air conditioning worked and there was ice water available, I was game to give the workshop a try.

The instructor introduced herself and then informed me that all those people in the room were friends that had come to support her class. They were publishers of poetry magazines. I was the only student and she was going to teach me how to write scifaiku poetry.

I immediately wondered if I could get out of the workshop gracefully, but being the only student, I didn’t want to be rude. So I sat back and watched methods of brainstorming poems, ideas of how haiku and science fiction could be merged, and the structure to follow when writing a scifaiku poem.

The instructor said, “Now you will write a poem for the class.”

Me? Write a poem? I hadn’t done this since high school and that was a long time ago. I could hear my brother laughing deep in my memory.  I remembered the poor grades I got in high school during poetry assignments. Yet, I had the format and the brainstorming techniques before me on the blackboard.  I was a writer of science fiction short stories and had the background research of sci-fi concepts ingrained within me.  How hard could this be? I wrote my first scifaiku, the first poem I had created in more than twenty years.

When I was done, the instructor said. “Now, I would like you to read your poem to the class.” I looked around. What class? I was the only student! All the other people in the room were publishers of poetry magazines, some of them with large followings.

I stood up. I read my poem. I sat down.

The instructor said a few words about my attempt. Then, one of the publishers leaned over and told me that she liked my poem and wanted to publish it in her magazine. She would pay me. I took her card with shock.

That would be the first scifaiku I wrote, but not the last. I sold that poem and many more after that. Later, I would illustrate the poems with simple line art and that published too. Then someone suggested that I sell the illustrated poems as art prints and suddenly, I was “an artist”.

Now here I stand, with my notebook before me, ready to read my prose to the audience and introduce my novel.  The ironic laughter within disappears in the face of reality.  I am now the author that I dreamed of being as a child through hard work and dedication. And yes, I am a poet too. As strange as it seems to be after all the ridicule this art form has caused me through the years.  I am the poet in spite of herself.


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Flashfiction: Sanctuary by Wendy Van Camp

Sanctuary

Sanctuary
A science fiction short story by Wendy Van Camp
255 words

“Bandit ship approaching.” Ship’s alarm sounds a warning. Sailors mind stations. Captain Alton Franks nods and grips his chair. Fifth attack this month. A captain had an obligation for his ship. No dying on his watch!

“Aim high off bandit bow. Only a warning shot.”

Midshipman Dustin Jacobs finds focus on bandit ship. Zap! Light zings through void. “Miss!”

“Good job, Midshipman.” What will occur now? Captain waits.

Lights flash on bandit ship. Rust. Black. Grassy. Black. It was a quiz for Captain Franks to work out.

“May I board?” Bandit sounds without warning on comm. It was a woman.

“Who asks?” Captain Franks said.

“I am Laura Quinn, Captain of this Martian Ship Lucidity. I wish to bargain with you.”

“You may board without arms.” Captain Franks nods to Midshipman Jacobs. Midshipman jaunts to airlock with gun on hip. Laura Quinn is brought to Captain’s public room.  A sailor stands guard.

“Sit down,” bids Captain Franks, pointing to a chair. Bandit Quinn sits.

Standing, Captain Franks points a digit at bandit. “Fifth attack this month. Why? What do you want?”

Laura Quinn is nonvocal at first. “Sanctuary from Mars. For my bandits and I. I did no wrong, but carry disfavor.” Quinn said softly.

“Political affair?” Quinn nods. This shifts opinion for Captain Franks, known minor acts can bring about political disfavor on Mars. Pity stirs him.

“I proposition sanctuary onboard USS Goliath.” An alluring grin of Laura Quinn, upon his proclamation, stirs Alton Franks. A worthy mission than thought of at start of his tour.


Sanctuary is a flash fiction from a challenge in one of my science fiction writing groups back in 2016.  We were to write a story without using the letter “e”.  This is not as easy as you might think.  The vowel appears in a great many words in the English language.  I thought mine turned out pleasant enough for a micro-flash.  I hope you will agree!

This story is also available to members of Medium.  If you would like to support me as an author, please go to Medium and give my story claps.  Clapping lets the Medium system know that my story is popular and it will gain more visibility.

FlashFiction: Honor Bound by Wendy Van Camp

Honor Bound

Honor Bound
A fantasy short story by Wendy Van Camp
980 words

Marching through the misty twilight the noblewoman paused. Her hand reached under her stout woolen cloak as she examined the shadows. In a single fluid movement, she drew a narrow sword and held it before her as if it were an extension of her hand. “Come no further, Sers. Otherwise, you will know the taste of my blade.”

Coryan flattened herself against a nearby stone wall. Had anyone seen her? Master Jacob had tasked her with following the woman. No stable duties along with the promise of a hot meal were enough to send her into the cool night. Yet, facing thugs was not part of the bargain. She shivered as she inched away from the scene.

The largest of the three men laughed. He drew a short sword, the curved type used by the soldiers of the southern guard. “Perhaps you will taste mine. Unless you have the coin to stay my sword?”

“You would do well to retreat, Ser. I am Raven Ewen, perhaps you have heard of me?” Coryan felt her jaw drop as she froze in wonder. Who had not heard of the famous warrior mage? She was an adviser to the king and on the wizard’s council. Yet, this woman was smaller than the legend she had idolized during nights lying in the stable hay. How could this be the former savior of the kingdom?

“As you will.” The rogue said to the noblewoman. The curved blade whistled through the dank air. Coryan winced as the blade bit into the woman’s stomach. There was a metallic clank as blade met chainmail and a blue glow. The woman leaped back to her feet, with no wound showing.

The leader of the thugs roared and came at her again, his two henchmen joining close behind. The three grabbed the noblewoman by both arms and pulled her into a nearby alley, away from the safer main street. A few moments later there was another scuffle and a cry of pain. From who, the girl did not know.

“No. This can’t be.” Coryan whispered into the night. She trembled as she leaned against the stone wall. Before her mother died, she had recited many tales about Raven Ewen. Coryan used to brandish a wooden sword and pretend she was the mighty heroine. Before she lost everything and became the orphan stable girl at the inn’s stable. She should run but she had to know the heroine’s fate.

Coryan looked down the dim alley, but the men were gone. Deep in the ally, she spotted the fine wool of the woman’s cape. Within her body lay prone on the cobblestones. Coryan stole forward until she was at the noblewoman’s side. “I am here, Sera. It is Coryan, from the Hen and Bull.”

“Coryan?” Raven’s brown eyes looked at a point distant and ethereal her voice a whisper.

“Sera, you must stay with me. I will bring help!”

“It is too late.” Her narrow hand took Coryan’s wrist. “The honor of my House…must be preserved.” From her pocket, the mage removed a glittering blue gem that glowed with inner light. She pressed it into the girl’s hand.

Coryan’s world vibrated, filling with a myriad of colors. Then it was gone. She was once more bent over the body of the woman. But wait, it was not the mage that laid there on the street. It was herself! Horrified, Coryan looked at her hands. They were not the thin fingers and pale skin of a street urchin, instead they were narrow and wrinkled. What has the mage done to me?

“You must go to the Green Dragon Inn. You must help Lourna Mernal find my young cousin. I am honor bound to be of aid.” The woman closed her eyes and added, “You are young to place such faith. But the spirits must have brought you for a reason….” she whispered, “Promise me. You will do this.”

Coryan bowed her head. “Will I ever see myself in the mirror again?”

The noblewoman’s grip lessened as her strength faded. “Promise me!”

Coryan nodded. The woman was dying. It made no difference what she said to her. “I promise, Sera.” The mage closed her eyes and her breathing slowed, then stilled. The hand that kept the girl at her side fell to the road.

Putting the silver chain over her head, Coryan settled the blue gem under her clothing. It felt warm and seemed to vibrate. Was it alive? She took the mage’s narrow sword and scabbard, belting it around her strange new waist. The body in the alley was hers. She could not leave it. Coryan wrapped the child body in the wool cloak and placed it against the wall where no one would step. She would inform the constables once the sun rose into the sky.

She stood and made her way out of the alley. She turned toward the Hen and Bull intending to return to her Master and the stable. Then she stopped. How could she return to her old life looking like this? No one would believe she was just Coryan, the ten-year-old stable girl.

Am I free? The thought was a heady one. I could see the world. Live as I choose. Coryan frowned. I could starve. Who would take care of me? The fear grew in her.

“Promise me.” The whisper of the mage’s voice came to her ear. She blinked in surprise. She was alone on the street.

The Green Dragon Inn was on the other side of the city. Perhaps this Lourna Mernal could help her discover a way to transform herself back into her youthful form.

Coryan did her best imitation of the confident stride that the Sera mage had shown the world. If she must be Raven Ewen, she would do her best to play the part. In this manner, Coryan entered the doorway of the Green Dragon Inn.


Honor Bound is a story from a fantasy novel I’ve been working on for the past few years.  This is a little preview of the world and main characters in the story.  I don’t have a due date for this novel since there are a few projects ahead of it, but as time goes on, I’ll likely post more stories based on this world here on the blog if there is interest.  Let me know in the comments.

This story is also available to members of Medium.  If you would like to support me as an author, please go to Medium and give my story claps.  Clapping lets the Medium system know that my story is popular and it will gain more visibility.

Flash Fiction: Baptism By Fire

Baptism by Fire Header

Dreams sometimes happen at the most unexpected moments in life. When I was twelve years old, I saw the movie Star Wars at the local drive-in and found myself fascinated not only by the story and the special effects of the film but by the fast-paced new editing style of the film’s director. From that day forward, I had a dream of being a director myself. It made me more attentive to my writing in high school, and when I went to college, I selected a university that had a reputable film school, much to my parents’ chagrin.

During my second year of film school, I was given the opportunity to intern at a local cable station that produced programming for the community. I felt excited by the opportunity and wanted to immerse myself in their program to gain the hands-on experience I needed before seeking a career in the entertainment industry. The cable station ran on intern power. We provided free labor as grips, camera operators, chryon operators, and the technical directing of the live talk shows that were the staples of the studio while the few paid staffers oversaw the operation.

There were two live talk shows produced by the studio, one shot on Monday night and the other on Wednesday night. One program was a fun entertainment show highlighted by interesting local guests and a loud boisterous director that kept everyone in stitches with his jokes. All of us interns wanted to work on this show because it was fun to be on the set, but because of this, there were limited opportunities to find a crew position and to gain the hands-on experience we were all there for. I would often be told by the director that “We just don’t have room for you this week, Wendy. Maybe next time.” I suffered disappointment when I was told that, but I was determined to continue to apply for crew. My reward was that once in a while I would find a position as a cable puller or a camera operator out on the floor. The control room seemed out of my reach Wednesday nights.

The other program was a sleepy political talk show that often had problems gaining guests; the host would sometimes give historical or political lectures to fill the allotted half hour. The director of the political program had trouble finding crew since most of us had trouble staying awake during this program. I was approached personally by the director to join his crew. He played on my sympathy by telling me how short-handed he was Monday night and asked me for my help. I agreed to become a regular crewmember on Monday night.

Six months later, I had progressed from being on the camera to working as a floor manager and finally assigned to the control room. On this particular Monday, I was seated at the switcher as the technical director, feeling like Mr. Sulu from Star Trek since the blinking lights and the whirl of sound from the equipment reminded me of the command bridge of the Enterprise. I looked into the triple monitors before me. Each monitor displayed a different camera view from the television studio just beyond the heavy insulated windows at the front of the control room. Although we were recording the talk show in color, all the seven-inch monitors were black and white. The center monitor was a wide shot of the two people, the host and his guest, seated in chairs with a low table before them. This camera was locked on the tripod, unmoving once it had been set, and left unmanned. We joking referred to the camera as Larry Lockdown. The other two monitors had closer shots, one of the host and one of the guest. Occasionally, the camera operator would be asked to switch to a tighter two shot or to shoot a graphics card that would be placed on an easel by the floor manager.

To my left in the control room was the chyron, a huge metal box of circuits and wire attached to a keyboard and television monitor. The electronic words that were superimposed on our program were created there and a crew member needed to be available to bring the graphics in on the cue of the director. When we had enough crew, the chyron operator would input the information before the show and then update the graphics on the screen so that I could superimpose the name of the host or guest during the program or any information that the host or guest wished to put on the screen. We did not have a remote control for the chyron and the machine was four feet from my station, too far for me to reach. When we did not have enough crew, as was the case that day, I would input in the information before the program went live and the director would scroll to the proper graphic himself during the show and then cue me when to bring the graphic in at the switcher.

To my right was the engineering panels where the final images got color mixed and white balanced. These were the largest machines in the studio, being three feet wide and going from floor to ceiling. I was fascinated by the science behind what they did, but the complexities of engineering took more technical knowledge than I possessed at the time. Behind these large machines was a bank of VTRs, huge cassette players that used 3/4” U-Matic tapes. U-Matic was the analog standard for broadcast quality recording back then, although tape newcomers such as High-8 or Beta SP were also becoming popular and starting to see integration into our systems. The top deck recorded the live program we were producing that night and the others were player decks that we used to insert commercials and PSAs during the segment breaks. At the proper time, a tape would be inserted and cued up to 3 seconds before the start of the commercial block and then the VTR operator would wait for the director’s cue to press the start button at the proper time. Digital technology was still a fanciful rumor on the horizon during the mid-1980s and we were all quite comfortable working in analog format on equipment that by today’s standards would seem rather antique.

The host and his guest were seated on the set and the floor manager was clipping tiny lavaliere microphones to their shirts. The final sound checks were completed. I glanced up at the clock and noted that we were five minutes until the program went live to the city. My director had entered the control room and was making the final checks on the equipment. Color and white balance—Check. Chyron loaded and correct for that day’s program—Check. Commercial reels lined up on the floor before the VTR bank—Check. U-Matic tape labeled with its red record dot in place—Check. He loaded the U-Matic tape into the upper VTR and recorded thirty seconds of color bars and five seconds of black. He paused the tape. We were the only two people in the control room since our other two crew members were on the floor as camera operator and floor manager.

The clock moved to one minute before 7pm. The director and I put our bulky earphone and mic headsets on and I heard the orders both behind me and in the earphones. “Standby to cue talent. Standby to take fade up on camera two.” Our director was not in his chair in the center of the room but stood beside the VTR rack. From there he would switch on the cablecast so that our program would go live.
“Three.” The director started the recording VTR and stepped forward in front of the button that would cablecast the program live on the cable system to thousands of potential viewers in the city.

“Two.” I heard the soft click of the button. On the machines to my right, lights came on to indicate that the program was now being cablecast. My director continued forward and stood behind me at the center of the control room. I always felt nervous at this moment in the count-down. If something went wrong, it would be seen by the entire city.

“One. Fade up to camera two.” I pressed the camera two button to let the switcher know where to go and used the bar to fade up from black into the image on my middle monitor. My movement was sure and steady, something that I had practiced so that my fades would have the proper timing. “Take graphic.” I pressed the proper button and the name of the program superimposed over the wide shot. “Lose graphic.” The graphic faded away at the press of another button. I heard the director go over to the chyron machine and he advanced to the next page. The name of our host was displayed.

“Standby to cue talent. Standby to dissolve to camera one.” I pressed the button that let the switcher know which camera to take at my command. On the other side of the window, our floor manager was giving hand cues to the host. “Cue talent and dissolve to one.” I pulled the bar down in a smooth and steady motion and the program dissolved between the two images.

In the studio, our host gave the usual scholarly greeting that he did at the start of every program. While we did have the program on in the control room, we kept the volume low so that it would not interfere with our work. I never listened to the program other to make sure that there was audio being recorded.

“Standby to show tag. Tag him.”

I pressed the button to bring in the chyron and the name of our host displayed on the lower third of the screen. “Lose tag.”

I heard the chyron advance as the director pressed a few of the keys. “Standby to take three.” I waited for the verbal-cue, this time not bothering to set up the switcher’s board since it was not necessary for a cut between two shots. “Take three.”

The guest of the program was in a medium shot. “Tag him.” I once again pressed the chyron button and the guest’s name appeared in the lower third of the screen. “Lose tag.”

My director moved back to the center of the room, but this time he took his chair a foot or two behind mine. The busywork was completed. For the next eight minutes, things would be simple. We would do cuts between the host and guest and the director would monitor the audio on the board to my right. Since there were only two people talking on the program, once we set the general levels, there was no additional work to be done. We got by without an engineer to handle the audio board on a regular basis. There would be three segments to the program, each one eight minutes long with two commercial breaks between them.

The program had progressed to its middle segment when both the director and I noticed an odor. Since the program was live, I did not look away from the monitors, but I heard the director shift in his chair.

“Is that smoke?”

I sniffed. A faint smell like burning rubber was in the air. “I smell smoke too.”

The director stood. “There is no one else in the building but us. I better check this out. Wendy, take over.” Those final three words echoed in my brain as I froze in my chair and stared at the three monitors before me in utter shock.

I was now the director of this live television program with no preparation other than the months I had spent as a technical director. I was completely alone in the control room. It was a good thing that the air conditioning was on because I’m sure that I would have broken into a sweat otherwise. Don’t panic, I told myself. You can do this. I took a deep breath and concentrated on the program. When the host asked a question of his guest, I pressed the proper buttons, moved the transition bar, and kept the proper camera on the action. I forgot the voice protocols the first few times, but I recovered my senses within the first few switches on the board and started to give my camera operator and floor manager the cues they needed to do their job on the set. Within a few minutes—that seemed like hours—I began to breathe again. I was directing! And as far as the world outside was concerned, everything looked normal on the air.

There was one problem. At the end of the program segment, I would need to fade to black and then take the commercial reel that was at the back of the control room. The VTR decks were too far away in the room for me to cue up the tapes and punch them in while still working the switcher. I started to go over scenarios as to how I was going to be able to throw to the reel, but nothing came to me. I continued to direct the television program, not knowing what I was going to do when the time came to end the segment.

One minute to the end of the segment, I gave the one minute cue to the floor manager. The host was flagged with a hand signal and a cue card on the set. I switched to the host’s camera as he began to do his segment wrap up. What was I going to do about the reel? All I did was stare at the monitors and work the switcher. My mind was a blank.

“Commercial reel is cued. On your mark.” It was the voice of the director. I was surprised that he did not take over the program. Instead, he stood by the VTR decks waiting for my command as if he were simply the VTR operator. I had no idea when he had entered the control room or how long he had been standing behind me. I issued the commands to the crew as needed to wrap up the segment, cued the proper moment for the reel to play and then faded the program to black before cutting in the reel. It was over. I had done it! I swiveled in my chair to look at the director, free for the three minutes of the reel before the next segment would begin. In television time, three minutes is close to an eternity.

The director smiled at me. “You did a good job there, Wendy. Maybe next week I’ll have you direct another segment of the show?”

“I’d like that.” My own face had an answering grin. “So what caused the smoke?”

“Oh, someone had left the coffee pot burners on and one of them had caught on fire.” My director grimaced. “We are all alone here at night. It could have burned the building down! I’ll have to talk to maintenance about it tomorrow.” The company coffee pot was just around the corner from the studio, tucked away in a passage between two empty corridors where it was easy to miss.

The commercial break was nearing its end and we needed to get back to putting our live television program on the air. The director took over the program at that point and, to my relief, I was simply the technical director once more.

True to his word, the next week I was allowed to direct a full segment of the political show, but under the director’s supervision. The week after that, the director of the fun entertainment show stopped me in the hall. “Why don’t we have you come and direct a segment on my show next week?” I was stunned. I remembered all the times when I was either turned down to crew or only offered a simple position on the set. I tried not to stammer as I accepted the opportunity, but I suppose that I must have looked rather foolish because the director just grinned at me. The following week I directed the entertainment program, again under the supervision of an experienced director. I was the envy of the rest of the interns.

I did not consider myself a director at that point. I was merely an intern gaining my degree in Radio/Television/Film and still had plenty to learn. Eventually, the cable station would hire me and this would become my first paid job in the industry. I was hired as a commercial insertion editor—not as a director, however. That title would come to me years later through much hard work and patience.

It is funny how this event has stuck in my mind the way that it has, over the hundreds of other directing gigs that I performed over the next two decades. I was the director of the talk show for around six minutes, but in my memory, it seems like hours. It must be true that you don’t forget your first time. I will never forget my baptism by fire into the career of directing live television.


“Baptism by Fire” first published in the literary magazine “Shadows Express” during the Winter of 2012. It was the first short story that I had published and is a true story.

If you liked the story and are a member at Medium, please consider clapping for it on Medium.  I appreciate your support of me as an author and artist.

Flash Fiction: Day of the Ficus

Day of the ficus (1)

Day of the Ficus
by Wendy Van Camp

genre: Science Fiction
Words: 500
originally published: Far Horizons, July 2017 issue & Quantum Visions 6,  2017 issue

RECOVERED INTERNAL LOG – MCC-457:

“Doctor Pearson, there is a message coming in.”
“Dammit. Who the hell is still up there, Buttons?”
“I am MCC, your Mechanical Cultivation Cyborg. I do not answer to Buttons.”
“Where’s the blasted microphone?”
“Three feet to your left and on the table, Doctor Pearson.”
“This is Doctor Mary Pearson of the EPA. I thought everyone evacuated. Who are you and why the hell are you still here?”
“Officer Roy Hayes. I helped with the evac, but I got cut off by…those things.”
“Don’t touch them! Repeat. Do not touch the plants!”
“I might not have much choice. They’re moving closer.”
“Where’s your location, Hayes?”
“Third floor near Forever 21. I’m trapped behind the display window with the manikins.”
“Stay put. We’re going to get you out of there. Out.”
“Doctor Pearson, I must protest. Nothing seems to kill Ficus Capillipes. How will we rescue Officer Hayes and save the mall?”
“There’s one thing that we haven’t tried. I need your help, Buttons. I still can’t see. Damn plant and its protective goop went right into my eyes. I should’ve sent your metal hide in there instead of going myself.”
“I was not manufactured for that purpose, Doctor. I am a cultivator, not a destroyer. It is against my programming.”
“This is your lucky day, Buttons. Get your mechanical gears in motion and lead me to the Sports Authority! I need gear.”
“I do not answer to Buttons.”
“Get your metal butt moving.”

#

“Third floor, Doctor. We are on level flooring again. Ficus at 3 o’clock, four feet away.”
“Take that, you nasty plant!”
“Doctor, you almost flamed me with the weed burner. Do be careful.”
“Just lead me to Forever 21.”
“Ficus at 8:30, five feet ahead.”
“Gotcha!”
“You there! I have a pistol. Stand down with the flamethrower.”
“Officer Hayes? It is Mary Pearson. We’ve come to rescue you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Are you all right, Officer?”
“My leg got crushed. Can’t walk. The city PD contacted me. They’re going to blow up the mall. They don’t think there’s any other way to contain these mutant plants.”
“What about us?”
“If we can get to the roof, a helicopter will lift us out. Will that weed burner get us there?”
“You bet your sweet behind it will. Buttons, you’re going to carry Officer Hayes and be my guide. We’re counting on you.”
“I do not answer to Buttons.”
“Just lift the man.”

#

“Dr. Pearson, they are ascending Officer Hayes into the helicopter. You are next.”
“We would’ve never gotten this far without you.”
“I am too heavy for the helicopter, Doctor Pearson.”
“I’m sorry. If there was any other way….”
“I am only a machine.”
“You’re an AI. You have sentience.”
“The rope is around you, Doctor. You must go before they blow up the mall.”
“You’re a hero, MCC.”
“Call me Buttons.”


This original story was written during a month-long writing challenge in one of my online science fiction/fantasy groups. The prompt was to write a flash fiction of around 500 words composed entirely of dialog and consisted of three characters, one of which had to be AI.

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