Author Archives: Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted M. Bernard writes poetry and prose, takes pictures, and works in a library. She lives in San Francisco near the ocean with her partner and two cats. About »

infected

If you are read­ing this, you have been infected. Pro­ceed to the Well­ness Cen­ter. At the door, remove the piece of cloth­ing you like best. This cer­tainly car­ries the dis­ease, and will be destroyed.
No one will greet you. There is no one staffing the Well­ness Cen­ter in this time of cri­sis; all

socks

A pile of hopes, socks just out of the dryer,
top a new year. That is fine, but every­one
wants you to be care­ful to match the socks.
I am not care­ful. I am tired of being care­ful.
I throw love at you, and it could hit you in the face.
It is tir­ing to be loved hap­haz­ardly, I know.
Some­one

no longer of consequence

She thought that it would be enough when they had to reg­is­ter as no-gods, when they divided the line between types of belief. She never thought it would come to enforced ster­il­iza­tion. What was once a prac­tice they so read­ily embraced as “choice” was now a manda­tory med­ical pro­ce­dure for all no-gods at

to be moved

I hadn’t thought of you in a while, and
right when I saw the lanky brunette
swivel side­ways in her plas­tic seat
to let some­one out, I thought of you,
your skin and hair and bones,
so taut and shiny. You were the
epit­ome of “girl” in my world and if
I had a crush on you –
    we all did

mercenaries

These words are mer­ce­nar­ies.
They slouch out­side the back door of this poem,
clouds of frosty air bil­low­ing around their heads,
belts and boots glint­ing in the flood lamp.
When it is time, these words slip inside,
car­ry­ing a box or a knife or an enve­lope.
The hall­way is dim. The recip­i­ent waits.
A noise, half-sigh, half-groan, escapes.
Per­haps noth­ing hap­pened. The

yellow pages

He puts his head on his hand, elbow beside the yel­low pages. He scans the names and num­bers, paus­ing to smirk at a funny bunch of let­ters. Today the book is of Reno, Nevada. He has never been to Reno, but he pic­tures it like Orinda in July, only flat­ter. Once

Fenton Johnson on Workshops

Per­haps the most use­ful aspect of a workshop—more use­ful than the cri­tiques, which are often all over the map—is the irre­place­able and salu­tary ter­ror of pub­lic per­for­mance. Putting up a piece before a work­shop is in effect pub­lish­ing it, and the work­shop offers many new writ­ers their first expo­sure to the very best teach­ing tool,

“Critiquing” is not “Editing”

Daily Writ­ing Tips is an out­stand­ing blog for writ­ers, pro­vid­ing con­cise posts about hon­ing our skills.
This excel­lent reminder comes from the post “Cri­tiquing” is not “Edit­ing”:
Cri­tiquing is not the same as edit­ing. If the friend is “edit­ing dras­ti­cally,” the result is no longer a cri­tique but a rewrite.
Some­times we can for­get this, eager as we

Where We Write

Where I Write is a col­lec­tion of pho­tographs of fan­tasy and sci­ence fic­tion authors’ “cre­ative spaces”. I wish my cre­ative space were as mar­velous as some of these!
Where do you write? What do you like about it? What do you wish you could change?
(Thanks to my writ­ing group leader David for the link.)

writing and being

My writer’s block-busting exer­cise becomes a block in itself when I want to write stan­dard “hey this is what’s in my head” entries. So here goes with one of those, long over­due.
For the past few weeks, no small amount of my spare brain-cycles have been spent focus­ing on the ques­tion of what I do