Writing Prompts: A Month's Worth of Prompts. Flash Fictionists, journaling peeps, writers, bloggers, poets, authors, and all in between-it's time to get the creativity flowing.  Prompts 1. Write a poem about about the silence of night, in the voice of a moon. 2. Journal about the image staring back at you in the mirror, and what it really means to you.  3. Imagine yourself as a cartoon, and depict a silly situation, or animated movements.  4. Write a poem about the longevity of the mere act of death itself, and if there is a transition to another realm.  5. Picture yourself with your favorite painter, witnessing the historic moment which they make your favorite masterpiece.  6. Write the intricacies of dance.  7. Create a palindrome.  8. Write a poem as a postcard, recollecting a memory.  9. Create a found poem from not your favorite poets-but least favorite.  10. Write about your favorite photograph. 11. Experiment with time travel and go to a place with The Doctor.  12. Consi

time In its most wicked state tastes of sour lemons, molded from uncare aware of its presence. life is frailty. love, it's burden. carried upon backs that once moved mountains the stones throw away, now too much effort  to give freely what shouldn't be yearned for. his smile, a memory. happiness trapped in a hourglass to the choices present. stranger, in same being joy you disallow time a ribbon of history unraveled if I known then, what I know now.  -b.r.rivera Recommended Reading

He is a snake in the grass and I know it. Does he not think I recognize scales roughed by so called good intentions and curiosity piqued only when things go sour for thee? Striking on  emotional pain and bad moments. Slither into the dark bring into the light smooth talk and empty promises  reserved for pillow talk and testing the boundaries how far to coil your body next to me.  I am on to you, snake in the grass slither by Belly into the damnation of past. -b.r.rivera

Authorgraphs (formerly known as Kindlegraphs)  are personalized digital inscriptions that authors can use to autograph their name via a mouse, finger through a tablet, or a printed name in scripted front (of the author chooses) to sign a book. Built by a software developer in Seattle, Authorgraph creates the ability to not only send an author's digital signature, but personal messages as well. Boasting over 7,000 authors using its service, Authograph connects the reader personally to the digital world on a new way. So how does it work for an author? First, one must have a published book. Neat thing here is, one can use the service for any platform-not just Kindle, Or Nook. Books don't have to be in eink; even hardcovers and softcovers would do. Authorgraphs are not inserted into the ebook, as the  digital signature is a separate document where readers can keep a collection of all their Authorgraphs. Simply sign up and Authorgraph takes you through the free service to

The Book of Hours Found this gem in the rare book and special collections division via the Library of Congress. This copy was printed in 1524 in the Latin language using 113 leaves and bound in parchment. The book was used in Monasticism devotion, which contained various psalms and other prayers, such as the Litany of Saints. The detail and incredible illustrations are absolutely breathtaking; as a complete bibliophile, I am often drawn to rare texts and seeing the penmanship, printing, and other devices used to create works not within my time period. Not to mention the painstaking ways which the Library of Congress uses to have such books available, and the preservation required for each text. What a treasure to have such information within your fingertips.  You can view this book at  http://lccn.loc.gov/50041712  and use the .pdf and page view provided within the catalog to scroll the entire book. Higher quality imaging and other features are available for viewing. 

Wrists are scraped slightly on warm metal bars kissed by the sunshine. Somewhere, clickity clackety plastic things numbs the street air  in electric buzz from spokes creating musical noise in its own rhythm. I turn back to look at her, she smiles. Shirt ballooned by wind ushering me to continue before I slow her down. Our mission of  10 cent Popsicles and quarter bag of chips are relentless in the haze of summer and sweltering sun. memories now a blur. Mommom calls us, her voice a beacon in the city of  asphalt and pavement which we spill upon and she immediately nurses.  street lights fade to Black replace lightning bugs abuzz in  Neon twirling into our smiles  of small conversation and popped bubble gum defying gravity on fire escapes  dangling toes a reminder of our landmark. Finally, a small breeze pollen upon dewy knees to greet us  good night summers of nostalgia  birthed from bike spokes. ~b.r.rivera Love you, Vina . 

Walt Whitman spent his entire life writing Leaves of Grass , although several editions exist. Although cited as controversial because of the language used with innuendo, in today's culture versus his mid 1800's release the collection of poems is now widely accepted and seen as a classic. The pure sensuality of the poetry sets it apart from no other, and Whitman ensured that his symbolism and other devices were widely used in verse. Besides devices, Whitman brings what is needed to poetry-the willingness to be honest and open, the soul nakedness in the midst of censorship and taming ideas. Interested in reading Leaves of Grass ? Download this public domain book in the US at  Project Gutenberg . Image Details Title: Leaves of Grass. Proto-Leaf Creator: Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892 Source: Oscar Lion Collection/ Leaves of Grass Location: Stephen A. Schwarzman Building/ Rare Books Division Digital ID: 484427 Image via  the NYPL Digital Library.

Remember me, he said Her hair falling down in dew drops dripping across  Electric hair buzzed by emotion. She makes no  Response with words, fulfills only her fingers Into empty voids where his spaces once were. Calmly, Releasing muscled grips Slips into day old clothes under harsh moonlight Hushed feet under creaked floorboards, Closes the door.  -b.r.rivera

There is nothing really beautiful about the fall. The glorification is all about the triumph. The victor. The applause that one gets from the thunderous crowd, at last. Perhaps it's all a matter of perspectives, but the tanglement of hair, the bloodied scrapes from asphalt, the collected dirt from fingernails, has its own beauty. We are expected to be beautiful in times from the fall from grace. Keep it together. Lipstick on. Shirts pressed. Muster on from tar pits unscathed, painted face on like nothing happened. There is no need to rely simply on the truths of reality for we even believe the lie ourself: I'm okay. We tell others. Text them. Email. Tweet. Post. Go, share to the world with our painted on glorified face that we are okay. We are not. And it's okay. Where have I convinced myself that the fall cannot be just as beautiful as the eventual walking tall?  Somewhere in my muddied face, I am still me. My soul, my strength, my inner peace. Somewhere in the blood, the