bittyboo-kitty - Tumblr blog

[bittyboo-kitty]

Sea witch aesthetic

[bittyboo-kitty]

blue is my creative color. i describe my music as blue, i had blue hair for a really long time, and when i record vocals, i use blue lights — i use them on stage as well. it’s such a versatile color. it can be bright and electric or it can be moody and ethereal, or calm and watery. i like that, because i’m also multidimensional

[bittyboo-kitty]

Some pictures of space to make you feel more at home ツ

[bittyboo-kitty]

Washington-based artist Tyree Callahan transformed and old 1937 Underwood Standard typewriter into a functional painting device he calls a Chromatic Typewriter. He did it by replacing the ink pads of the typewriter with colored paint pads and the letters with color markers. (Source)

[bittyboo-kitty]

Sometimes trying to become a writer consists of staring at a blank word document and wanting to bang your head against your desk.

[bittyboo-kitty]

The Addams Family ♥

[bittyboo-kitty]

I want to write the next series like Harry Potter. Not because I want to be famous or sell tons of books. Not because I want to be part of a huge movie franchise. I want to do it because I want to get lost in my own fantastic world and love the people in it like I did with Harry Potter. I want to switch from writer to reader and go on that journey with the characters. I want to feel that heartache, despair, hope, laughter, all of it. I want it for me. If anyone else ends up enjoying it, that’s just a plus.

[bittyboo-kitty]

[bittyboo-kitty]

The ‘Stop’ Letter

I sit here, day after day, with the computer on and in front of me, my hands hovering over the keys half the time without typing a single word. I seem to always run into this problem. I’ll have a fantastic idea for a story or a book but then shortly after starting it, I run into a wall. Not just a wall I can simply walk around or find a door to go through, but a huge, fifteen-feet high, three-feet thick cement wall layered in heavy steel that stretches on for miles. It stops me in my tracks and freezes my fingers and brain from working any further. Eventually, I give up. There are dozens of stories and books that I have initiated that are discarded in the trash bin, dragged to the trash on the desktop, or pushed far back into my mind. Simply because of that wall. Recently, I’ve decided, though, that I want to find a way over that wall. I want to build a ladder and climb steadily until I can sit on top of the wall and jump down to go running into the lush green fields that is a completed book. If I can’t build a ladder, then I want to blow a hole just big enough to squeeze my little frame through while I cough and sputter, trying not to inhale too much cement dust on my journey through the road block from hell. If I can’t find any explosive material (or I can only find components and realize I don’t know how to combine and use them to create said explosive material), I want to throw some sort of acid on that sucker and watch it melt away like the blood from an ‘Alien’ was thrown haphazardly on it.

The easy way to do this might seem like writing out an entire plot outline before actually beginning the story. I’ve tried. I’ve had almost everything figured out and planned but I will still inevitably come to a point where my brain just stops functioning properly to put descriptions of a scene into words or a minor event needs to happen but I can’t determine what exactly that is.

Such is the predicament I’ve been in recently. Instead of solely focusing on a single book idea, I’ve been jotting down ideas for short stories and working on writing off of those while also going back to writing on what I hope becomes an interesting and captivating book. I have the beginning, a sort of introduction to the main story line, completed and typed up, sitting nicely in the folder on my desktop where I store my writing. I have a few snippets and bits and pieces figured out in my head, as well, that I’m just waiting to include when the time in the story calls for it. Some days, though, I’ll open the document and just stare at it, scrolling lazily up and down over the text that I’ve already managed to get out of my head and into readable words. I also have days where I look at my list of phrases or words that serve as ideas for other stories and I just don’t feel a spark for any of them. It’s not that I don’t have some of the stories already fully thought out in my mind, it’s that I just don’t WANT to write them out at the time and I won’t force myself to because I feel like the story would end up lacking heart and caring and become bland and read as if I had thrown it in a blender, hit puree, and then thrown the meat-smoothie remains onto the computer screen and said “voila, done.”

So, day after day, I sit here, computer open, fingers resting lightly on keys that aren’t being pressed, staring at a blank section of screen that’s begging me to unhinge my skull and throw brain matter onto it (figuratively, of course, but I’m tempted sometimes to be literal about this). Today started out no differently. I awoke to the sounds of machines digging next to my bedroom window- three apartment complexes like my own are being prepared to be built along the street I live on, one directly next to my building. I did my normal wake-up routine: went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, greeted the cat and dog in the living room, booted up the laptop, texted my husband who works during the day (I work at night), and sat down to make the daily attempt at writing something spectacular (or anything at all). I was determined to write at least another five pages of the book or one more short story. After half an hour of opening unfinished stories and the book, skimming over the list of ideas I keep, staring blankly at the screen, and running my hands over my face while I look out of the sliding glass window at the sunshine beating angrily on everything outside, I gave up and decided to take a break. I figured I’d walk outside in the unbearable heat to check the mail, then find something to eat and watch a bit of a movie before starting up again. Then, I would make myself write those five pages, I would get past that wall somehow, even if it meant leaving the screen open to the book document for hours.

The mail today consisted simply of a small NRA magazine for my husband, a couple of ads for local places, and the water bill. I carried the thin contents inside and threw away the flyers then dropped the magazine in my husband’s recliner for him to look through later. When I went to set the water bill on the table next to my seat, I realized that something fell out of it. It wasn’t an insert for the magazine; it was a small envelope baring my name and address. I picked it up and looked at the unassuming envelope, guessing it was probably some sort of junk mail. It was small, no more than maybe three inches by four inches, if that. The white paper encasing had only my name, address, and a return address with no name written on it. I turned it over in my hands a couple of times and saw that other than the writing, it seemed almost dirty, as if it had been dropped in the mud then picked up and wiped off. I had walked into the kitchen while examining the flat item and took my eyes off of it to gaze into the refrigerator for a moment, trying to decide what to feed my face. I closed the fridge and opened the cupboard at the other end of the kitchen, grabbing a small bag of chips and opening them while carrying the chips and the letter back to my seat.

I slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and tugged the seal open, only ripping part of it as I forced it to let go of itself. Inside was a small folded piece of yellow legal-pad paper. This definitely wasn’t a piece of junk mail. I slid a chip in my mouth as I unfolded the piece of paper to read the message that appeared to have been scrawled quickly in messy handwriting not dislike my own. There were dark spots on the edges of the page from what looked like a dark substance being on the sender’s fingers as they folded it and shoved it into the envelope. I had opened it upside-down so I flipped it around to read the words, seeing that there were also spots of what I assumed was the same stuff as along the edges, splattered on the page, obscuring some of the words. I read the frantic message the best that I could. Some of the words are only partially blotted out by whatever liquid dried on it, so I can make out what they are meant to be or what I think it is. Other words are completely covered, though. Here’s what I can best read and understand:

‘The book you’re writing. Don’t write —- coming. —- yellow eyes, look for the yellow eyes. I finished —- so I know you will finish the book. Please stop writing it. I don’t want to die. You think you —- the idea out of nowhere —- don’t remember yet. —- don’t remember the truth of the monster you write about. You —- stop. I wish I had stopped. If I had stopped, I wouldn’t —- Boe, I am you. I beg you to listen and believe me. It comes —- night and the day —– handprints on the window and didn’t know. I asked it to come in. It will make itself look like people —- and love —- Matt. It killed him. It ripped him apart slowly —- tried to shoot it. He tried to protect —- Oh god, he’s gone. Bullets didn’t —- screams were horrible. Don’t let Matt —- leave the story in your head and find something else —- That thing will come —- only protected by not remembering the truth. I remembered —- and it got them killed —- Matt killed. It’s invisible —- day. I don’t know why or —- at night it comes. It bangs on the windows. It chases —- truck. It killed —- poor person —- walking home that night. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t write that book. It won’t wait —- won’t make a deal. Don’t let Matt get torn apart. Don’t —- where I am. I hope you get this. I hope there’s —- blood. I hope I die before it finds me again.

-Boe

stop writing it stop writing it stop writing it stop writing it stop writing stop writing stop writing stop writing stop writing stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop’

The rest of the page is filled with ‘stops’. After reading over the letter three times and working to make out what words I couldn’t see, the thought occurred to me that the spots might be blood or supposed to seem like blood. I thought this had to be some sort of bad joke and I’d still believe that if not for the fact that Matt swears he didn’t write it, that it looks like my handwriting, and a few minutes after texting and asking him about it, there was a knock at the front door, the one that opens to the hallway of the apartment building. The initial knock made me jump but I took a deep breath and opened the door, careful to not let either one of the animals run out. There was no one there. I stepped into the hallway, looking to both sides and saw no one in the small stretch between the front door of the 6-plex and the back door. I looked at the floor to see if there was a package or a flyer but again, nothing.

With my head stuck out into the hall, I heard a bang against the sliding glass door to my right. I jerked back into the apartment and looked over to see our dog sitting up, startled from her nap, our cat with her head up, also surprised by the noise that suddenly roused her from her own slumber, but no one and nothing outside the door. I shut and locked the front door then walked apprehensively to the glass door, looking around and still seeing no sign of anyone nearby. I looked down and patted the dog’s head to comfort her. I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath once again and went to sit back down. Something on the glass caught the corner of my eye as I began to walk away, though. I looked at it and realized it was a handprint, the kind that would be left on dirty glass or fogged glass. The print was definitely larger than my own, with fingers that stretched to at least twice the length of mine. I touched the glass softly and used a finger to wipe at it but nothing happened.

The handprint was on the outside of the glass.

We have a screen door on the outside of the sliding glass door that we have to fight with to open every time.

It hadn’t been opened.

[bittyboo-kitty]

Hunted

It’s been lost as to when exactly it happened, when they came. At first it seemed like there were just a few of them, they weren’t too much of a threat. Some of us would go missing from time to time, but it wasn’t enough to really worry anyone, every living thing has disappearances from other creatures or simply losing one’s way. Eventually they came like locusts, like a plague. They were everywhere. They were taking over our homes, tearing them apart to create their own crude structures. They brought with them unimaginably loud noises and screaming. Then along the way one of us found out that they… those things were… they were EATING us. More and more of us began to disappear and sometimes one of us would stumble across the body… strung up, cut, gutted, lifeless, butchered beyond recognition. Those creatures would carve off pieces of flesh and add some kind of dirt to them or an odd liquid, some sort of unusual seasoning perhaps, then put it in a pan or other cooking means and the smell, oh god, the smell. Have you ever smelled the flesh of your brother, father, sister, neighbor, someone you grew up with, someone that you knew, cook? It’s horrid. We weren’t the only ones, though, no. They snatched up just about any other species to feast on, to make meals of.

Over time, we gave up and moved into the forests. Some of us lived on the edges, roaming close to the things and places that these creatures created. Some of us pushed deep into the woods in attempt to hide and try to live a new life, away from the gnashing teeth of those things and the horror they brought with them. But in the forest, our chances of survival dwindled as well. We now had to be more careful of other predators: mountain lions, bears, wolves, coyotes, anything that ate meat. We didn’t have the spaces to hide from these threats anymore and those demons, those alien things, that pushed us deeper, also pushed animals that would hunt us deeper into the forest as well.

Although we still used the sun to see, we grew accustomed to the dark more and we could easily move around. It was easiest to search out food in the between times, such as dusk and dawn. Those things weren’t as active then. We learned what areas to avoid, when we could creep up to their buildings and homes to find some sort of forgotten treat long missed by our mouths. Sometimes a night of searching for something to put in our bellies and sustain us was met with disgusting horror, finding bodies of fallen brethren on the sides of the roads, mangled, broken, twisted. If we were lucky, the bodies we came across weren’t too badly mutilated, but sometimes, oh, sometimes they were worse. A body might be cut in half, looking as if something ripped it apart rather than cut it. Blood would be splattered around and intestines or other internal organs would be spilling out of whatever unnatural hole was nearest to them. The eyes would stare at nothing, dark, lifeless, haunting. All you could do was cringe, hope that they didn’t feel too much pain before they died, and walk or run on away from it. Many times we tried to take solace in the fact that if one of us was found on the road, we knew at least it wouldn’t be eaten by one of those lanky, groping, angry things. They treated us like nothing. We had become NOTHING. I’m sure we were just kept around and our population not completely wiped out so they could have some sport, some entertainment, but they didn’t even really care if we were hungry, or tired, or just wanted a little food, just wanted our family, most of the time, they would still just break us and throw us aside if we crossed their path.

By the time I came into this world, this was the type of life we had known for generations, living on the edge of a world that was stolen from us, doing what we could to survive, sometimes going hungry for months. And sometimes I was SO hungry.

This morning I woke up that way. Well, I say morning, but it was actually just before dawn. I stretched and stood up, walking the sleep off of my cramped limbs. My stomach grumbled almost immediately, I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in a few days. I had kept to the forest, foraging for what I could find that nature provided. I knew there was a clearing not far, but it was dangerous to be out in the open for too long. The air was getting colder each day and frost could be found on the grass in the mornings. It would be winter soon and seemed like it was gearing up to be a rough one. My stomach groaned at me again and I knew I had to risk it. With winter, food would become more scarce so I needed as much as I could get right now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to get too exposed, maybe I could just go to the edge of the clearing and find something I could use to satiate my stomach for a bit. When I got there, I could look around and make sure that it was safe, take my time to be sure there were no lurking predators then push into the clearing where I knew I could find some bushes with berries at least. I made my way slowly to my destination, stopping at a stream along the way to drink some of the cold water. It felt icy but good slipping down my throat. Before I knew it, I was in the trees at the edge of the open space. It didn’t seem like there was anything around. I had seen a few others through the trees on my way, but I didn’t see anything that would harm me. Still, I waited a while, circling the little clearing and looking for anything good to eat as I did. Eventually I had walked twice around it and there was still no sign of anything or anyone lurking around. I stepped hesitantly out of the tree line and thought I heard a noise. I jerked my head up and looked around for a second, then froze and strained my ears to try to hear it again. Nothing. Just the normal sounds of the forest: birds chirping, wind rustling the leaves a bit, small animals scurrying around. The night around me seemed to be getting just slightly lighter and I looked towards the sky, knowing the sun was inching it’s way around to bring on the day to our corner of the world. I shook off the feeling that something was out there since I heard nothing else. Just a few feet into the clearing, I could see a bush. It was a bush full of beautiful, delicious berries. My mouth watered just looking at them. Still moving slowly and carefully, stepping gingerly through the grass in very calculated motions, I approached the berry bush. By the time I reached it, I still had heard nothing and felt at ease now, relishing the thought that I would get those juicy berries into my belly soon. I bent down to pull a berry from a small branch when I heard it. This time it was unmistakable. Leaves being crunched slowly and methodically under feet. I looked up again, searching for where the sound was coming from but couldn’t quite tell. Then I saw it. It was one of those things that liked to cut us up, torture us, then dine on our seared flesh and body parts until it could no longer stuff anymore into its stomach. It was coming from just ahead of me, stalking quietly, partially covered by the trees surrounding it on the opposite of the clearing, eyes staring straight at me. I needed to move and fast. My thoughts all ran and screamed in my head, my bones burned with the knowledge that they needed to run, my blood pumped with the adrenaline trying to make my limbs respond to what my brain knew they needed to do. I started breathing heavy and quick. I screamed in my head to tell myself to just run, get out of here! Finally, as the creature lifted its arms pointed toward me, wanting me, and was almost to the edge of the clearing, my legs remembered how to work and I spun around to run as rapidly as I could.

Suddenly, an intense, burning pain shot up through my back and I crumpled to the ground. I was too late. It had me. I tried getting up but my left leg couldn’t move and then pain rippled through me. I heard it coming up to stand over me. The last thing I saw was that thing pointing something at me. I could see the top of its body had a sort of bright skin, orange and blinding in the rising light. The last thing I heard was it say “Your antlers are gonna look mighty fine on my wall.” Then the human shot me again, ending the pain.

[bittyboo-kitty]

I started a blog for my writing and inspiration. I'm not very active on here but if love it if you checked out the new one! I plan (and hope) to be posting and sharing often. You can find it by searching boewhiskey or by simply going to boewhiskey.tumblr.com

[bittyboo-kitty]

Masky: You know, somebody once told me

BEN: That the world was gonna roll me?

Masky: Uh, no not really

BEN: Well, I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed

Masky: BEN, NO!

BEN: WELL, THE YEARS START COMING

[bittyboo-kitty]

I really just want to collect tea cups right now

[bittyboo-kitty]

[bittyboo-kitty]

[bittyboo-kitty]

Fruit Tea Magic 🍑✨

there are plenty of ways to work to work a little magic into your day without doing a full on ritual, and your daily (hourly?) tea is one of them! here’s just a couple of suggestions with fruits and their correspondences.

raspberry - love, strength, endurance and reliability

black currant - for  abundance, lust, and fertility

rhubarb -  for fidelity and protection.

mango -  harmony, balance, contentment, fertility. 

strawberry -  for fortune, friendship, and love.

lemon -  for friendship, love, and purification.

cherry -  for divination and love.

blueberry -  for protection.

apple -  for banishment, fertility, healing, love, protection, and purification.

pear -  for wealth, love and lust.

orange -  for beauty, divination, fortune, love, purification, and wealth.

cranberry -  for protection, positive energy, courage, passion, determination, goals, and action

rose-hip - for luck, love, and spirituality. 

pomegranate - for divination, luck, wishes, wealth, and fertility

there are a number of combinations of fruit teas, with other types of fruit as well as spices, herbs, flowers and teas. teas can be simple, easy potions with a variety of brewed intents. 

floral tea magic ✨  herbal tea magic ✨  general tea magic

[bittyboo-kitty]

heavenly words

aliferous: (adj.) having wings

apricity: (n.) the warmth of the sun in the winter

aspectabund: (adj.) letting emotion show easily through the face or eyes

aurora: (n.) dawn

balter: (v.) to dance gracelessly, but with enjoyment

cafune: (n.) the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

catharsis: (n.) release of emotional tension

charmolypi: (n.) a mixed feeling of happiness while being sad

diaphonous: (adj.) light, translucent, and delicate

dulcet: (adj.) sweet

ephemeral: (adj.) fleeting

ethereal: (adj.) extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world

eutony: (n.) the pleasantness of a word’s sound

halcyon: (adj.) a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful

illecebrous: (adj.) enticing

irenic: (adj.) promoting peace

kalon: (n.) beauty that is more than skin-deep

kalopsia: (n.) the seeing of things as more beautiful than they actually are

lacuna: (n.) a blank or missing part

lilt: (n.) a pleasant gentle accent

ludic: (adj.) full of fun and high spirits

meraki: (n.) to do something with love or soul

nefelibata: (n.) cloud-walker; one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination

nepenthe: (n.) something that makes one forget their sadness

nubivagant: (adj.) wandering in the clouds

numinous: (adj.) feeling fearful yet awed and inspired

orphic: (adj.) beyond ordinary understanding

pyrrhic: (adj.) won at too great a cost

pulchritudinous: (adj.) breathtaking, heartbreaking beauty

scintilla: (n.) a tiny trace or spark of a feeling

selcouth: (adj.) unfamiliar, strange, yet marvelous

sirimiri: (n.) a light drizzle of rain

susurrus: (n.)  whispering, murmuring, or rustling

sweven: (n.) a dream

temerate: (v.) to break a bond or promise

viridity: (n.) innocence

yonderly: (adj.) absent-minded