5-1: Strangetown, Strange Memories

Over four generations, the Belue family had learned exactly four things:


First, that ladderless pools are far more lethal than electrocution.


Second, that murder earns true love and hefty scholarships.


Third, that love triangles are a pain in the ass and hella boring to write.


And finally, that while money can’t buy happiness, it sure makes strides in the right direction.

snapshot_9f8fe411_3f94da69Elizabeth Belue had learned none of these things. In fact, she hardly remembered anything at all. She knew only the hot sand between her fingers, the harsh sun beating at her eyes, her name, and the general plots of a few daytime soaps. “I must be in one of those survival dramas,” she said to herself, squinting into the cloudless sky.

Behind Elizabeth stood a small, odd house. She twisted around to look at it. Windows composed most of its walls, and ratty carpeting stretched across its floors. Hardly a story tall, its shadow barely scraped her fingertips. Elizabeth pushed herself from the ground, wiped her hands on her pants, and went inside.

snapshot_9f8fe411_7f8ffb5aAs soon as the door clicked shut, something barked from the bedroom. Elizabeth leaped nearly to the ceiling, thinking it the violent host from some violent reality show. Oh, the name escaped her. On terrified tiptoes she edged to the bedroom door-labelled clearly Elizabeth’s Room-and eased it open a crack.

A black, wet nose nuzzled through. She giggled, dropped to her knee; the dog crawled into her lap and drooled on her jeans. “Gross,” said Elizabeth as she bent forward to read its collar. “Rasputin, huh?”

Rasputin wagged his tail.

“You’re named after…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Somebody.”

snapshot_9f8fe411_df8ffbd1She stood and walked to the kitchen, where a newspaper lay waiting on a mosaic table. She picked it up, then sat down. It lay open to the “HELP WANTED” section. In the fourth column, six entries down, was circled “Test Subject.” “That’s like a taste tester, right?” asked Elizabeth. “Ooh, maybe I’ll be on Cake Boss!”

She answered the ad via the telephone, conveniently located in the kitchen, and was accepted without a single reference-not that she could’ve remembered one.

As she hung up the phone, someone knocked on the door.

snapshot_9f8fe411_5f94d90fThe door slid open. Elizabeth stood to greet the two strangers. “Hello,” said the blonde man, glaring from behind cheap spectacles, “You’re new he-”

“Y-you must’ve put a lot of money into this place!” said the other, his mohawk reaching for the ceiling. “Think of how many cloning facilities you could fund with that bank!”

“Hush, Nervous,” said Glasses Man. “You’re Elizabeth Belue, yes? Pleased to meet you. I’m Vidcund Curious, and this is Nervous Subject. Jenny Smith is waiting outside-narrow hallway you’ve got here. You can hardly fit the three of us. Anyway, we’re pleased to make your acquaintance.”

snapshot_9f8fe411_ff94d8ef“Erm, nice to meet you guys, too.” Elizabeth bit her lip. “Can I ask you both something?”

“Elizabeth, where’d you get your hair dyed?” asked Nervous Subject.

“Genetics,” replied Elizabeth. “How do you know my name?”

“P.T. heard you were moving into town,” answered Vidcund. “He asked us to help you settle in. He’s pretty ancient, so he couldn’t come down here himself.”

snapshot_9f8fe411_3f94d902“P.T.’s nice,” said Nervous Subject. “He makes the best waffles.”

“Waffles?” asked Elizabeth. “I remember something about grilled cheese, but nothing about waffles.”

“Go figure,” muttered Vidcund. Clearing his throat, he added, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

snapshot_9f8fe411_df94dc25“Of course,” said Elizabeth. Vidcund squeezed past her and disappeared down the hall. Nervous Subject inched towards the radio. Then he smashed the play button as though he were a mustached Italian plumber, and it a devious turtle. Guitars crashed through the speakers. “This is my favorite song!” shouted Nervous, wiggling his hips and shuffling forwards and backwards. “I call this dance move The Walker!”

Elizabeth’s arms began to pump, and she leaned forward, then backward to the beat. “I call this the Single Lady!”

“It’s Single Ladies!” shouted Nervous over the radio. “Mind if I call you Blue?”

snapshot_9f8fe411_bf94dbfc“Sounds good!” replied Elizabeth. Vidcund emerged from the bathroom. Rasputin sniffed his pants zipper, and Elizabeth slipped just as Vidcund pushed the dog away. “Nice moves, Blue,” yelled Nervous.

“I’m a little wobbley today,” answered Elizabeth. “Must be the memory loss.”

“Let’s play hackey sack!” said Vidcund quickly. Nervous whipped around. His eyes narrowed.

“It’s on,” hissed Nervous.

snapshot_9f8fe411_df94db70An old woman snuck inside to witness the match. Elizabeth eyed her with frightened curiosity. She’d never seen a smile quite that big. She was certain the woman would pull a knife from her khakis’ back pocket, and stab the whole room dead without dropping her grin. Her enthusiasm for hackey sack certainly supported the theory.


“That’s not very nice,” pouted Nervous.

“Shut it, tool,” snapped the woman. “BEAT HIM, VIDCUND!”

snapshot_9f8fe411_bf94db8bElizabeth snagged a meal tray from the fridge, and snuck to the table. She shoveled the food into her mouth nearly as excitedly as the maybe-killer screamed at the hackey sackers. Little did she know sloppy eating and murder were too of the most famous Belue traditions.

Rasputin watched the match, wondering if he’d advised the czar in a past life. He thought better of it, though, and settled with gnawing his own foot.

As Elizabeth licked her plate clean, Vidcund won the match. All parties rejoiced, except for Rasputin. The Revolution was getting to him.

snapshot_9f8fe411_ff94dde5Within minutes, the crowd dispersed, leaving Elizabeth alone with her empty mind, and Rasputin alone with the czar’s death. Elizabeth sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Elizabeth Belue,” she whispered to herself as she slipped out of her pants. “Elizabeth Belue-Elizabeth who? Belue? What a strange name.”

She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Belue, Belue, Be-lue,” she muttered. “Sounds like some kind of berry.”

Her eyelids fluttered, then shut.

“Bet it tastes like crayons,” she breathed, then fell asleep.


The Smiths – “Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before

A/N: OMG IT’S BACK!!! Damn, it’s been almost seven months since Watson’s finale. I honestly didn’t think I’d revisit the Belues, but Insaneepandaa convinced me otherwise. Thanks, chica. (:

Anywho, I’ve really gota get caught up with everyone else’s stories and prolly update ADDC sometime. Those updates take hella long to get out, but I’ll try to get one done over Thanksgiving or Christmas break! As for Belue updates, they’ll be more frequent. These chapters take a quarter of the time that Dove chapters do (they usually average eight hours plus, writing, pictures, and picture editing combined). I’ll try to have updates done whenever I have time!

ALSO thank you so much everybody for sticking with this story! I hope the next chapters will make the wait worth it!

In conclusion:


Maybe-Killer’s getting all choked up over hardcore hackey sack.

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Bender’s Back!

Hey guys! Just popping in to let you know that the Big Brother Challenge is up here, with Bender and some other crazy people locked up in a house for eight weeks with nothing to do but each other. Hope everyone’s having a great spring, and remember your sunscreen!

Posted in Generation 1 | 6 Comments

A Break

I don’t know how long this is going to last. All I know is that I’m really struggling with the Belues right now, and can hardly write or muster up enough interest in them to write another chapter. I’m really sorry, guys. I think the switch from 2 to 3 has gradually killed my interest in these guys. There might be more chapters in the future, but for now, things are going to be pretty quiet around here.

I’m starting up another blog (because I always need another one) for mini challenges that will definitely include some of the Belues. I’ll post a link when I’ve got it up. 

Have a great spring, guys! I hope to talk to you guys on your own stories and the Doves and that new blog when the link’s up. 



Posted in Generation 1 | 10 Comments

4-12: The Bad Luck Birthday Strikes Back

Before we get on with the juicy, generation finale, we’re going to spend a little bit of time catching up with our current household.

It is the eve of Elizabeth’s teenage birthday. Everything is already going wrong.


“Have I ever had heart disease?” thought Watson aloud. “Do I ever want heart disease?”

He glanced down at the college aptitude test, up at the ceiling, and then down at the test again. He tapped his pencil on his chin thoughtfully before answering. “Eh, I’d rather not.”

It was a very difficult test. Watson passed with murky colors.


Scarlett’s head would make a great hockey puck, thought Pandora.

“Get your underwear out of my bed,” yawned Scarlett. “Three months later, and that childbirth still exhausts me.”

“Whizzer, Scarlett,” said Pandora sourly. “You kids wonder why I don’t like any of you.”


Malix and Pandora, in a stroke of uncharacteristic luck, regained their old flame. It burned so brightly even the walls oohed and aahed and then called the fire department.

Unfortunately, it made Scarlett’s new romantic pursuits slightly more awkward. “Can you guys take it to another room?” asked Scarlett.

“Can you ask your boyfriend to shave his-for lack of a better term-whiskers?”

“We prefer the term facial pantry,” said the werewolf cooly.


Elizabeth’s birthday happened to fall on the first day of spring. Elizabeth, convinced that the change in season marked a change in temperature, sprinted outside in nothing but her t-shirt and shorts. Thankfully, her fairy fire breath saved her from hypothermia.



Angus, who was feeling quite neglected after being ignored for six chapters, decided the only way to nose his way back into the limelight was to eat my favorite Sims.

Pandora, like the kickass granny we all know and love, showed him who really runs the house. (Note: Not Watson)


You’re giving cow tipping a whole new meaning, Panda.

The entire “let’s eat the legacy family” ordeal so terribly embarrassed Angus that he watched Little Shop of Horrors twelve times in a row just to be sure that he’d get it right next time.

…Good luck with that, Angus. You’re in the Sims 3. Nothing can kill you here except for the glitches.


The change in seasons overwhelmed Malix’s common sense. He owned nothing but t-shirts and tuxes, and in a rare show of frugality, he bought his outerwear from the Salvation Army dumpster.

His grandson, Tony, greatly approved. His overalls were snatched up from the same place and smelled nearly as bad as Malix’s jacket.

With our quick review out of the way, we can now focus on today’s main event: Elizabeth’s birthday party. Watson, in an act of uncharacteristic altruism, invited the whole family.

By that I mean Rose, Daisy, and Daisy’s awkward stepchild.


My feelings on the matter are pictured above.


“Goddamn vegetarians,” swore Watson. He had had a great deal to drink that evening, and was looking forward to the night’s festivities even less than he had that afternoon. There was a knock at the front door, and he shuddered. Between Daisy, Daisy’s stepchild, Rose, and Angus, Watson would rather take on the cowplant.

Thankfully, Scarlett’s boyfriend had showed up to start the party early.


In Scarlett’s bed. “Sorry about the body hair,” he apologized. “I’ve just got a lot of testosterone.”

Scarlett leaned back on the pillows and sighed. “When I don’t pick a guy who’s fucked up in the head, I pick the guy with hair on his eyeballs.”

Hairball (I think his name’s Param, but we’ll go with Hairball to be safe) left the party in a great huff and nearly crashed into Daisy on his way out.


“Watson, I nearly got run over by a werewolf, but on the upside, I brought you something!” she screeched. “I made you some carbs! I can do more than just complain now!”

“You can make me fat. Congratulations.”

“You wouldn’t be fat if you just exercised.”

“You’re preaching to the Internet, Daisy.”

Ignoring her brother’s jabs, Daisy entered the dining room and recoiled in disgust. John was twerking, Tony was playing with something vaguely resembling dirty laundry, Pandora was eating rotten pancakes, Malix was remarking snidely on the aforementioned pancakes, and her awkward stepchild was staring vacantly into the distance, contemplating popping a zit. Daisy thought she would go mad from the debauchery.

Rose, unfortunately, already had.


One glance at John’s wicked moves and she fled to the shady, still undecorated corners of the house.

It’s kind of embarrassing how sparsely decorated their house is. Like, there’s four fairly talented young adults living in it and they still struggle with their bills sometimes. I blame it on their ludicrous amounts of family drama and sexual escapades.

Just kidding, actually I’m just bad at Simming. Misc. decor over standard plumbing, holla.


Elizabeth had never met her aunt Daisy before, and was terribly stunned by her humongous hair. It nearly grazed the ceiling, and Elizabeth could have sworn she saw a dove’s wing poking from the back. Still, her father raised her to be moderately polite, so horrified niceties ensued. “It’s nice to meet you, Aunt Daisy.”

“Your father’s drunk,” whispered Daisy. “I’m afraid he might fall into the cake.”


“Good thing there’s not a stripper in there,” said Elizabeth.

Daisy gasped. “Who taught you about that?!”

“Scarlett.” The answer was always Scarlett.


“Hey, Dad,” said Elizabeth. “Can I blow out the candles now? Childhood’s awfully taxing.”

Watson pointed at the cake, and the entire party migrated in their general direction. This was not as pleasant as it seemed.


“Boooooo! Rooooose!”

I seriously have no idea why John would say that, but he did. Maybe he’s a secret racist.

The rest of the party was slightly more jovial.



“SCARLETT JUST GOT LAID!!!” shouted Pandora. Nobody else cared to know about Scarlett’s newest, excessively hair beau, though they didn’t seem to care much about the party, either.

To spice things up, Elizabeth blew out the candles.


That’s more like it. Except for Rose, but she’s Rose. She doesn’t get excited unless someone’s getting beat up. Watson’s not terribly enthusiastic, either, but blame it on the alcohol.

“Did you all just pull those blowhorns out of your butts?” asked Elizabeth with a squeal.

Daisy’s awkward stepchild nodded solemnly.

Elizabeth celebrated with a renewed excitement.


Adolescence, while granting some considerable beauty and others considerable acne, was especially unkind to Elizabeth. “Is that some kind of fairy thing?” asked Daisy, bewildered.

“This is worse than when she aged up cross eyed,” sighed Watson.

“I JUST GOT LAID!” shouted Scarlett.

“SHE JUST GOT LAID!” shouted Pandora.

“Erm, your granddaughter’s a giraffe,” pointed out Malix. Pandora didn’t notice.


At that moment, Daisy’s awkward stepchild remembered to celebrate. She did so by blowing a vuvuzuela into Watson’s butt. “My cheeks are deaf,” said Watson.

“And you’re drunk,” snapped Daisy.


“You can look now,” said Elizabeth. “Wow, puberty sure went by fast.”

If I were an asshole in a wife beater, this story would start referring to her as Sugar Tits.


“You aged up beautifully,” said Scarlett with a smile.

“Great, cool,” said Watson, who had just realized that John had never seen him drunk before and was probably having a great laugh in Watson’s direction. “Can I get to the cake?”

“Sure, Dad,” said Elizabeth.

She’s pretty mild for a Belue heir. Let’s hope young adulthood gives her some whacked out trait.


Unfortunately for Watson, the rest of the party shoved him to the back of the line. John flashed him an apologetic glance as he made his way to the table. Watson sighed. John’s eyes outshone the sunniest day, but how exactly was Watson supposed to tell him that?

He downed another shot and grabbed some cake.


“Wow, Aunt Daisy, Aunt Rose, and that weird girl left pretty fast.”

“Left us plenty of carbs, though,” said Scarlett through a mouthful of cake.

“Do you think it was because they didn’t like me?” said Elizabeth. “I guess I’m pretty boring.”

“No,” interjected John. “You’re fashionable.”


As Watson stepped up to the table, everyone promptly rose and stared in vague, outlandish directions. Watson looked around helplessly, then plopped down in his chair. John leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Meet me upstairs when you’re done. PS: Brush your teeth.”

“Is my dragon breath that bad?” Watson whispered back.

“Smaug’s crying in his grave.”

“Must be pretty awful then,” said Watson, enthusiasm thoroughly undeterred. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

John nodded and left.

Screenshot-177 “That looked like sexy whispering,” said Scarlett excitedly. “Watson, you are so close!”

“Close to what?” asked Elizabeth.

“The finish line,” said Watson, frosting adorning his upper lip. “I’m just about to pass go.”

“This isn’t a game of Monopoly.”

“Hey,” said Scarlett. “You’re a mature teenager now. Would you mind doing the dishes?”

Elizabeth sighed and retreated to the kitchen, a stack of putrid dishes in hand.


“Go get ’em, tiger,” said Scarlett, and Watson smiled up at her.

“Thanks, Scarlett. For everything.”

“Thanks yourself,” she winked. “But enough with me. This night’s about you and lover boy  up there”-she lowered her voice considerably-“and I will be thoroughly disappointed in you as a human being if you don’t get laid tonight.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Watson grinned. “I’ll try my best.”

Scarlett saluted him as he shoved his cake to the other side of the table, straightened his shirt buttons, and marched directly to his bedroom.


John sat on Watson’s bed, and smiled wryly at Watson as he walked in. Watson gulped. “Hey, John. What can I do for you?”


“We’ve been living together for nearly a year now, Watson.”


“And I’m a pretty perceptive guy. I’m a journalist, okay, a paperboy, but still. I see things other people walk on past. Like you. Some people, like Elizabeth’s mother, just walk on by you, but you made me stop. You’ve caught my attention since the first day I saw you.”

“And you caught mine,” replied Watson. He was suddenly as sober as he had ever been.


“I felt like I could trust you with my life, and I was right.”

Watson’s smile melts into warm butter. “I used to live on logic, but you’ve taught me to live on-”

You’re making me gag, Watson.





“That’s what I said,” said Watson uncomfortably. “Love.”

“That’s exactly the word I was getting at, Watson! Love, love, LOVE!”

Screenshot-187 “Love’s pretty cool,” laughed Watson nervously.

“You can’t trivialize it like that,” admonished John. “Love’s serious shit, except when you’re laughing.”

“Yes.” Watson’s grin cracked his face in half. “It really is.”

“I have a crazy idea,” said John. He cocked a thick eyebrow. “Let’s get married.”

Screenshot-191 And suddenly Watson’s lips found John’s and they were kissing, glorious kissing, with hands innocently touching shoulders and faces, and eyes squeezed shut for fear of ruining the beautiful, untouchable moment. Watson wanted it to last forever.



Somebody cleared their throat.

“Um, Dad?”


Scissor Sisters – “Fire With Fire

A/N: And that concludes Generation Four!! I had to end it on a cliffhanger, because, well, I thought it’d be fun for a change. I hope ya’ll enjoyed the return to old school Belue style, because I absolutely loved writing it. Especially the last three quarters. I just love Scarlett and John, though, so anything with them in it is GOLDEN.

There’s no heir vote for this next generation, because so far Elizabeth is Watson’s only child. Since you guys voted on a crazy ass plot-ish thing for next generation, things are going to get even crazier.

In conclusion:



Party on, John!

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4-11: John and Watson

Watson awoke early the next morning, stretched his arms far over his head, and wondered momentarily on the hopelessness of human existence before rolling his eyes at himself. Love leaves the brooders behind, and Watson, ever self competitive, strove desperately to avoid the dust.

An odd compulsion to play the piano came over him, and Watson, animated as a manic Van Gogh, dashed from his room. He slid down the banister like an orphan at the White House. His feet hit the wood floor as if he landing upon a pillow. Grinning, Watson stepped into the family room. His jaw dropped to the basement.


“John?” asked Watson.

John hit his mental snooze button. Watson couldn’t help but stare at the rise and fall of the sleeping man’s chest. He shuffled awkwardly from side to side and considered ordering a megaphone on express delivery. Surely the notorious weapon of the high school cheer captain was advisable in a situation so dire. “Erm, John?” he cleared his throat.


And then he sneezed.


In John’s dream, forty blonde debutantes leapt off a cliff into a pool of blustery confetti. Horrified by its societal implications, he promptly awoke. As he stretched his arms over his head, Watson’s eyes traveled his toned forearms, his defined abs, and his ample body hair. John, decided Watson, looked quite different from Julia. It was not so much the obvious penis that set this thought off, but rather the chocolate trail of wisps adventuring from John’s bellybutton to below his boxers. Gender mattered little to the youngest of the Belue triplets.

John blinked drowsily, scratched his armpit, and yawned like a lion before glancing towards Watson. He blinked once more. “Oh,” he said. “Good morning.”


“You’re on my couch.”


“Why?” Watson backtracked a bit. “I mean, it’s not like I mind or anything. You can sleep on my couch whenever you want.” You could sleep on other places, too, thought Watson.

“Thanks,” sighed John. “That means a lot.”

“I’m glad, but”-Watson paused, massaged his temples, then continued gently-“are you going to answer my question?”


John whirled into his wintercoat. He seemed to carry an invisible phone booth with him at all times, which put him a mile above Superman and his conspicuous quick changes. He glanced at Watson, bit his lip, and ducked his head low before heading towards the front door. “I’ll tell you later.”

“After work?”

“I promise.”

“I’ll see you then,” said Watson firmly. He settled his buttocks on the couch and began to wait.


Meanwhile, Scarlett attempted to engage Pandora in friendly conversation. Her belly had ballooned to nearly twice the size of the globe, and the prospect of childbirth loomed dangerously over her head. Unfortunately, the only other person she knew who had delivered a baby and she lay narrowly on speaking terms with happened to be her jaded mother. “Hey, Mom,” Scarlett began, trailing Pandora through the kitchen and into the foyer. “How did it feel to have kids?”


“Did it hurt?”

“Like a woodpecker in the ear.”

“Will I be a good mom?”

Pandora refrained from answering.


Elizabeth poked her head around the kitchen doorway. She’d been born privy to her family’s secrets, and thought she ought to keep up with them as she grew older. “So Aunt Scarlett’s worried and Grandma’s angry at her for some weird reason,” thought Elizabeth aloud. Thankfully her relatives were bickering so loudly they drowned out her eavesdropping. She shrugged her shoulders. Her family lacked the mystery she’d always imagined, and, bored with trite conversation, she decided to finger paint.

Four hours later, as Scarlett was playing the piano and Watson, finally dressed, observed with less interest than a bear at a car show, John returned from work.


Watson and he watched Scarlett play for a grand total of thirty seconds before John exploded. “I just didn’t have anywhere else to go, okay? Delivering papers doesn’t pay the bills, and when you can’t pay the bills then you can’t pay the mortgage, and all of the sudden your life falls to shit. …They took my house, Watson. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry”-his lip quivered as if it balancing a toad upon it-“I’ll leave right now.”

Watson turned around. Scarlett, feeling a bit awkward, began to play an appropriately dramatic tune. Watson scowled at her; John recoiled.


“And I know that yellow isn’t my color, but it puts food on the table. A guy’s got to have his raspberry tea, right? Sorry, Watson. I’m so sorry. I should have asked first, but the agency was banging on the door, and it was all very awkward and embarrassing-oh shit, I’m so sorry.”


“You can stay here.”


“I can’t pay rent,” John sighed. “I can’t even cook.”

“I don’t care.”


“John, stop worrying,” Watson smiled. “You can live with me for as long as you want.”


And then John fainted.

“Cute,” said Scarlett, though her expression screamed agony instead of approval.

“Damn,” said Watson. “Not even John can handle my character development.”

Scarlett’s abdomen seemed to be on fire. “How lovely. I think,” she said slowly, “John should go to bed, and I should go to the kitchen.”


Before Scarlett could open the fridge, her stomach heaved and cramped as if being assaulted by a tankful of faulty birth control. “FUCK YOU, DANTE!” she screamed.


“Whizzer, my mouth is frozen!” cried her mother.

“I’m having a goddamn baby!” shrieked Scarlett. “I could care less about your botox glitch right now!”

“I can’t stop looking adorable!”



Elizabeth debated joining the fun, but decided it would be wiser to call for her father instead. Besides, all of Scarlett’s screaming was giving her a nasty headache.

“Dad!” she shouted. “Aunt Scarlett’s having a baby!”

“Is she?” shouted Watson. “I’ll be down in a moment!”


As Elizabeth adventured outdoors-she thought building a snowman sounded much better than dealing with labor pains, Pandora continued to wail. “I can’t move my mouth!”

“Mom, didn’t you hear Elizabeth?” huffed Scarlett. “I’m in labor over here!”

Watson flew into the room, grabbed his sister by the arm, and whisked her away from Pandora, who Watson was beginning to sincerely believe had achieved premature senility. Whether or not Vodka’s premature death had caused it was a mystery to the young man, and not one he’d be finding out any time soon.

He shoved the front door open and helped Scarlett to the steps, where Elizabeth met them.


“Do you want to help me build a snowman?” she asked softly. Her dad had spent so much time worrying about John that he’d forgotten to talk to her today, and Elizabeth, while usually an active avoider of social situations, missed her father dearly.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he apologized, stepping past her swiftly. “But your Aunt Scarlett’s having a baby, and your grandmother’s too crazy to get her to the hospital. Can we make one another time?”

Elizabeth sighed and trudged off. Watson gazed after her for a few moments before Scarlett poked him in the side. “We’ve got to go,” she gritted her teeth. “I am not having this kid on the front porch.”

They sped to the hospital in an obscenely fast taxi; neither spoke for fear of distracting the driver from his one hundred miles per hour trek through Moonlight Falls’s backroads. Scarlett tapped her nails on the seat, and Watson thought back to the blue haired Julia, wondering in vain if she’d ever find refuge again. Probably not, he thought. Crazy bitches tended to have trouble in the housing department.


As Scarlett made her way to the hospital door, she stuck out her tongue and caught a tentative flake. “One last snowflake of fun,” she sighed, staring into the great inky sky.

Watson watched in silence. Scarlett’s fears chilled his blood even more than the snow. While he loved Elizabeth, he certainly didn’t look forward to having to take care of Scarlett’s child. “Hey, Scarlett,” he said, thinking back to Malix’s speech many years ago. “You’ve got to love that baby with everything you’ve got.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Aye aye, captain.”

Still wary, Watson cheered his sister on. “Now get on in there!”

Scarlett nodded and bit her lip. She shook the snowflakes from her head, wrapped her arms around her body, and disappeared behind the glass doors.


Scarlett wobbled out of the hospital three hours later, eyes woozy and arms full with an odd, slightly glowing baby. Watson had called the taxi three hours in advance, and opened the door for his sister as she stumbled towards him. “What’d you name him?” he asked.

“Vicadin,” she slurred.

“They didn’t give Julia any drugs,” mused Watson. He assumed Scarlett’s expression to be a symptom of a new expansion pack. “But really.”

“Tony,” she said. “After the software company.”

It took all of Watson’s willpower to avoid burying his face in his palms and cry for his nephew’s unfortunate fate.


From that evening on, a strange routine fell over the Belue household. Every morning, Watson would concoct a new flavor of waffles, then oversee their consumption, all the while trying to work up the nerve to declare his love for John. His attempts usually began like this:


“Hey, John, I think we should-”

And ended like this:


“Get a gym membership. All of these waffles are making me feel chunky…or something like that.”

Not one to be easily deterred, Watson gave his attempts a twelve hour cool off period before leaping back into the love swept current.


The winter festival proved to be particularly disastrous.

“I’ve had a great time tonight,” began Watson, “and I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time-”





“Of all the things to say,” muttered Watson morosely.

John simply groaned into the ice. “Maybe I should quit journalism and start driving a Zamboni around the rink eight times a day,” he chortled, punctuated with a thick grunt. “I bet the pay would be better.”

Watson choked on his laugh.

Next time…

Birthdays! Reunions! House remodeling! GENERATION FINALE!


Cat Stevens – “Here Comes My Baby

A/N: I’m so excited for Elizabeth’s generation (if you haven’t voted on where she’s off to, click here), because I’ma head back to the old, super fun style of the Belues. Think Bridget/Bender era. I’ll try and update for every play session. Other news, this is the second to last chapter of generation four! It’s weird to think I’m nearly halfway through this legacy. It’s been a blast. 🙂




…but John Barrowman and Scott Gill are number one.

You can thank me later.

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments


Now that I have University, I’m suddenly torn between plots for Elizabeth, and would love some help from you guys! Both sound enormously fun.

Determine Elizabeth’s fate by clicking the link.

Also, I’m trying to get a new chapter out this weekend! Prolly! This week and last week have been hella busy, but whatever, here’s a preview of YA Elizabeth. 🙂


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4-10: All There is to Know About Michelangelo


“No, no, no,” said Scarlett through her grilled cheese sandwich. Somewhere six feet under, Bridget Belue exploded into a flurry of mislead fury. Her dad’s prophecy fell apart somewhere inside Scarlett’s intestines, and somewhere six feet under, Bridget cried. Scarlett continued. “Watson, you don’t understand. Your life is not that weird.”

“On the contrary,” said Watson, “my life is going off the rails. I received an e-mail a few days ago.”

“Wow!” Scarlett clapped her hands together and rolled her eyes. “How extraordinary!”

“It was a really weird e-mail,” said Watson. “It said-”


“The last guy I had sex with took a chomp out of my wrist, and now I’m stuck with his spawn; this grilled cheese tastes like Velveeta mixed with embalming oil, and you think your life is crazy?”

“Well, I’m eating the same grilled cheese as you, so it’s at least a third as crazy.” Logic, unlike the rest of the world, often worked in Watson’s favor.

“Grilled cheese is not on the same level as cannibalism, Watson.”


“He didn’t eat your arm, did he? No. He merely bit into it and drained your fluids. He was a vampire, not a cannibal. I think your hormones are confusing you.”

“Are not!” protested Scarlett. “I’m just frustrated, because you’re speaking in goddamn fallacies!”


Pandora shuffled onto the scene, toting an impressive plate of grilled cheese. Again Bridget Belue’s descendants unconsciously realized her superflous goal. “So, Scarlett,” asked Pandora, “how’s the baby bump?”

Scarlett nearly choked on a chunk of Velveeta, and it took several coughs and four glasses of water to she recover her voice. “What the hell, Mom?!”

“Whizzer, Scarlett, you’re doing a slod job of hiding it!”

“Mom, you’ve gotten a lot meaner since Watson kicked Rose out,” snapped Scarlett. “Stop talking forever, or at least for the next ten minutes.”


“I’m not being whacko,” said Pandora sharply. “I’m just asking how the chillin’s doing.”

“He’s, er, doing,” sighed Scarlett. “Existing, like they do.”

“Speaking of doing,” said Watson, “guess what I’m doing this afternoon?”

“What?” asked Pandora.


“I met this guy, John, and I’m going to call him.”

“You’re making friends?” Scarlett blinked. “I don’t think anyone in this family’s ever had a friend. I mean, we’ve all had boyfriends, girlfriends, friends with benefits friends, but never just a straight up friend. Weird.”

“We’re still acquaintances, I think,” said Watson slowly (love often robbed him of his language), “but I hope we become more than friends someday, you know? He’s really, er, nice.”

“Well, there goes a family first,” said Scarlett. “Is he cute?”

“Very,” said Watson.


Scarlett lowered her eyes and bit her lip. “And he’s nice?”


“Maybe your life is weirder than mine,” she sighed. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Hey, Scarlett,” began Watson, which was not the correct response. Something like “I am so sorry, please forgive me for my budding relationship” would have soothed the hormonally unstable women much more effectively. However, Watson momentarily lacked the words. Scarlett stood up promptly.

“I’m going outside.”

Watson opened his mouth to offer halfhearted condolences-there’s no time for misery when you’ve hit love at first sight-but was interrupted by Elizabeth’s cry. “DAD!!!”

His sister would have to wait. Watson, still donning his impeccably spiffy wifebeater, followed his daughter’s voice to the foyer, where she sat beside a pile of moldy laundry. He wrinkled his nose and plopped down beside her. “Elizabeth, that’s disgusting.”


“Not as disgusting as times tables,” said Elizabeth, morosely turning her eyes to her blank homework. “I can hardly grasp addition, let alone these weird cross things.”

Watson blinked. He’d never heard words this large from Elizabeth’s mother. “You’ve got a great handle on language, though.”

“Aunt Scarlett told me more than I needed to know,” said Elizabeth darkly. “But English isn’t going to help me in math, Dad. That’s where you come in.”


“Two times two, Elizabeth. You take one two, and add it to the next.”

“Can you illustrate that?”

“What? You’re not making any sense. This math is simpler than counting calories.”

“I can’t do anything right,” sighed Elizabeth, burying her head in her hands. “Ever. I just mess all of my schoolwork up, and the only thing I have to show for my troubles is a big fat F on my report card.”

“Hey, stop talking like that,” said Watson gently. “You doodle like Da Vinchi.”

“And you dress like Portlandia,” commented Malix. Everyone wisely ignored him.


Elizabeth quickly sketched a stick figure wearing a top hat, then held her notebook up to her father. “Does this look like the Mona Lisa?”

Watson had never been an art enthusiast, and, believing Mona Lisa to be an Italian porn star, replied: “Yes.”

Elizabeth doodled, furiouser and furiouser, until not a single times table peeked out from behind layers of stick figures. “I want to be an artist when I grow up,” she confided in her father as she set down her pencil. “Artists don’t need math.”


“Everybody needs math.”

“Everybody needs food, Dad, but we can all survive without algebra.”

“Nonsense. Algebra makes our world run.”

“You mean oxygen, right?”

Watson sighed. Suddenly he had a deep a hankering for Elizabeth’s gurgling days. Her current eloquence reminded him dangerously of his teenage days-snark is reserved for adolescents and writers, after all, and neither are consistently pleasant to spend more than half an hour with.


Outside, Scarlett lay in the snow, swishing her limbs back and forth like windshield wipers. Though the world slapped her in the uterus, chomped on her wrist, and sat heavy on her mind, enjoyment still lingered in the guise of an evening snow. If she could have her way, she’d never leave it unless opportunity danced her way. If opportunity ever chanced her way.


Nice guys, cute guys-who needs them? Scarlett molded the snow to emulate her rising heart. An angel, frivolous and free, carrying a child but prepared to leap onto the next train to anywhere. Boredom captivated her easily, and dreams snatched her even faster. Nothing could hold her down. She’d move to Vegas, sweet and gritty, or maybe San Francisco, wild and untamed, or perhaps to Bridgeport, to mingle with the rich and hula with the poor.

A sharp kick of reality jabbed her in the ribs. “Maybe,” she sighed, “maybe it’s too late to dream.”

She sat up slowly and rubbed her temples. Her head ached more than a romantic’s heart. Pregnancy treated her much too harshly.

The front door swung open as Scarlett shakily stood. She glanced up at her brother and sighed. Conversation seemed trivial on a cold winter’s night.


“Being a dad is tough sometimes,” sighed Watson, and Scarlett began to cry.


Watson drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly. “Hey, don’t cry,” he said, “you’ll be a great mom.”

“But I don’t want to be a mom,” she whispered.

“Then be the best you can,” said Watson. “That’s all we can ever do, isn’t it?”


After a long, full pause, Scarlett smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess that’s all we’ve got.”

Satisfied with her answer, Watson stepped back and knelt in the snow. He rolled a snowball between his hands, and then rubbed it against the ground. Scarlett followed suit, and, after realizing that they lacked the ability to make a sufficiently large snowball alone, they decided to combine their mediocre talent to create something wholly average yet mildly mystical.


“So what kind of snowman are we making?” asked Scarlett, patting a lump of snow to create the snowman’s buttocks. She wondered how long it would take Watson to notice their snowman was anatomically correct.

“Traditional,” said Watson confidently. “The others are shams.”

“We used to be a sham,” murmured Scarlett.

“What’d you say?”

“Shamu,” said Scarlett. “I was talking about Shamu.”


“Wow, you’re really dipping into history.”

“The 1970s, yeah. We’re practically talking about Genghis Khan here.”

“No,” said Watson flatly. “We’re talking about a whale.”


He fastened the head to the torso then paused to examine their work. Through his luxury framing device, he noticed an egregious defect. “Scarlett?”

Scarlett glanced up from her button counting. They had just enough for a snowman overcoat and two black eyes. “Yes?”

“Is that a penis?”

She smashed a button into the snowman’s front. “Yes.”

“Very artistic,” said Watson. “I see where Elizabeth gets her talent.”


Scarlett wove one of Pandora’s old scarves around the snowman’s neck, and Watson perched a top hat atop his head. They each took a stick and jabbed it into his sides; Watson, in a grand coup de grace, placed the broom in his hand. “Michelangelo couldn’t have done better,” boasted Watson.

Scarlett raised an eyebrow.

“The TMNT didn’t have opposable thumbs,” clarified Watson.

“Right,” laughed Scarlett. “Thanks, Watson. For everything.”

Watson opened his mouth for a heartwarming remark, but was quickly interrupted by his phone’s frantic buzzing. “Sorry!” he mouthed, and Scarlett simply smiled and nodded.


His heart bounding up his esophagus, Watson hesitated before pressing the answer button. “Scarlett,” he called, “I’m nervous!”

“You’re Watson Belue,” she replied. “You’re never nervous, but sometimes you’re stupid. Just press okay!”

Watson took a deep gulp, wiggled his shoulders, and pressed okay.


A long, exhausting breath. Game time. “Hello?”

“Hey, Watson,” said John quickly. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time to talk or a lot of time to explain, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re really great, and-oh shit.”

“John?” breathed Watson.

“I’m really sorry, I’ve gotta go-Christ, I’ll get it in a second!-I’ll call you later or something, sorry, bye!”




Next time….

Romance! Babies! Surprises!


MGMT – “Time to Pretend

A/N: Only two more chapters of this generation left! Okay, maybe one. Depends on my writing stamina, haha. I am SO pumped for Elizabeth’s generation. I’ve got the idea planned out and everything. 😀 If anybody has some hot guys they want to donate to her cause, let me know! (Man, I’m just asking for Sims on all of my  legacies, aren’t I?)

Beeteedubs, A Dove of a Different Color‘s second chapter is posted! Blanca goes to the lake and throws a rock to Uranus. Fun stuff. 🙂

In conclusion…


Scarlett’s pregnancy is a bitch. She wakes up screaming every morning, I swear. Tony must be a crazy hard kicker. Probably because he’s like the hottest Sim I’ve ever had born in game ever. /proud Simmer parent

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

A Dove of a Different Color

Hey guys! Just popping in to say that my rainbowcy, A Dove Of a Different Color, is live on technicolordove.wordpress.com! I really hope you enjoy it, fair warning, though, it’s fairly different from the Belues.

Speaking of the Belues, I hope to have the next chapter up by next weekend! Spring break starts, and my life will be sort of kind of not really free for an entire week. 😀

In conclusion:


Watson’s getting his sass on. 🙂

Posted in Not the Belues | Leave a comment

4-9: Can I Get Get Get (To Know You Better)


Nature’s bells hold a calming quality, but to a certain man begrudgingly attached to his computer, the cliche failed inside the gust of an icicle breeze. Still Watson trudged on. He had much to think about, and his house lacked the solitude of a bypassed park bench. Radios blared and toddlers wailed and his mother wouldn’t turn off the damn television. Outdoors offered refuge. His feet brought him to the autumn festival, while as lively as his grandfather’s corpse, sported an overabundance of isolated seating. Also, he’d heard something about cheap drinks.

Watson especially looked forward to those.

After a quick survey of the park, Watson located a promising stand in the western corner.  The girl manning it jumped at the sight of him, and then sheepishly looked down at her ludicrous uniform. Orange and yellow pinstripes have never been in Vogue. Watson approached carefully-one can never be too cautious with carnival workers, particularly when their uniforms resemble that of a serial killer.


“Hello,” said Watson casually. “Do you serve tequila?”

“Wow,” she sighed. “I always thought my first appearance would be more, um, dignified than this.”

“Bloody Marys?” asked Watson louder.

“I mean, I write this damn thing, and what’s my part? A carnival worker. Crusty, right?”

“Carnival workers aren’t crusty,” said Watson uncomfortably. “Unless they don’t shower, of course. Vodka?”


“The textures haven’t even loaded yet! What a lovely way to start the chapter. Oh.” She paused awkwardly. “Hello, Watson.”

“Erm,” said Watson.

“Just call me Anony, okay?” said the author’s Simself.

“Erm,” said Watson.

“We don’t serve alcohol here,” she sighed. “Too many kids running around, you know?”


“That’s a damn shame.”

“Damn right it is. Don’t look so bummered out, though,”-she winked knowingly-“it’s happy hour at the tavern.”

“I’m not very happy right now,” said Watson.

She rolled her eyes. “I know.”


“Because I wri-erm, worry about everybody in town, and I can tell from the state of your jacket that you are feeling pretty preoccupied-”


“It’s a very nice jacket!” protested Watson. “My sister picked it out for me!”

“No, I did,” said the frustrated author. The hour struck ten, and she whirled out of her incriminating uniform before continuing. “And I quite agree with you-it’s lovely. However, you didn’t button it up. That shows you weren’t thinking about the weather, because you were focused on something else, yeah?”

“An e-mail,” stated Watson. “I was thinking about an e-mail.”

“I know, I know,” snapped The Author, who on the other side of her laptop was very busy cooking dinner and thus had little patience for Watson’s thickheadedness. “Just go to the goddamn tavern, okay? You’ll meet a miracle.”

“A miracle?” scoffed Watson. “I don’t believe in those.”


“Then maybe you know the answer to the question. But in case you don’t, I’m sure some alcohol would help you find it. Brandy often works in strange ways. If you’re going to find any sort of miracle tonight, you’d best find a bottle.”

“I think,” said Watson slowly, “I think you might be right. Brandy sounds great.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Run along, Watson. The night is young, and so are you.”

Watson shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. A Harsh, freezing gust of wind careened wildly through the park; sudden snow pelted from the clouds. Shuddering, Watson turned back to the stand, only to discover that The Author had vanished.


He blinked, half expecting her to reappear once more. Three blinks more and Watson sighed. Futility only rewards the underdogs. Shaking his head in disbelief, he stalked into the gradual darkness.

Snow settled on his shoulders, and alcohol in his mind. Over the years, the thirst had done little but grow. Rose’s expulsion had tempered it, but in the face of utter confusion, brandy beckoned like painted nails on a cold winter’s day. Vivid, restless, and unquestioningly faceless.

Some hours must have passed before Watson spotted the light in the distance. He stumbled towards it, fingers numb, breath spotty, through a thickening layer of snow.

He swung open the door and threw himself into the first chair he saw. He scanned the sign above the bar. Contrary to The Author’s word, it was not happy hour, and they were not serving brandy.

If there had been a ferret in the room, Watson would have chucked it out the window.


The door swung open. Watson kept his eyes glued to the pitiful menu pasted above the bar. No special on onion rings? What a load of horse shit.

Behind him, John Hanover raised his eyebrows and smiled. After a fierce run-in (it had started as an interview, as most of John’s fierce run-ins began) with a deadly decadent court of vanity fair supernaturals and a taxi drive that could only be described as “Lovecraftian,” Watson’s squinted eyes and self righteous frown bordered on ethereal. “Hello,” said John pleasantly. “How are you?”


“How am I?” pondered Watson. He thought back to the e-mail and sighed loudly. “I guess there’s no escaping from questions.”

“Never,” agreed John. Sensing a story, he added gently, “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Watson. “Rule number one of storytelling: the more facial hair somebody has, the more likely they’re a villain. Until a certain point, anyway. Then they’re a wizard. Or homeless.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “I prefer the scruffy look.”

Watson shrugged. Brown eyes had never threatened him before, and the mud on John’s shoes smelled nothing like the graveyard. He daren’t say it to himself-at least not at this hour, but he found traces of honesty in those plump lips, as well. “You can sit down.”


“Thanks!” grinned John. He whirled into a childish baseball cap and a white and yellow shirt, then pulled out a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil. Watson raised his eyebrows. “I want to tell stories,” admitted John. “Real ones. I’ve got to get in the zone before I do it, though, so, er, please excuse the uniform and the jankity pencil. The journalist firm hates its newbies.”

“They haven’t proved themselves yet,” said Watson. “From a businessman’s point of view, the fear is justified. The new employee could be a complete waste of time and money, and be a potential embarrassment.”

“By pushing us down, they ignore our talent,” said John. “When I applied, I thought I’d start out in the office, not delivering papers. How am I supposed to support myself by throwing the daily mail on every grandma’s doorstep? That’s crazy!”-he swallowed, bit his lip, and then looked to Watson before remembering why he’d sat down-“Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

“Don’t we all?” Watson sighed. Elizabeth, however much he loved her, was living evidence of that.


“ANYWAY,” said John, becoming suddenly animated, “what’s your story?”

“I’m stuck on the current chapter.”

“Maybe I can help you out,” suggested John, “but I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“I got a weird e-mail,” began Watson uncertainly. “The return address was pound signs.”

“Shady,” mused John. “Very shady. And it said?”


“‘You are a beanstalk in a battlefield, Mr. Watson. Tell me: have you ever prayed to God?’ I don’t know the sender, and I don’t know to their answer, either. Somedays, I don’t even know the recipient. Hell, I don’t even know your name. I used to think that I had the whole world’s knowledge captured somewhere in my esophagus, but lately everything seems to prove me wrong.”

“I’m John,” said John. “And, if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t send that e-mail. There’s something you can count on.”

“Thanks,” sighed Watson. “I’m Watson, but that’s not important. Can you answer the question?”

“Sure. But my answer isn’t what matters. Yours is what’s important, but even more important than the question is the asker. Do you have any idea what the pound signs mean?”


A silence descended over them as Watson turned over the pound signs in his head, examining their underbellies, the crevices between their angles. No names hid there, and no clues crept from beneath the lines. He sighed heavily. “No.”

“I’m a journalist,” said John helpfully. “I know people. Somebody’s got to have information on this.”

“Yeah,” said Watson. He glanced at the clock, froze, and then leapt from his chair. Nearly four hours had passed since he’d left on his walk; Lizzie would be waking up soon. However, another question lingered in his mind. He said it quickly, before he was able to take it back. “Listen, John, I’m really grateful, but why do you want to help me?”


“Because I like you, Watson. It’s rare to meet someone so honest in a town like this.”

Watson thought this was absolute rubbish and half a mind to say so (he thought the librarians were all very honest), but instead nodded gratefully. John deserved it. “Well, thank you. I’ve really got to run, though. My daughter’ll be up soon.”

“I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“You have my-?” Watson blinked.

“It’s a weird game,” said John.

“Right,” said Watson. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“See you.”


A cab awaited Watson as he stepped from the tavern. He raised an eyebrow-had it been sent by the mysterious e-mailer?-but then shook his head. Taxis, however obnoxiously colored, were rarely malevolent.

The drive home was swift and slippery. The car slithered about the street and onto the sidewalk. The car stumbled and crawled over a number of mysterious bumps on the road, but Watson thought little of them. His e-mail loomed far above any manslaughter charges. Another thought darted between those of his e-mail: John. He had such calloused hands, and such protruding knuckles.. They were quite nice, if Watson allowed himself to think it. The car screeched to halt, and Watson’s thoughts along with it.

He leapt from the taxi and sprinted towards the house. After the third hour of utter exhaustion, adrenaline often hit Watson like a cold slap with a fish. He threw open the door, ran for a midnight snack, and was greeted by a scowling welcoming party.


Like mother, like daughter, thought Watson sheepishly. Pandora tapped her foot impatiently, and Scarlett drummed her nails as if pounding out a death metal drum solo. Their collective grimace could have sawed a Congressman in half. “Why are you still up?” asked Watson, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

“It’s past night noon,” snapped Pandora. She’d never quite forgiven him for Rose’s unceremonious expulsion, and her demeanor towards him had since resembled that of a jilted grizzly bear. “And it’s today.”

“I’m knoc-nodding off,” said Scarlett. “But really, Watson, I need to talk to you now.”

“What’s today?”

Screenshot-240 “Elizabeth’s eyesight’s gone wonky from the wait,” said Pandora mournfully. “I suppose one bizzaro grandchild is better than none.”

“Jesus!” cried Watson. He swooped her up in his arms and kissed her forehead, hoping fervently that her eyes would return to normal.


“Come on, Lizzie, see straight!” muttered Watson. “I wasn’t home that late, was I?”

It was then he noticed the cake on the counter. He looked at Elizabeth, then the cake, and then back at Elizabeth once more.

“Oh, shit.”


“Now that that jaw dropping revelation is over,” said Scarlett quickly, “let’s get this birthday party over with, shall we? I’ve got a lot to talk to Watson about, and would prefer to do so with as few speed bumps as possible.”

“What’s the rush?” asked Malix. “She’s a fairy-she’s got centuries for birthdays.”

Elizabeth burped her disapproval. If she had her way, she’d skip straight to her twenties without a grain of remorse. Watson glanced down at her and nodded. “My diaper changing days are over. Everybody knows you’ve got to age up the toddlers as soon as you can, or you want to light the house on fire before the night’s over. Somebody bring me the lighter.”

Pandora gasped.

“For the candles.”

She sighed in relief.


A few gasoline related mishaps later, the candles were lit. Watson, believing his daughter hadn’t the breath in her to blow them out on her own, snuffed the flames himself.

“DAMNIT, DAD!!!” screamed Elizabeth.

A very startled Watson (Elizabeth had kept silent around her father until this moment) lost control of his hands and dropped her to the floor.


“I’M A MONSTER!!!” screamed Watson, who, in his dismay, smashed his hand through the countertop and now secretly believed he was the Incredible Hulk. Fatherhood had thrown all his dearly beloved logic in the trash compactor.


If Elizabeth hadn’t been leaping wildly into childhood, her reply would have gone as follows: “You’re not a monster, Dad, and I really shouldn’t have blown my top, but do not steal the candles from a five year old, and especially not this one.”

Her waning speech impairment limited her to simply gurgling instead.


“Rather lovely nose I’ve got here,” she said after the swirling had subsided and her language returned.

“I broke her!” Watson cried. “Look at her eyes-she’s broken!”

“Way to go,” snapped Pandora. “You snapped my only grandchild’s eyesight in half.”

“Actually, you’re going to have tw-” began Scarlett.

“Most people never see their noses outside of the mirror,” said Malix pleasantly. “If you ask me, she’s quite privileged.”


“Oh, wow!” said Elizabeth. “Somebody should really throw out this crusty food.” Everybody continued to fuss, and her revelation remained sorely under the din. “The food that’s not my nose?” She glanced around and then, upping the volume, continued. “On the table? That I can see? That’s not my nose?”

“Broken!” wailed Watson. “I can’t believe I broke my daughter’s eyes! A horrible dad, that’s what I am, a failure…”

“She lost before she even got a chance to begin,” said Pandora mournfully. “Whizzer! You made her into a loser, Watson!”

“Nothing’s wrong with being cross-eyed  I’ve dated guys with way worse problems,” said Scarlett. “Now snap out of it, Watson.”

“It’s not a big deal, really,” said Malix. “How about some cake?”


“Sounds delicious,” snapped Elizabeth, snatching up a slice of cake. “Looks delicious, too.”

Like John’s lips… thought Watson. He froze. Did I really just think thatAbout a man?

“Hey, Dad,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not cross-eyed.”

I’ve never thought this way about anyone, really… And especially not a man. John. John…what’s his last name? 

“Hello?” Elizabeth sighed and visibly deflated. “Maybe Grandma’s right. Maybe I am a loser.”

I need to know his last name, his last home, his last thought before he said hello. Such lovely-oh Jesus, Watson, this is a man you’re thinking about! 

Screenshot-252Oh, fuck the gender, the time of day, the few hours they’d known each other! The sparks had flown, and the connection had taken flight. He’d call John tomorrow. They’d get a coffee, talk about the e-mail, maybe even discuss their writing, and then later they’d… 

A shiver danced up his spine. Tomorrow, he thought to himself. The world will start tomorrow.

Next time…

Family bonding! Phone calls! Love at second sight!


Junior Senior – “Can I Get Get Get

A/N: Heehee, I totally stole the title from the song above. (:

Anywho, I’m starting up a rainbowcy soon! I’ve got the first generation planned, made, the town set up, and hope to have it up and running by the end of this week! I’ll post a link to the first update on here, and another on the forums.

Here’s a sneak peek of the founder, Blanca Dove! I’m kind of in love with her.


Thanks for reading, everybody! How do you like John so far? 😀

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A Belue Family Video

This one’s for Sharona! You keep posting all of those adorable Van videos, so I thought I’d share one of Watson and John being…not so cute. But cute nonetheless (because it’s them, obviously!).

Other news.. I’ve got some good playing done this week, and have the next few chapters played and plotted! Elizabeth aged up crazy cute, and Scarlett’s son (spoilers! oops.) is HELLA CUTE. He has Malix’s hair color, Panda’s eyes, and a great blend of everyone’s faces. Generation five is going to be adorable. (:

Sneak peeks:


Tony is so cute, I can’t handle it.Screenshot-226

Elizabeth, too!

New chapter should be up next week, or if I’m super industrious, Sunday. 🙂 Hope everyone’s having a great week!

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged | 4 Comments