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. ūüėÄ

In conclusion:


Watson’s getting his sass on. ūüôā

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.



“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 that?¬†About 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? ūüėÄ

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments

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. ūüôā Hope everyone’s having a great week!

Video | Posted on by | Tagged | 4 Comments

4-8: Ch-ch-ch-changes

In order to attain the guise of being well-adjusted, a child’s education must begin as it slides onto the birthing bed. A doctor will snip off its umbilical cord and swaddle it in a blanket-modesty and a mysticism surrounding the bellybutton. Two lessons in a single slice. After twenty-four hours in an industrial incubator (or more, depending on the mother’s propensity for alcohol or her child’s unique condition), the child switches hands from a baggy eyed nurse to its swollen feet mother and stubbled chin father-usually. In this modern era, we must always note the exceptions. The child could be handed to its two fathers, two mothers, or travel home with a parent flying solo, among countless other combinations. No matter whose care it falls into, however, it must be taught to wobble about, to lisp proficiently, and to use the toilet without making a dreadful mess all over the floor.

This is much more difficult than it sounds.


Watson Belue accepted the challenge with a boundless grin and a dwindling diaper budget. In the absence of anything even mildly resembling a relationship, what else was there to do? Surely no midnight escapades nor Saturday morning coffees adorned his weekends. His daughter’s eyes were his own, and her wings simply an extension of his love. With little else to strive for, he would teach her to take on the world.


Victory travels in small steps; little Elizabeth learned a lifetime with each forward stumble. To meet the ceiling, she first had to leave the floor. Her hopelessly creative mind floated a¬†plethora¬†of ideas, though some more appealing than others. Perhaps if she attached a lifejacket around her ankles, she’d drift gently out the window, through the trees, and down the lane towards the city. Dodging a crowd of dumbstruck patrons, she’d stop at the art museum, and admire a Monet before traipsing home to her befuddled father.

A quick survey of the room revealed that Elizabeth did not, as a matter of fact, live in a lifeboat, nor a well stocked fishing shack. She sighed and hoped she’d be a functional fae soon. Toddlerhood was awfully boring. She could hardly crawl out of her crib, let alone take a bus to the beach.

The spoken word offered a brief escape. Her aunt, Scarlett, often told colorful tales of close to home melodrama, historical tragedies, and aliens. One went as follows:


“So Dante and I were messing around, as usual,” began Scarlett, “and he said, ‘Let’s do it in another room.’ And I said, ‘What?’ because we were already naked and running fast towards round two, and what sort of weirdo wants to stop in the middle of things to run naked around the house trying to find a better place? I should’ve told him to leave right then, but he started grinning all wickedly, and said, ‘Okay, maybe for round three.’ I was very pleased with that, naturally, and we started getting all heavy and things were going dandy when-”

Elizabeth hiccuped uncomfortably. Scarlett hadn’t quite figured out Elizabeth’s advanced handle on language yet, but would soon enough.


“Dante said, ‘I think the doorknob just turned.’ I dove under the covers, and your grandpa walked in.”

She paused dramatically. Elizabeth blushed for her.


“And Dante just jumped up, buck-ass naked, stuck his tongue out at my dad, and my dad did the same right back at him! Weird ass vampire shit. Sorry about the swearing, hon, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell happened last night. I can hardly process it in my own head, let alone somebody else’s.

So then my dad left without another word. Dante crawled back on the bed, told me to get dressed, waited until I finished and then pulled me downstairs. ‘What the hell was that?’ I asked him, and he just shushed me. I had no idea what to do. I’d never felt so out of control. I followed¬†him, because everything fogged up-I was walking through a cloud. He whirled me into Angus’s room. Have you met Angus? He’s not as unfriendly as he seems.”

Elizabeth shook her head numbly.

“This next part’s sort of rough,” said Scarlett. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just-” she sighed deeply “-I just didn’t know who else to tell.”


“But Dante just…he just grabbed my arm and sank his teeth in. Didn’t ask permission, didn’t even look me in the eye. He just chomped down and started sucking, and my eyes rolled up to the ceiling and my knees started rattling and I wanted to scream but I couldn’t and the ceiling fell closer and the floor came forward and Dante licked his lips and nodded his head and that was that. That was goodbye.”

Elizabeth, while only understanding a terrifying fraction of Scarlett’s ramblings, nodded sympathetically. Scarlett smiled down on her, blinking once and then twice in quick succession. Elizabeth cocked her head to the side. She was the sort of child who preferred to rationalize every bodily function before sputtering a mangled condolence. Scarlett could do little but smile down on the child’s illegible, car crashing together thoughts.

Only the failings of the child can distract from the catastrophes of the adult.

Scarlett’s nails tugged at the bite marks on her wrist. Her stomach churned; her blood boiled. “I think,” she gurgled, and set Elizabeth roughly on the floor, “I think I’m going to be sick.”


She barreled through Elizabeth’s door, tore down the stairs, and sprinted through the sparsely decorated dining room. Beneath the coils¬†of her intestines and the question marks swirling in her stomach, a darker thought stirred from its grisly sleep.


She tried to shove it from her mind as she curled over the toilet. She tried to smash it through the paper shredder as she coughed and sputtered violent cries. She tried to bury it beside her grandfather as the vomit spewed. She tried to crush it like a dandelion beneath her heel, but as the water swirled down the drain, it only rose once more. “I couldn’t be…” she whispered. “I’m an adventurous woman-not an unfortunate one.”

Her knees knocked together as she crawled to her feet. Her stomach curdled once more, and she fell back to her knees, back over the toilet, and screaming under her breath, planted her tremblings hands under her trembling shoulders.


An hour and many a paper towel later, Scarlett finally stood. She wiped a trace of vomit from her chin and sighed. Her head was heavier than a freight train, and her heart doubly so. She looked to the toilet, then to her hand, and then back at the toilet again. Slowly, like an infidel confessing his alleged sin, the question bubbled up once more.


“Am I…” -she took a deep breath and bit her lip- “pregnant?”


“Are you crazy?”

“I’m perfectly sane, Chester!” said Daisy. “I just forgot something important in there.”

“I don’t like spending any more time with cowplants than I have to. The nasty suckers bit off my grandma’s knickers-traumatized me for life, that did. If I had my way, they’d be paying for my AA meetings.”


“Wow,” said Daisy. Sympathy never came easy for her, but she could flutter her eyelashes as desperately as the best of them. “I, um, didn’t know you attended AA?”

“Yeah,” said Chester roughly, “and I didn’t know your bathroom was more bleached than my ex’s-well, I probably shouldn’t use that kind of language around a lady. Never know if she’ll have the brains to keep it to herself.”

Pushing his crass manners and veiled bigotry into her mind’s dusty lockbox, Daisy searched her pocket for an invaluable trinket. She’d found the ring in a cracker jack box, but after three cans of gold spray paint, thought it looked nearly as authentic as a blonde Elvis impersonator. His money spoke louder than his words, and her desperation more than her conscience.

They were married by the end of the evening and out of the house by dawn.


As Daisy and Chester eloped through the night and Elizabeth dozed Scarlett’s woes away, an unusual ringing buzzed from Watson’s computer. He cocked his head to the side and frowned skeptically. “Nobody e-mails me,” he murmured. His detective novels, while considered the best of the dime store heap, rarely garnered as much fanmail as the local milkman.

It certainly wasn’t from Julia. He hadn’t heard a word from her since she’d handed him Elizabeth, silent and mournful, into his aching heart. Whatever, thought Watson bitterly. Fuck her.

Cautiously, Watson approached the computer. He held a steady hand in front of his face-if a tentacle burst through the monitor, he would flail slightly less helplessly than a fish on the chopping block. After squinting into the screen’s glowering depths for a few minutes, Watson gingerly sat down, scrolled towards the top of the page, and opened the e-mail.

You are a beanstalk in a battlefield, Mr. Watson. Tell me: have you ever prayed to God? 


Next time…

Mystery! Romance! Awkward appearances from my Simself!


The Echo-Friendly – “Same Mistakes

A/N: Sorry about the length of this one! I want to focus more on Watson (and JOHN!!) in the next chapter, and didn’t want to shoehorn it in with this transitional chapter. I really wanted to cover Daisy and Scarlett’s happenings and introduce Elizabeth’s character before diving into the¬†denouement of Watson’s arc and the framework for Elizabeth’s. It’s great to be writing again! Also sorry if this is really rusty, it’s been a bit wheezy getting back into the Belues again. Things will pick up a bunch more this next chapter! (JOHN!!!)

Hope to be seeing ya’ll more often from now on! I’ll be fairly sparse next week-it’s show week for my school’s production of Almost, Maine, and I’m so pumped to be onstage!-but will be updating much more regularly from now on.

ALSO 5000 POSTS WOOOO! I’ll try to do a chapter of bonus shots or an extra for it. ūüėÄ

In conclusion:


“Speak English faster or I’ll feed you to the cowplant.”

Um, Panda? That’s your granddaughter you’re talking to, not some weirdo in parachute pants.

Posted in Generation 4 | 17 Comments

The Belues are going on vacation.

Instead of simply disappearing for two months, I am formally announcing this Belue hiatus. I am so sorry for the delay-I was cast in our school’s production of Almost Maine, participating in our One Act play, trying to keep up my grades, am working diligently on a writing side project for February, on top of having a steady boyfriend and making time for him, friends, and family, as well. I hope to be back in action by March. I will really miss all of you and the Belues until then. I try my damnedest to keep from falling behind in your legacies, though, and will stay up to date as best I can!



I’ll be back as soon as possible. See ya’ll soon!¬†

Also, here’s a lil sneak peek of what’s to come. ūüôā¬†

Posted in Generation 1 | 12 Comments

4-7: Fatherhood


Before Young Watson’s fingers could even brush the doorknob, Malix threw open the front door and drenched his son with enough rain and darkness to turn the Mojave Desert into a rainforest. “Christ, Dad,” said Young Watson, words still slurred. His genetics were set firmly against sobriety.

“Sorry,” said Malix. He wiggled about for a moment, as if attempting to squirm the rain out of his clothes. “It’s just a bit, er, wet outside.”

“Did you have to bring it inside?” groaned Young Watson.


“Did you have to boot your sister into it?” hissed Pandora. She stepped through the front door and past Young Watson, throwing her head back and accusing eyes forward. “If Vodka was here”-her voice cracked-“she’d have your thinker on a silver spike.”

“Panda,” said Malix gently, “can I talk to him first?”

“I don’t know,¬†can¬†you?” She threw her hands in the air. “Rose was the only thing Vodka left and he-!”


“Mom,” said Young Watson. In whispers of the night’s woes, the world crumbled, particle by painful particle, around him. It is often difficult to remain powerful when in sober company-the first of the night’s lessons came, as lessons rarely do, subtly, with nary a backward glance.

“You’ve got heaps to yak yourself out of,” sighed Pandora. “I suppose I’ll leave you two duo, then. Young Watson, we’ll talk later.”


Pandora exited into the dining room, and was greeted by a chorus of cheers. Even the most morally ambiguous girls loved their mothers, thought Young Watson, when they’d been deprived of them for long enough. Malix cleared his throat. “I don’t really like lecturing,” he said with a sigh, “but Daisy called in advance to fill us in on your latest adventures, and I thought Panda and I would be able to offer you a bit of wisdom. And you’d, er, let us live here, because we’re your parents and all, and we had to sell the house to buy toilet paper and are subsequently homeless. Fair deal, right?”

A gust of wind burst from beneath the front door, and suddenly Young Watson was hit by the lonely force of his disastrous evening. “I wanted everything,” he whispered to himself. His heart sank faster than the Titanic. “I lost it in a bet with a fairy.”

“Young Watson? You listening?” Malix waved his hand in front of Young Watson’s face. “I suppose you’re not that young anymore… Do you still answer to that?”


“I think,” said Young Watson slowly, “I think I’m trying to grow up, but it’s even harder when the name doesn’t fit. I’m too old to be Young Watson, and too young to be Old Watson. I lack definition”

Malix thought for a moment before answering. “How about just Watson?”

“It’s very plain,” said Young Watson tentatively.

“Aren’t most names? It’s for the best, really. Nobody wants to read ‘Ebony Darkness Raven Dementia Way’ off the roll call.”

“Watson,” said Watson. “Watson. Watson. Watson. I suppose it rolls off the tongue all right.”


“Now, Watson,”-Watson couldn’t help but smile a little-“about our deal?”

“Let me evaluate the profits. You added money to our wallet, I added another floor to the house. You give me advice, I give you a home. It’s a fair deal.”

“I thought you’d like it,” said Malix. “Everything always evens out in the end.”

“Not always,” sighed Watson. He glanced into the kitchen doorway and peered into Julia’s domain. “Sometimes things are a bit…lopsided.”

“Ah,” said Malix. “The fairy.”


“Yes,” said Watson. “The fairy.”

“How have you been managing? Daisy said you weren’t handling it well.”

“I had to cope somehow.” Watson’s cheeks burned. Rose and Daisy surely hated him now if they hadn’t already.

“I suppose you did better than I did,” chuckled Malix darkly. “At least you only knocked up one girl.”

“What?” Watson nearly choked.

Malix coughed. “It’s irrelevant. Really. Don’t worry about it. We’re here to talk about¬†your¬†mistakes, not mine. Okay, well, yours in relation to mine-minus the gritty details and things you really don’t need to know about. Listen, Watson, I know I haven’t been here for you. Not while you were a baby, not while you were a child, nor as you ran from high school blindly into adulthood. I was in your house, but never in your life.


I know you’ve never seen me as a role model, but genetics breed familiarity. I want you to distance yourself from that. Forget about your family history. When she has your baby, I want you to remember that that baby is a part of¬†you. It is to be loved, adored-that child is the most important thing in your life.

Don’t be like me. I put myself before my children, before Panda, before…” Malix trailed off, staring, unblinking, into the thunderstorm past. He shook his head slightly and continued. “You have to take responsibility for your actions. Do whatever it takes to give that child the best life you can, because when you’re old and jaded and your child is nothing more than a stranger to you, your heart will break a thousand times to Tuesday, and you’ll cry your heart out, because you know that their childhood has passed you by, and there is nothing¬†you can do to regain that. Watson, you’re better than your family’s legacy. You’re better than I am. You can give this child more than just a large house and warm meals-you can give them a¬†dad.”


“Dad…” began Watson. He blinked away tears, and chastised himself for it.¬†Dads don’t cry!¬†he thought furiously,¬†and neither do crime novelists.¬†“I’m going to-”

Julia stormed through the doorway, eyes wide and furious. “Young Watson!”

“Watson,” said Malix pleasantly. “His name is Watson. And you must be Julia?”

Julia ignored him. “Who is this vampire?” she hissed.

“This is my Dad,” said Watson. Her swollen belly gave him a headache. His ache was not due to her stomach’s contents, but rather the hideous shade of purple stretching over it. She dragged him to the other side of the room, grip fierce and frightened, and his headache only intensified.


Julia’s stomach plummeted through the floorboards, the Earth’s crust, and deep into the boiling mantle. “How many of my people has he killed?” she hissed. “Is he one of the Schlicks? The Slayers? The Merricks?”

“Dad doesn’t kill people,” stated Young Watson. “He mostly just offers witty commentary at inappropriate times ¬†and paints masterpieces on the weekends.”

“Wrong!” she snarled. “Vampires slaughter. Vampires drain blood to extend their already immortal lives. They’re disgusting, filthy creatures with no regard for the fae, and lack the integrity for fair deals. Besides, they hate garlic, and you can’t trust a creature who despises a vegetable.”


“All vampires are bastards!” said Malix, voice high and mocking. “They’re all members of the same bastard family! That’s obviously why we all have different last names!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you have¬†his¬†blood inside you?” cried Julia. “A quarter vampire, a quarter human, half fae-this child will be an abomination! The blood of two warring species…oh god, oh god.”

“Because all half breed children are nasty little buggers,” said Malix, rolling his eyes. “Gotta love fantastic racism.”

“Dad’s a rogue vampire,” snapped Watson. “He doesn’t participate in any of that organized coven stuff. His blood won’t destroy the child-it’ll¬†benefit¬†it. This is a child, not the product of war.”

“Aha!” said Malix, who was fully aware that he was being ignored, but chose to add his opinion anyway. “Logic!”


“This¬†child,” she spat, “is part vampire.”

“This child is a part of me,” said Watson coldly, “and it’s a part of you, too.”

“You infected me!” Her voice rose, piercing the night air like a bullet through a sheet of glass. “I was pure, and now I’m soaked with the blood of a vampire! You’ve ruined me, Watson! I can never return home now…” She began to sob softly. “I’m lost.”

“You pressured me,” said Watson. “I never asked you for anything. You climbed in my bed, and didn’t bother to listen when I told you no. Now we’re having a baby, and while you don’t love it, I’m going to make up for all that you lack. Damn it, Julia, I’m going to take care of this child, and if you’re not going to join me, then I don’t want to see your face again. If you abandon this baby…” He trailed off, trying to think of a threat potent enough to strike fear into the furious fairy’s heart.


“I thought that you cared about our deals. I thought that you cared about me” she whimpered. She raised her hand as if to stroke his cheek, but then sighed, lowering it back to her side. “I’m going to bed.”

Watson nodded curtly. He watched her back as she ascended the staircase, eyeing her shifting shoulder blades, her drooping wings, the clacking of her boots. Had he cared for her, he realized, he’d have grabbed her arm, gently hoisted her from stair to stair, and pulled the blankets over her swollen breasts as she drifted to troubled sleep.

She was nothing but a spot of misplaced tenderness. If she left, he’d sleep with ease. If she left, he’d be able to speak with his father freely.

If she left, she’d miss her child’s first step, its first word, its first kiss. If she left, she’d lose a chance at a family.

Thoughts swirling, he ascended the staircase, crossed the pitch black hallway, and slipped hesitantly into bed beside her. We really need to buy a couch, he thought as sleep overcame him.


Watson awoke to a rustling of the bedsheets and a sharp grunt. It was approximately three in the morning. Blinking drowsily, he sat up. Julia was already awake. She sat on the bed’s edge, breathing heavily. She refused to meet his scarlet eyes. “Why are you up?” yawned Watson.

“I think,” she breathed in sharply, “I think it’s coming.”

“What’s coming? The daily mail?”

She stood up shakily. “The baby.”








“THE HOSPITAL!” she cried. “NOW!”

Forgetting his inhibitions, Watson shrugged on his jacket and pulled up his jeans. Julia simply swirled into the hideous purple dress; Watson couldn’t help but cringe. If he never saw that garment again, he would die happy.

Julia gasped. “Young Watson-!”

“Watson,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “It hurts so badly!”


Out of necessity he eased her way down the stairs, and carefully followed her as she crossed the foyer. Watson smiled to himself.¬†His¬†baby. He accepted Malix’s challenge. He would love this child with all of his heart-preferably without Julia at his side. The stakes had risen. Fairy games, while never wise, were particularly deadly to him now.

“I don’t want this,” whimpered Julia.

“It’ll be over soon,” said Watson unhelpfully.

She shot him a glare. He tapped her shoulder and pointed towards the door. “The taxi’s that way.”


Julia stumbled into the front seat. Her chest heaved, and sweat dribbled down her forehead. Watson slipped into the backseat. She stared at him through the rearview mirror as if examining an insect under a microscope. Had she known of his heritage…she shook her head. She wasn’t quite sure that she wanted to know what she would’ve done. A reaction is only twice as violent when thought of afterwards.

Watson stared out the window. He’d have to formally quit the con. He wasn’t going to be his father-he wanted to be the sort of man he had wanted to grow up to be. The type his child would admire. The type that would admire his child.


The taxi screeched to a halt outside the hospital. Watson threw a crumpled twenty to the driver and leapt from the cab. Julia struggled to remove her seatbelt, but after a ridiculous amount of grunts and grumbles, cast it off spectacularly.

Head held high, she stepped from the cab, ignoring Watson’s helpful hand, and walked directly through the hospital doors, eyes staring blankly ahead, as if surrounded by blinders.

Watson wondered briefly if he should follow her, but stopped three paces from the door. He’d only make the delivery, already messy and awkward, even more painful for everyone involved. He wanted to meet his child in a pleasant situation fraught with good connotations-a lively, warm bakery would be ideal.


He wasn’t quite sure if a thunderstorm was the most comfortable place or safest situation, but was sure it was much better than the hospital room. It would have to suffice.


As the evening gave way to starry eyed dawn, footsteps clattered down the hospital stairs. The doors creaked open. Watson, who had been sitting on the steps, thinking about the pointlessness of incessant rain, leapt from his seat. “She’s beautiful!” he cried breathlessly.

“I can’t look at her,” said Julia softly. She began to cry again-wordless, harsh, blubbering. The sobs of a woman lost, betrayed by her heart and her species. She thrust the baby into Watson’s arms. “The nurse called her Elizabeth. I thought you’d like it, so I didn’t say anything.”

She lowered her head into her hands, exhaustion overcoming her weary neck. Her whole body quivered-whether from the rain or the tears, Watson would never know. She began to walk away, each step brisk and aimless. Her arms wrapped around her thin body as if to keep her cries sealed between her ribs. “Julia!” Watson called after her. “This is your daughter!”

Her pace quickened. Her form blurred as the rain poured, like a heart into a diary, from the inkblot sky. “Julia!”

And she was gone, severed from her family in thirty paces. Relief, strange and breathless, flooded Watson’s bones. He looked at his silent daughter and smiled softly. She hadn’t uttered a cry the entire night. Something had to be going right. He held her close to his chest, and raised his hand. A taxi would surely stop for them.

“Well, Lizzie,” sighed Watson. “I think it’s time to go home.”

Next time…

Aging! Romance! Family! Parenthood! Angus!


LCD Soundsystem – “All I Want

A/N: Sorry this update took a while to finish… BUT FINALS ARE DONE!!! But anyway, I’m so happy to have Panda and Malix back. I really missed those guys. Also, happy MLK Day!

Another beeteedubs, this song of the update is one of my favorite songs ever. I’m so bummered out that LCD Soundsystem broke up. ūüė¶

In conclusion…


I love this picture of Panda and Malix. I think that Pandora is just the cutest Sim ever. Gah, I am so happy to have her back in my game!

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

4-6: When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Vodka


Young Watson bit his lip. The teapot whistled, Scarlett’s boyfriend hissed, and a low growl shook the house more than a gorilla who has skipped breakfast. He thought, a bit too late, that perhaps the kitchen wasn’t the best place to break it off. Another growl rattled the floorboards.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Not again with the growling! It had been nearly incessant since the previous evening, and rather than petering off it only grew louder and more distracting with each passing hour. His confidence shrunk to microscopic levels as the volume hit the stratosphere. He had a sorry task to do, but found it difficult to muster up the courage to follow through with so much racket going on. A very large growl reminded him of tigers, and there are very few men who can stand in the presence of a tiger, let alone simply hear an implied one, without feeling utterly emasculated.

Julia eyed him curiously. When he opened his eyes, she’d tell him. This all depended on the roaring’s volume, however. It was awfully loud. She wasn’t quite sure if the noise was coming from the room beside the bedroom (somebody must have been living there, she reasoned, but she’d never set eyes on the mystery fourth Belue), beneath the house, or from Scarlett’s abominable vampire boyfriend, but wished that somebody would discover a mute button for the damn thing. If it could stay quiet for just one minute, perhaps she’d be brave enough to discover what it was.

In a stroke of fatal luck the growling faded to a dull roar. Young Watson snatched his chance. “Listen, Julia,” he began.


She grabbed his hand before allowing him another word. Young Watson sighed. Women really were too much of a bother. First they took your bed, then your body, then they made a mess of your work life and your social life-all of which was terribly dreadful to clean up afterwards. Young Watson was not afraid of mopping up old wounds, but he was a bit terrified of Julia’s dress. It clung in such a way so as to suggest a foreboding swelling of her belly and a prolonged thinness of her limbs. He gulped. With any luck, the hideous rag was just a phase; it couldn’t mean anything more.

Unknown to Young Watson, Julia also loathed the dress, but she had unearthed enough patriotism from somewhere inside her uterus to make it nearly bearable. “Yeah?” she asked Young Watson, rolling her eyes. Her acceptance of the purple dress did not go without grudge, however. It wasn’t entirely her¬†fault she had to wear it. While history often disagrees with itself, it universally affirms that it takes two procreate.

“We’ve had a great time together,” said Young Watson sheepishly. He should have practiced break ups, like he had most everything else, back while he was still learning his times tables. “But Scarlett’s had to get a job polishing podiums, and we’ve had to resort to selling space rocks to pay for the groceries-!”


“How convenient!” grinned Julia. “I’ve got the perfect solution.”

“What?” asked Young Watson flatly. His brain, for all practical purposes, slid to a crashing halt.

She patted her belly. “This little fella can make us a lot of money.”

“Little fella?” Young Watson choked.


Thunder cracked outside, and a dull rumble clattered the windows. Scarlett, who sat at the kitchen table, wondered vaguely which part of Julia’s statement Young Watson should worry most about, realized their impending poverty, and sadly got out the last bottle of vodka.

The world spun a little closer to its end.

“Little fella,” said Julia.


Young Watson was not quite sure what happened after Julia’s fateful words. He knew only that it involved a great deal of vodka and a grand twelve minutes too long sing-a-long to “Sweet Caroline,” and had ended with him sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor, alone and more dour than a Russian Christmas. “She can’t be pregnant,” whispered Young Watson. “I mean we used a-!”


At that moment, Daisy came bursting in, panting more than dog in South Africa. Her tongue lolled from side to side and then suddenly zipped back in her glossy mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut, cheeks puffed out, and lips pursed. “How were the lemons?” slurred Young Watson.

“Young Watson!” she shrieked. Daisy had never taken a stress management class in her life.


“What in the¬†fuck¬†do you want?” grumbled Young Watson.

“Get up,” snapped Daisy. “You’re starting to sound like Grandpa.”

“Drunk as Grandpa.” Young Watson struggled to his feet.


“Hopefully you won’t end up as angry as him-or as dead.” She took a long, tragic breath. “Sad story. Anyway, we’ve got more important matters to discuss.”

“Like how we’re going to afford a fucking baby? And you can’t just, like, trivialize Grandpa’s passing. He leapt into a fucking cooking machine…thing, for chrissake.”

“Quit swearing,” admonished Daisy. “It’s unbecoming.”


“You’re unbecoming!” retorted Young Watson. He slurred each word to the extent that he sounded like a particularly sloppy mudslide.

After a moment of pondering his words, Daisy snapped back, grinning cheekily (she adored feeling witty-it didn’t happen very often), “And this is the worst night to get wasted. Mom and Dad just called. They forwarded a check and will be here tonight.”


“Fucking hell,” breathed Young Watson.


“That’s the reaction I was hoping for, minus the foul language.”

“Oh god,” muttered Young Watson. His hands shook as if they were sitting atop an earthquake. “What am I going to tell them about Julia?”

“The truth? You knocked her up. Now you have to deal with the consequences.”

“I don’t fucking¬†want¬†to deal with the consequences!” shouted Young Watson. “I’ve been keeping this family together since before you could tie your shoelaces, and when things turned sour, I didn’t try to marry myself out of the problem. I’ve worked my¬†ass¬†off to pay for our house, our meals, our bills, and what have you done?”


“I wash the dishes!” snapped Daisy. Her cheeks flushed scarlet.

“Is that it?” Young Watson chuckled shortly. His head pounded. “You wash the dishes, and I’ll just keep writing bestsellers so you can afford your designer jeans. You haven’t done a single profound thing in your entire miserable existence. You almost married a millionaire, you almost got a job, you almost went to a dinner party. Almost, almost, almost. Yes, I knocked up my girlfriend, but you know what? I’m not going to like it, but at least I’m going to deal with the goddamn problem and clean up after your mistakes while I’m at it. You waste my life so you can put off discovering yours, and I’m not going to take your shit tonight.”

Daisy stood completely still, jaw halfway to the floor and eyes dripping more than a broken faucet. Young Watson stared at her. She was the smallest human being he’d ever seen.

Daisy opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a deafening roar from Rose’s room. Young Watson threw his hands in the air. “And now I’ve got to deal with whatever the fuck that is, too!” he cried and stormed from his bedroom to his eldest sister’s.


It wasn’t real. It was a joke. A sick, insane prank by his sick, insane sister made only more frightening by the alcohol. The wet, gurgling growls were her stereo. The sweltering, heavy breathing came from the trees whistling outside the window. It was an after school special. Everything was manufactured. A Scooby Doo episode with exquisite special effects-there was no other explanation. Young Watson’s machine stuttered, stammered, coughed through his hackneyed thoughts. Too much to process, too much to handle, system overload, red alert, gates closing, alcohol flooding, vision blank, mind blank, reloading when threat subsides.

“This is Angus,” said Rose. “He’s going to eat you.”

If any gears remained functioning, they were promptly tossed out the window. The only thing remaining was the beast in front of him.


Its teeth gnashed, and its tongue slithered out from between them like a glare through a crowded room. Huge nostrils huffed heavy spurts of sweltering, sickening breaths; the whole room reeked of an ancient decaying flooding from between the horror’s black lips. Its eyeless head swung back and forth ravenously, black and white splotches blurring to a menacing grey as its fever intensified. Its udders nearly scraped the floor. Young Watson’s mouth was a desert; his lips parched to sandpaper.

“Yes,” said Rose. “He’s a cow.”

Young Watson said nothing.

“He ate my bed, but he’s still hungry.”

The silence stretched for the length of a moderately large highway.

“Yes,” wheezed Angus finally. “I haven’t had a meal since 1969.”


“Get out,” said Young Watson flatly.

“What?” asked Rose. Her voice quavered.

“Get out.” Young Watson’s voice rose. “Get the¬†fuck¬†out.”

“Are you sure that’s not the vodka talking?” inquired Angus.

“I hope so,” slurred Young Watson. Rose shoved him out of the way, running faster than her stick legs had ever carried her before out the front door, and away from the little brick house, away from the con, away from her malevolent garden, away from her family’s legacy. She never once looked back.

Young Watson slunk from the room. His head pounded harder than a wrestling match. After a brief peek from the kitchen doorway, Julia approached cautiously. “You okay?” she asked.


“Drunk,” sighed Young Watson. “It worked for Grandpa, but it didn’t work for me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Julia truthfully. She was rarely purely honest with herself or anyone else, but for a brief moment, a grain of truth slipped past her teeth.

“I’m just having a really bad day.”

“You’ve still got me.”

Young Watson looked at Julia, and Julia looked at Young Watson. Beneath the vodka, he felt something stir within him. She had such lovely eyes, he realized for the first time, and for the first time, he wanted to do nothing more than hold her hand.

A car honked outside. “They’re here!” Scarlett called. “Quick, to build/buy mode!”

Next time…

Malix! Pandora! Freak outs! Massive house renovations!


Crystal Castles – “Reckless

A/N: Man, sorry if this was a fairly dark chapter. I’ve had a horribly stressful week and can’t seem to write anything happy to save my life. It’ll get better soon enough, though. Finals are over on Tuesday, and the One Act goes to competition Friday, and if we don’t win, then that’s over, too! Then more Simming time, huzzah. ūüėÄ

Anyways, just a little warning about the next chapter. I’ve expanded the entire Belue house massively, which has left their decorating a bit, er, wanting. It will get better as their capital increases, though!

In conclusion:


Scarlett’s boyfriend, Dante (I really need to introduce this guy), is getting some abuse from Julia. She really hates those vampires. ūüôā

Posted in Generation 4 | Tagged , , , , , , | 17 Comments