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If you like, just google Vampire Wonderland by billy Kravitz.
Some popular story arcs you may want to google are are ~~~
EL RANCHO TEXACO by Billy Kravitz
think HOW THE WEST WAS WON or DALLAS on MARS.
MARIANNE IN BRITCHES by Billy Kravitz
a young elferina (pubescent, elf-like vampire) talks about her early years and horrific transformation
BINGO BOY by Billy Kravitz
star crossed romance in a hard scrabble, crooked walk-in bingo parlor under Philadelphia's 'El' tracks.
THE LITTLE MATCH BOY by Billy Kravitz
an expansion and elaboration of the classic Hans Christian Anderson tale, only with a little boy and set in Old Prague instead of Copenhagen.
Search any of these arcs (novel-like film treatments) and scroll around to get the whole story.
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6 comments:
I like the midday sun beat down on the bustling market square, a symphony of hawkers' cries, bartering voices, and the rhythmic clatter of goods. Among the vibrant chaos, Stopped by, a man in his early forties, cut a striking figure. Six feet of solid muscle, honed by years of manual labor, were neatly encased in dark blue jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His short hair, slightly disheveled from the humid air, framed a face with sharp angles and piercing green eyes that constantly scanned his surroundings. Today, his mission was simple, yet surprisingly difficult: find a single, perfect piece of fruit.
He wasn't particularly hungry. , a traveler and scribe by trade, had access to his own kitchen which was always well-stocked. But a strange craving, a whisper of a forgotten memory, had led him out on this quest. He needed a piece of fruit that embodied freshness, vitality, something that felt… alive.
His first stop was at the butcher's stall, a familiar haven of marbled reds and rich, meaty aromas. "Morning, !" boomed a voice, thick with good humor. It was, a bear of a man with a blood-stained apron and a booming laugh. "Looking for something to grill tonight?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Not today,. Actually, I'm looking for fruit."
"Fruit? From a butcher? You're a strange one today, my friend.
However, found himself feeling a strange detachment. The fruit, while undeniably fresh and beautiful, didn't quite capture what he was searching for. It was… too perfect, too uniform, laid out for sale. He wanted something that felt like it had just been plucked from its
He paused, intrigued by the man's earnestness. "They are indeed fine," he replied, glancing at a particularly vibrant red umbrella. "But I'm actually not looking for an umbrella today. I'm looking for a piece of fruit."
A spark ignited in his green eyes. An apple tree. Not a stall, not a basket, but the source itself. "Thank you," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Thank you very much."
He left the bustling market behind, the sounds gradually fading as he followed the umbrella salesman's vague directions. The paved paths gave way to a dusty track, leading towards a small, overgrown patch of land that bordered a residential area. And there it was, just as described: an ancient apple tree.
It wasn't a grand, perfectly manicured specimen. Its branches were thick and twisted, some reaching low to the ground, others stretching towards the sky with a venerable grace. The leaves were a deep, dusty green, and
He approached slowly, his black sneakers crunching on fallen leaves and twigs. He reached out a hand, his muscular fingers brushing against a rough bark that felt as old as time itself. He looked up, his green eyes scanning the branches, and there, hanging just within reach, was an apple.
It wasn't perfectly round. One side had a slight bruise, a testament to a minor brush with a branch or a bird. But its skin was a deep, earthy red, mottled with hints of green, and it gleamed with a natural, unpolished sheen. It wasn't the kind of apple that they would have sold, too imperfect for the market. But for him, it was perfect.
He gently plucked it from the branch, feeling the cool weight of it in his hand. The subtle scent of apple, sun-warmed and earthy, filled his nostrils. It wasn't just fruit; it was a tangible connection to the earth, to growth, to something untamed and real.
He took a bite. The skin was firm, yielding with a satisfying crunch. The flesh was crisp, sweet, with a surprising tartness that made his taste buds tingle. It was better than any apple he had ever bought, more fulfilling than any expensive cut of meat. It was exactly what he had been searching for.
" adorned with an array of umbrellas. The umbrella salesman, a wiry man with sharp, intelligent eyes and a surprisingly elegant scarf despite the heat, was meticulously adjusting a display of striped canopiesGood day," greeted, his green eyes surveying the bounty. "No one has sent me. I'm looking for a piece of fruit."
Chapter 1: The Unicorn and the Unveiling
The air in The Unicorn was thick with cheap perfume, stale beer, and the metallic tang of impending decisions. The neon sign outside, a garish pink unicorn rearing on its hind legs, flickered, casting intermittent shadows across the grimy windows. Inside, the light was perpetually dim, a kindness to both the patrons and the staff.
They stood side-by-side, adjusting the short, ruffled skirts of their French maid costumes. One was taller, with dark, heavy hair that already seemed to carry the weight of secrets. The other, shorter, bounced on the balls of her feet, a nervous energy humming beneath the starched apron. It was their first night, freshly hired, two new figures against the backdrop of desperate laughter and clinking glasses.
The taller one, let's call her Elara, moved with a quiet efficiency that belied her youth. Her eyes, dark and watchful, absorbed the room, cataloging the regulars, the drunks, the men whose gazes lingered too long. She cleaned spills, refilled glasses, and offered small, almost imperceptible smiles that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Her interactions were minimal, her voice soft, her presence a kind of elegant ghost. Each movement was a study in economy, a dance learned not for a stage but for survival in confined spaces. She was already charting her escape, though the destination remained undefined.
The shorter one, Britta, was a whirlwind. Her laughter, a little too loud, cut through the din. She flitted between tables, a playful jab, a sharp retort, her charm a weapon she wielded expertly. Men would lean in, thinking they had her, only to be met with a cutting wit that left them emasculated, laughing awkwardly, and buying another round. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright, but beneath the bravado was a fierce, almost frantic, need to control every interaction, to never be the one caught off guard. She’d learned early that if you were loud enough, no one could hear you break.
They moved together and apart, a strange, unacknowledged tandem. One, a gathering storm; the other, a controlled explosion. The uniforms, meant to objectify, became their armor. They served drinks, collected tips, and watched the hours dissolve into the early morning light. The Unicorn, with its fake magic and real desperation, became the crucible where their vastly different paths began to diverge.
Five years later, the scent of The Unicorn still clung to Elara's clothes, but something else had begun to replace it—a sweeter, more insidious smell. The quiet movements had become slower, more deliberate, as if each step required immense effort. Her dark hair seemed even heavier now, framing a face that was starting to hollow. The careful smiles had faded entirely, replaced by a vacant stare that sometimes settled over her features. She still worked, sometimes, but the shifts became erratic. The drugs, initially a whisper, had become a chorus, a promise of peace that delivered only a deeper quiet. Her path was a gradual descent, a slow surrender to the numbing embrace of heroin, each day a smaller step towards an inevitable silence.
She rarely spoke, moving through the world as if submerged in water, her conversations internal, her connections frayed threads.
Britta, on the other hand, was still a force. Her sharp tongue remained, though it was now frequently laced with alcohol. The emasculating charm had curdled into a bitter resentment. Her relationship with Elara, their co-worker and silent partner in the dance of The Unicorn, was a tumultuous landscape of bickering and explosive arguments. There were nights when the air crackled between them, and the other barmaids learned to steer clear.
One particularly drunken night, the kind where the world blurred into a kaleidoscope of slurred words and flashing lights, Britta found herself on the side of a highway. The circus tent. That was the thought. The next town, the big top, a fleeting fantasy of an easy getaway from the endless, toxic cycle. She stumbled, her vision swimming, a strange, detached wonder at how she'd arrived there, how she was still in one piece. No scratches, no bruises, just the dizzying realization that she was pregnant.
The circumstances were vague, lost in the haze of a blackout, but the consequence was undeniable. She was picked up, not by a friend, not by Elara, but by someone she barely knew, a stranger in a passing car who saw a vulnerable woman and offered a ride. The circus tent remained a fantasy; a new, very real future had just begun to materialize. Her old life, chaotic as it was, was now irrevocably altered by a sudden, undeniable presence within her. The two paths, once parallel, had just diverged wildly, one into shadow, the other into an abrupt, unplanned light.
Chapter 2: The Sailor, The Escape, and The Echo
Britta, now a mother, married a sailor. The decision felt less like love and more like a tactical retreat, a sturdy anchor to cling to in the sudden storm of her life. He was kind, reliable, a man who saw past the hardened edges and the quick temper to something he believed was good. He offered stability, a future that didn't involve the flickering neon of The Unicorn or the endless bickering. For a brief period, it seemed as though she might actually find the safe harbor she’d always secretly craved.
But the sea was his mistress, and long deployments became the norm. The stability he offered was often absent, replaced by lonely nights and the endless hum of a house that felt too quiet. Britta, who thrived on chaos and confrontation, found herself adrift in the stillness. The anger, which had always been her shield, began to turn inward, festering in the quiet moments. The drugs, not heroin, but something faster, sharper, began to creep into her life—speed pills, a false energy that promised to fill the void left by absence.
One day, while he was in the middle of the ocean, his ship a speck on a vast blue canvas, Britta simply disappeared. No note, no explanation. She left a child in the hospital, me, a small, vulnerable bundle, just learning to navigate the world. With a cold, calculated efficiency, she drove. Not just to the next town, or the next state, but all the way across the country. The intention was clear: to vanish, to shed the life she had built, to hope that in the vastness of the continent, no one would notice that the older sibling, the desired one, had simply ceased to be.
The silence of her departure was absolute. For me, in the sterile white walls of the hospital, there was no understanding. Just the sudden absence of a familiar scent, a familiar voice, even a familiar anger.
My rescue came in the form of a man who suddenly appeared, a figure I would come to know as my father. He was a force of quiet strength, a stark contrast to the volatile woman who had vanished. He picked me up, gathered the scattered pieces of my tiny life, and began the long journey home. His home. A place steeped in the red clay of Virginia, a state that would become the backdrop of my unintended childhood.
He followed my mother, his ex-wife, to their shared home state.
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