Flash fiction by Romey Petite
Vampires at the Beach
It was the day the vampire scientists invented the perfect sunscreen for a flawless noncombustible complexion that humans had their last day of pleasure and peace in the sun.
Of course, the patent wasn't just the formula itself, it was the application process, too. The sunscreen had to be impregnable to avoid a lawsuit by vampire lawyers (a phrase which some might point out, in poor taste, is redundant), and hypothetical hefty payouts to potential disfigured victims in burn units of vampire hospitals.
It is known by all that a vampire can heal from any wound, that a vampire can recuperate from the splinters of a stake if given time, but a vampire cannot be restored from wounds sustained by direct light. Like a photograph, a vampire is virtually immortal, unchanging, because they are an impression captured in time itself—a snapshot of the day they were turned. This is both a blessing and a curse as a vampire exposed to the sun will be obliterated like a strip of undeveloped film. A vampire will catch fire, twist and burn, like the silver nitrate spools on which early silent film was printed.
The cream, once confined to a bottle or tube and simply rubbed on by humans almost as an after-thought, would now have to be ritualistically reapplied for a vampire. It needed to be self-sealing—hermetically airtight. Perfect. Thus it was required for vampirekind to once again retire to a state of dormant isolation for certain intervals, as they had once in coffins during previous centuries, but this time to modified accommodations. It was a kind of isolation chamber where they floated in a viscous liquid. Dark, sticky, but relaxing as a day at the spa.
Once the flesh was thoroughly coated and secure, the flexible carapace must be allowed to dry in order to ensure the temporary binding to the skin. Afterward, all manner of clothes and even rough woolen accessories could be slipped on and off with ease. While the second skin was assuredly biodegradable (unlike humans, the vampire scientists are conscious of their impact on the environment), the part that was truly genius was the sunscreen's timestamp—meaning no significant disintegration would occur for a good sixteen hours.
Of course, there are still certain places in the world, places such as Barrow, Alaska or Svalbard, Norway, where even that would not be enough, but the scientists, proud of their work, decided to draw the line there. Vampires in those afflicted areas also spent six months of the year with the privilege of almost total darkness.
From that day forth, there were vampires everywhere. There were vampires in the cities, vampires in the park picnicking at noon, vampires in traffic at peak hour, and vampires at the beach.
It was the day the vampire scientists invented the perfect sunscreen for a flawless noncombustible complexion that humans had their last day of pleasure and peace in the sun.
Of course, the patent wasn't just the formula itself, it was the application process, too. The sunscreen had to be impregnable to avoid a lawsuit by vampire lawyers (a phrase which some might point out, in poor taste, is redundant), and hypothetical hefty payouts to potential disfigured victims in burn units of vampire hospitals.
It is known by all that a vampire can heal from any wound, that a vampire can recuperate from the splinters of a stake if given time, but a vampire cannot be restored from wounds sustained by direct light. Like a photograph, a vampire is virtually immortal, unchanging, because they are an impression captured in time itself—a snapshot of the day they were turned. This is both a blessing and a curse as a vampire exposed to the sun will be obliterated like a strip of undeveloped film. A vampire will catch fire, twist and burn, like the silver nitrate spools on which early silent film was printed.
The cream, once confined to a bottle or tube and simply rubbed on by humans almost as an after-thought, would now have to be ritualistically reapplied for a vampire. It needed to be self-sealing—hermetically airtight. Perfect. Thus it was required for vampirekind to once again retire to a state of dormant isolation for certain intervals, as they had once in coffins during previous centuries, but this time to modified accommodations. It was a kind of isolation chamber where they floated in a viscous liquid. Dark, sticky, but relaxing as a day at the spa.
Once the flesh was thoroughly coated and secure, the flexible carapace must be allowed to dry in order to ensure the temporary binding to the skin. Afterward, all manner of clothes and even rough woolen accessories could be slipped on and off with ease. While the second skin was assuredly biodegradable (unlike humans, the vampire scientists are conscious of their impact on the environment), the part that was truly genius was the sunscreen's timestamp—meaning no significant disintegration would occur for a good sixteen hours.
Of course, there are still certain places in the world, places such as Barrow, Alaska or Svalbard, Norway, where even that would not be enough, but the scientists, proud of their work, decided to draw the line there. Vampires in those afflicted areas also spent six months of the year with the privilege of almost total darkness.
From that day forth, there were vampires everywhere. There were vampires in the cities, vampires in the park picnicking at noon, vampires in traffic at peak hour, and vampires at the beach.
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Romey Petite loves reading and writing fairy tales, myths, and magical realist stories that interweave elements of the sacred and mundane. Originally trained as an illustrator, he spent some time self-publishing comics before trying to tell stories that don't require pictures to lean on. His fiction has been published in 3Elements Review, and Scott Thrower’s podcast Fairy Tales for Unwanted Children. He also co-authored and Kickstarted (with cartoonist Laurel Holden) an illustrated middle-grade novel called Spiderella: The Girl Who Spoke with Spiders.
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