prompt: beyond, title: establishing boundaries in "the next big thing" flash fiction

You’d figure a sasquatch wouldn’t have much to be afraid of in our world, even a small yeti like Frank. Six-foot-eleven would seem to ensure that, if nothing else, he would be the last busker in Hollywood targeted for mugging, which is true far as that goes. Frank’s neurosis had little to do, however, with being accosted by some rich Beverly Hills snots looking to roll the homeless for YouTube clicks. Frank instead suffered from a very particular form of agoraphobia, common to sasquatches who ventured amongst humans for long periods, under the cover of enchantment or plausible deniability. Wide-open spaces caused Frank a mild vertigo, the unbroken horizons of desert or seashore unnerved him, dropped the pit of his stomach, caused him to think as though he might fall off Earth’s edge, to believe he could just float away.

He grew up in a forest of redwoods, of course. He may have been about as indoors a child as his people had ever seen but when even he was outside, trees broke up the skylines in just about any direction. When he wasn’t surrounded by the megaflora of the Pacific Northwest, he was instead cradled in the embrace of sturdy walls at every side. He grew up to find structures of one form or another around him comforting and the illusion of infinite expanse positively disorienting. It was one thing to be on a lake where he could see plants or rocky outcroppings on the other side, quite another to see beyond the beyond. In infinity’s face, he averted his eyes. Tried to just look down.

It worked well for Frank in L.A. The ocean and the dusty expanse framed the city’s borders, but in a place so geographically enormous, they hardly defined it. Wherever he might go within the camouflage of the Thirty Mile Zone’s curse, there were always some mountains or eruptions of buildings to anchor his perception. Something to box in reality, structure what Frank could see, comfort him as if nature’s manifestations or our own architecture were giving away free hugs.

The relatively-brief span of time in his youth when he studied us by posing as a particularly hairy roadie for rock bands, before he was stranded amongst us permanently, his affliction was far less of an issue. It was there, for sure, but it was manageable. On a tour bus passing through to Vegas or Tucson, it was as easy as sticking his head into a magazine, the pages covering the peripheral vision up on either side. He could read or, at least, could pretend to be reading and pass for sane.

Later, though, after his peoples’ disappearance, during his indeterminate exile among us, it was harder to avert his sight. Confronted with horizon, he would involuntarily look toward it, some part of his subconscious hoping he might see his old life beyond that imaginary edge. Only then would the fear kick back in. A small moment of longing before that inevitable awful flinch.

Last updated October 31, 2021