“Wait. Do you have to? I would really like to—”

“Yes, without question.”

Can’t step back. ‘Back there,’ is used up, like a tossed rag, leaving less than nothing.

Forward into the unseen.

In this world, either way only leads to an endless journey of circles. No more back—there is only forward.

What lies in wait? That which keeps awake at night. The things that keep me running, turning left or right, to avoid my truth.

The void: stillness; overwhelming dark; nothing moves, and nothing leaves.

Past the old Oak, I had a clear view of an old red brick building that might have been a warehouse at one time. It sat on a fair sized property of about three acres. In the yard were two dirt entranceways that came in from the west side. One on the north end, where I stood, and the other to the south. The rickety barrel fence reminded me of a cattle ranch seen in old western movies my dad enjoyed so much.

It stood on the edge of progress, near the homes of the wealthy, about a mile from my moms house up the hill, in Glaston Heights. The worn red bricks lined the outside from top to bottom giving away its age—it looked as though it was built in the 1800′s.

I stood just outside of the dilapidated yard; that left a lot to be desired—all dirt and rock, with a few splotches of knee high yellow grass. The light autumn breeze ruffled my hair and gave me a chill. It was a bit ominous, but I needed what it offered: private and quite. What I couldn’t get anywhere else, especially at my moms.

The windows were up high at the third and forth story levels, which meant no accidental onlookers, that made it feel a bit safer to talk freely with, Buck.

From the look of it, the warehouse had been abandoned for quit awhile, and the owners had left it as a landmark of the giant it was, refuting to progress with the rest of the world-especially the neighborhood. A downright, shove-it-in-the-face of the aristocrats that surrounded the area. It was perfect for the business I intended.

I needed to understand what was happening to me. The best way I figured to do that, was to face the monster in the closet.

The black door, rushing forward—up, giving way, as my foot circles up, then down, touching the smooth surface, in a downward, crescent motion. The door opens in slow motion, to an undying, white light that floods the scape I now helplessly travel, taking me. ‘Where am I, and where am I going?’ I hear myself ask. ‘What is this tug, this drawing of my will that leaves me empty and full?’ The surroundings of my endless fall, shifts black, then orange, then white again.

The door begins to spin in a slow 180 degree arc, giving a head-spin sensation, with no comprehension of up or down. A feeling similar to my first surfing experience in Ocean Beach. The wave took me, tumbling round and round…Curtis, saved me that day.

In a memory so long ago, that may or may not be reality, I float down, up through the frame of the black door, as it fully opens. Through the passage way, whiteness clings to my naked body in or out the other side. ‘Where are my clothes? Where are the jeans mom bought me yesterday, or some other time.’ Thinking evades all. The whiteness embraces, with no one to see, I’m left exposed and covered all at once.

‘How is this happening? How am I falling, and where did I come from? What is real?’

The deer. That magnificent Buck lay in a heap, sprawled across a fallen tree, with one eye turned skyward—I killed it. How and why did I do that?

“To prove you are a man!” the voice of my father came.

“No! I couldn’t have killed him.”

The whiteness clears, taking the dead deer and forest with it.

A freeway comes, and a truck—a Semi-truck, with a fully loaded trailer. Tires bulging from the overloaded weight.

Now I see from outside myself, flying, falling, floating, watching my backside hit the drivers door of the white, F150. The fresh splattered red, resembles a painting of, Jackson Pollock. It’s beautiful and painful. The pain is too intense to bare.

Whiteness engulfs me, and the scene changes again. I am standing in front of a red, convertible Mustang. Curtis is sitting in the back on the passengers side. He’s pale white, and frantic, tugging, pulling on something—what is it? The thought is too distant to see…. Familiar hands help him, as terror seizes my limbs, freezing me where I stand. The Semi is here, cresting the overpass, to take what is so precious. Life. Because it hates life. It screams and howls as a demon from above, while tires jitter on the white-top freeway. That heavy trailer, careens to us with unreal gravity. Tires pull from the road, as the white box shifts sideways, flashing us with a blinding white reflection from the sun. Looming above, in threatening suspension. Threatening to take me away from him.

Hope fades. I’m not ready for you to—

There is nothing I can do. I am helpless. I am alone. I watch the white descend, to leave me in darkness.

“Curtis! No!” Darkness swallows me, and the life I know.

Once again, I fly and fall backward, this time through that placid black Door as before, as it swings full circle around me to my front, the door invades my vision, only to be replaced by the screaming pain that pierces my backside and head. That familiar white light, puncturing the ethereal mist.

Synopsis: A psychological thriller that dissects the mind of a young man, as he experiences a series of traumatic mental, emotional, and physical events. After a car accident, the main character, Chris, has a near death experience on a Medivac, and in the ER. After intensive care, Chris relives the accident, watching his brother die all over again. A mental breakdown and suicide attempt takes him to therapy. Through family, loss, love, and mental psychosis, Chris comes to know himself.

I soon decided writing my novel, “Anatomy of A Deer”—an idea I came up with six years ago—was long past due, and I needed to do something about it, or give the idea up entirely. So on November 1st, I conquered my fears and sat down for the crunch that laid ahead. It was a powerful experience I reveled in, and most definitely a challenge to say the least. Many times I came to a place where I thought I would give up. But strength and perseverance won out, and I completed with 50,251 words at 10:30 pm on the 30th of November, an hour and a half before the deadline. It was amazing how I was able to get so many words written in that short of a period.

If you have always wanted to write a novel, I highly recommend throwing yourself into a brave new world you will find yourself at the end of this ride.

Here is the certificate I received for completing/winning the NaNo WriMo challenge of 2011.

Then it passes, and all is right.

This day is neither, as love is lost

It takes its tole, and I remain

to embark on time, not regained

Now I know what I am not. I used to know who I was. But now:

I want to write, but what am I?

I am love. I am father. I am.

I am art. I am truth. I am.

I am hope. I am now. I am.

I am heart. I am smile.

I am me. Just me.

I cannot be contained by any philosophy–I am the edifice of my own making.