Jade Buddha

By Kyle Richtig

Jade Buddha is the first collection of Kyle Richtig's poetry, fiction and essays.

Jade Buddha is a mixture of works that challenge as well as entertain. Richtig takes us on his quest to describe the world around him, and his journey to discover who he is.

The worlds created in Jade Buddha are fiction, but the dangers they face, we do everyday.

Richtig writes with the voice that is timeless, with issues both contemporary and universal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304756558

Book preview

Jade Buddha

Jade Buddha

Kyle Richtig

Copyright © 2014 Kyle Richtig

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions.  Published in 2007 by Inkko Publishing.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Richtig, Kyle

Jade Buddha

ISBN:  978-1-304-75655-8

This book is dedicated to Corry, the first person in the world to tell me that I would be a writer one day.  I’m sorry it took me so long to come through.

- Kyle 

Table of Contents

Foreword

Sylva

The Dream

Postpone

Following Blind

Beige

Elusive One

Mountain

Resonating Tomatoes

One Hundred Words

Autumn

How Does One Find A Cultural Identity?

Platitudes Are Best Served With Crackers

Brewed

Morning

Merit

Our Land

Acrobat

Alphabet Time

DNA Speaks

Manufactured Heaven

Imagining

Corrine Grew Herself A Lemon

The Migration

Andrew & Quinn

The End?

Connor

The Great Eleven Conspiracy

Stutterer

The Shortened Sight

First Time Around

Thin The Herd

The Plan

The Source

Mr. Doogan’s Old Tyme Burgers

Experimental Food

The Castaways

Utopia

Xiao Chi

Inscribed

It’s A Wonderful Lie

Adam and Steve

Toy Soldiers

Chester’s Hope

Mythos

Cat’s Eyes

Crow’s Song

Moon And Sun

The Stars

Foreword

Fiction.  It’s an interesting word.  Fiction means that everything is possible.  Fiction is an excuse for the extraordinary.  Fiction takes the rulebook and throws it in the fire.  If I could, I would kiss Fiction on the lips, and at the same time smack it in the face.  All of my stories are fiction.

Poetry, to me, is written ghost of emotion.  Be it love or hate, wonder or faith, curiosity or confusion.  In my time working with Inscribed, in the hundreds of poems I’ve read, emotion is the common thread.  It bares itself sometimes in unusual ways.  That’s what excites me the most. 

This collection represents many different waves of thought.  I never knew when I was writing them that they would end up framing each other.  The section Thin The Herd is what I hope is not foresight.  In a world of rising temperatures and disappearing resources, I often wonder how we are going to cope with the upcoming crises.  What will people do when their comfortable way of life is compromised?

I read recently that contemporary poets are being looked over these days, as scholars venerate long dead poets, whose words are no longer representative of our culture.  I find this argument flawed.  I do believe that literary works of today are often overshadowed by marketing schemes and sales figures.  I know that those who sell millions of copies are often given the first contract renewal.  Unfortunately, in many respects, literature has become a game of dollars, but only to those who measure their worth and impact by it.  The real voices of our society are often those who write for free.  It is new ideas that are literature, not who gets to retire because they can churn out best sellers.

I write to tell stories.  I was born with an urge to share the colours and images that are woven inside my mind.  I forge these images with words as best I can, hoping to share my fears, my love and my humour the best I can.  Our culture, like every culture in the world is based on the stories of those who came before us.  Stories are often for entertainment, or may present a lesson, but in every case give the reader another point of view to draw strength from.

Today, there are many stories to tell.  There are many new stories that can be imagined.  In the western world, we’ve recently had two realities presented to us, that many had never thought possible.  The reality that we can be a target of violence, and that we are all responsible for our own demise.  Whether the danger may come from extremists or from our own greed doesn’t matter anymore.  The fact that the cultures of the west are ending may be a result of reaching a pinnacle, as all past civilizations reached.  We will not know if that is true, as civilizations take time to erode.  We may be living in what will be called The Classic Days.  Only time will tell.

My stories of the future are often bleak.  This does not mean that I have no hope for the future.  The opposite is true!  I hope that we could unite as one people of the Earth and affect change.  I hope that we can transcend our barriers and our old hatreds.  I hope that if anything we will learn from our mistakes.  I hope that we are smarter than we generally are.

In any event, I present these works with the hopes that they will be enjoyed.  These stories were written for you, the reader.  If it wasn’t for you, I would have nothing to say.

Any numerologists should know that I realize 11 is 1+ 1 = 2.

Jade Buddha

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short stories, poetry & essays

Sylva

The Dream

Sarah pushed her spade into the soft grass.  She stepped on the backend of the metal and pushed it into the darkness. She smiled up at the moon as she turned over the dirt.

The breeze was soft and warm.  Sarah cast her spade aside and bent down towards the hole.  She got down on her hands and knees and watched a worm twist through the dark dirt.  The grass was wet under her palms and knees, and turning up to look at the moon again, she wondered if it truly could be possible.

Sarah fumbled in the pocket of her shorts, and retracted her hand slowly.  She stuck her hand into the hole and dropped its contents in.  She looked at the prism, the shard of glass, glinting under the moonlight.  With one sweep of her hand she buried the tiny would be seed.

In her dreams, Sarah danced around a prism tree.  Like heavy fruit the prisms hung, splitting the moonlight into rainbows across the ground.  In her dreams, Sarah danced around the prism tree comfortable in her own skin.

In her dreams, Sarah danced alone.

Under the moonlight, and in the soft warm breeze, Sarah folded her hands under her head. She smiled and closed her eyes. If she only dreamt it, it were possible.

Postpone

My experiences with concrete

Have left me to wonder,

Why are we in such a hurry

To be someone no one will remember?

The pavement can play dead it seems

Beneath our every step

Yet silently it laughs inside

About how we all forget.

The cracks appear to break the hold

Our moulding hands create

When we all have our own lives

And friends

And family

And jobs

And bills

And worries

And the power to stop it all

From dragging us down.

So today I tread upon

The trails of manmade stone,

And stop to breathe, and stop to dream

And take courage to postpone.

Following Blind

Henry pushed the skiff out into the water.  The water was stiff, pushing against the bow of the boat.  He dipped the ancient power motor into the water and pulled the ignition.  It coughed out like lung cancer, but brought forth the power to push Henry through the water.  One hand directed the boat; the other clutched his well-worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea.

Henry had read Hemingway’s words many times over, each time gleaning a new truth from it.  In the cold confines of his Edmonton home, Henry dreamt of the warmth of the Cuban sun.  He thought if Santiago could hook a marlin, certainly he could battle nature.  Certainly catching a marlin would bring the notoriety he craved.

The sun bit into Henry’s white flesh.  The northern summers, no matter how hot, or how dry they became, could not have prepared him for the burn of the Caribbean sun.  He poured lotion onto his skin, and rubbed vigorously.  The cold soothed his skin, but only momentarily.

The boat skimmed across the water until the land disappeared from the horizon.  Henry pulled out his fishing gear, and baited a large hook.  He slid the fishy metal into the water, and watched it descend into the darkness of the sea.  He picked up his book and turned to a dog-eared page.  He read of Santiago’s struggle.

The line bobbed in the water.  Henry picked up the gear and felt the tension on the line.  Gentle nudge.  Gentle nudge.  HARD PULL.  Henry pulled at the line, which quickly pulled through his hands, which cut deeply into his soft flesh.

Henry screamed alone on the sea.  He pressed his hands together in the blinding