Cale Finta

Stories from Cale Finta

Tuesday, April 30th, 2013

People like to talk about their happiest moments. “Those were the happiest days of my life,” they say. “I was never happier.” How utterly human. How fucking desperate. You’d never see a pig reminiscing from his puddle of shit about the best bucket of slop he ever had. That might have been some pretty swell slop, but I guarantee it doesn’t do anything to wash the taste of shit out of your mouth. People who recall their golden days are deluded into thinking they’re part of some storybook fantasy. That they actually matter. The truth is too harsh for them. We’re just buzzing around like mosquitoes until we die. The only thing about us that really matters, the only thing that gives us any significance at all in the grand scheme of things, is the primal urge get drunk, get naked, and pop out two and a half young ones before we dust out for good.

Tuesday, April 30th, 2013


I sometimes return. To that river’s island where

we hid as children, running but

defiant still. Hiding from time, that

old bastard, though we were bastards too,

satisfied to bask on the river’s island, backs

turned to the mountain that birthed it

And who are we to call time old anyway.


we were always relieved to find the island

still there, but the winter was long and the melted

snow had washed the errant blood from her

stony floor. Back when we were immortal, and our concern was spent

on the face of a body that had watched the

births of our grandfathers instead of the direction we were


Friday, December 9th, 2011

The house looked so perfect to Bradley the first time he saw it. If only he had known then how much he would grow to hate it one day. The day the realtor led him up the perfect concrete path to the front door, she took special care to point out the space where he could put a birdbath, or perhaps a flower bed. “There’s a lovely space right in front of the picture window,” she said. “Some dahlias would look absolutely delightful.” Bradley chose not to tell her that he saw no point in spending his time cultivating ornamental plant life. Once, when he was a kid, his mother found him walking around their backyard, sampling the different kinds of flowers and bushes. “Brad, spit that out,” his mother said in the panicky voice that mothers could transition to so easily. “Those are just for show. You can’t eat them.” When the realtor unlocked the front door and led him inside, he noticed how much of an effort she had made to make the house look like a home. There were fresh flowers on the coffee table. A bowl of fruit. A few autobiographies on a shelf. Bradley thought the fruit was probably fake. He bought the house that day.

Wednesday, April 27th, 2011

Jungle, King

The forest lives without a crown