A Story about Floating
Tanya Castro
Guatemalan Cowboy
My daddy was a real cowboy,
his horse was as real to the eye
as his horse was as black to the lake
at night, my daddy walked everywhere
barefoot, he rode his first horse newborn
on his own at six,
the nice man who became family
was a nice cowboy,
gave my daddy his first horse
untamed just like a drift,
together they rode to the fields
picking corn, feeding from the leaf
watching el gran chaparral till noon,
they were inseparable,
daddy would walk his horse
down to the lake
bathe him under the beating breath
like they did in the good ol’ days,
after, my daddy would comb his hair
running his small arm across
the length of his horse as if
running his fingertips across
the top of the lake after midnight,
caballo prieto azabache
running towards the moon
my daddy and his horse.
Theology of the Sky
My papi told me he once beat up the sky for me because it wasn’t the color of ocean. It was November. The sky gray and light flickered like a lightbulb about to die. The only chance we had at a Pantone 2000 was pale rain. If we were lucky, even a rainbow. After he threw a couple of fists, the sky became blue but in feeling. It was darker after. Like rubbing charcoal on a piece of paper about to create or creating already. Then I think that must be how the sun feels when it’s daylight. An illumination. How a body can bask in the sun and tone you. My papi yells at the sky at all hours of the day to make sure it is hearing him. Most times, he asks to be blessed and so rain touches upon skin until he is drenched in holiness.
A Story about Floating
I don’t know where I am or if I’ve been found. I was only found once, floating in the river near the camping site. I know I didn’t know how to swim then but still I floated like a dead fish. In those moments of deadness, I heard the kitchen sink murmur about purification. I prayed then and there, floating in the river, I prayed. I told God, I had been baptized in a plastic pool at St. Elizabeth church in Oakland. Omitting that I was fifteen, that I didn’t know what being baptized meant, and most of all, that I didn’t claim myself catholic. I think he already knew this but still, I didn’t tell him. I wanted to be forgiven for the ignorance and the plastic pool. I think he also knew I wanted to be baptized as an adult, which was the reason for the floating in the river. I couldn’t risk floating in the ocean and no one finding my body. I was right, I was found in the river that time. Omitting that I was dead, that I didn’t know I was dead, that I thought myself beautiful as I watched myself floating in the river, my hair, my body, my soul soaked in renewal.
Tanya Castro is a writer from Oakland, California. She holds an MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California. Tanya’s work is a Best of Microfiction 2022 winner as well as nominated for Best of the Net 2021. Her work has appeared in Anser Journal, Lost Balloon and Mason Jar Press. @tawniiecastro