Fairy Creek
by Eileen Munoz
University of the Incarnate Word
Eileen Munoz is a Communication Arts major at the University of the Incarnate Word. She plans to graduate in the Fall of 2024.
The little girl’s feet sprang into the deep pool of water; cool, icy water stung her goose pimpled legs and soaked the hemline of her cotton-candy pink summer dress. Her bare toes dug into the pebbled floor of the creek she stood in. To her, the small circle of water was a bottomless and dangerous ocean; the dead leaves and twigs that tickled her feet were a slithering, scaled monster that circled her. She hurled her body around, surprised at the slightest touch of a floating piece of bark. No, it was the bristled hunch of the most terrifying creature ever seen.
She froze mid-stance, her eyes slanting as she surveyed the waves around her, her breath shallowing as she struggled to keep silent to hear the ferocious beast. The little girl listened intently, and the soft lull of the wind became a strong and forceful current. The ever-gentle ruffling of the leaves in the trees above her became a roar of thunder and lightning. The soggy mud and prickly rocks that coated her feet and ankles became the slick, pulsating tongue and hundreds of razor-sharp teeth of the massive beast suddenly beneath her. She screamed, spinning around in circles, punching and kicking, splashing and spraying everything in sight with furious resolve.
Her eyes were shut, partly out of fear but mostly because gazing into the serpent’s eyes would kill you instantly! With a final sweep of her famous mortal blow and a yell worthy of the most ferocious of Vikings, she slaughters the malicious monstrosity. The little girl bows her head in solemn prayer to the death of a despicable legend out of respect. She lifts her fist into the air and fixes her eyes on the now cloudless blue sky above, her eyes squinting in the glare of the sun.
No more than two seconds later, I found myself back in reality. The small, maybe half-foot-deep creek around me. It was the familiar route and my favorite shortcut to school again. But this time my after-school playtime had gotten a bit out of control. My mom would not be happy with the now dirty brown crust of mud that covered my pretty pink dress, nor would she like the damp socks and shoes that littered the dried grass on the water’s edge. It was a typical afternoon when I was younger, and it was the fourth adventure that week.
This was the place that fueled my dreams; this was the setting for all my most favorite adventures and missions. A place full of so many possibilities for imagination. Where trolls would live under the bridge, fairies in the trees that lined both sides of the creek, sea folk, and the like would submerge themselves in its waters. This creek was my everyday escape; it was my fantasy. The creek was the one place that helped define my creativity today. It was those adventures that tested my mind each day and created the sense of wonder I instill in so much of my everyday life. It was that one piece of nature that made the most interesting part of me today.
I used to spend the days lounging on the picnic bench beside the creek, listening to the endless chatter of my mom and the others’ parents, and playing games with my friends. Searching through all my memories, it was when I lay in the sun, its warm rays caressing my face and arms, that held the only moments of true relaxation in my life. Now that I’m grown and have responsibilities, it’s hard to separate time from duties and worries. Even on a vacation, the mind strays to what errands need to be done and to what the future holds. Everything now is hurried and strained.
When I was a child, I could take my time learning, exploring new ideas, and discovering the meaning of things; I could grow up at a leisurely pace. Whereas now, there are too many things to do and learn. With age comes a countdown that ticks the opportunities and time away with each step. It really makes the metaphor, “Running at full speed and not moving an inch,” literal. To return to the creek now, I cannot reenact those moments; I cannot jump and play in the waters as I used to. ‘Why?’ you may ask, because I have “more important things” to do. My busy state of mind has been conditioned to consider such activities as unproductive, ‘childish,’ distant, alien, dramatic, etc.
However, that doesn’t stop the longing to return to my childhood wonder-filled mindset. Nor does it stop me from trying. With every letter I write, I bring those memories back into mind. I use them as a reference—a basis for my most innocent and curious creativity. Even if I can’t think like a kid, I can recall it. I can remember the smell of those sunken muddy rocks, the moist water breathing its mineral aroma into the air, a sweet, earthy scent penetrating your nose and making your mouth salivate with the yearning of a taste.
There is a ceramic clay jar commonly used in Mexico, and my mother, just as her mother and the ancestors before her, would pour water into the pot and let it soak. When they used the water later, either to drink or to cook with, the water would have this unique earthy, warm, and comforting flavor, just like the rocks padding the creek floor. And I use this fragrance in many of my writings, like some authors use the smell of wet grass to express the freshness of a plant in a story.
Many of the stories I write contain the first feelings I experienced in that creek. On one side of the creek, aligning a wired school fence, the surface takes a deep dip. As if a half circle were clawed from the ground. It wasn’t too high for an adult—maybe four feet elevated off the creek’s surface. But for an elementary school student, it was the Grand Canyon. My friends and I would cling, clenched fingers and knuckles white, to the fence and shimmy along the sliver of dirt beside it.
We would pretend it was an edge on Mt. Everest and hang on for dear life. Our quickened breaths, our feet straining to grip the ledge, faces pressed against the cool steel gaps in the fence, and we would shuffle inch by inch to the other side of the ground, panting and laughing, red crosshatches on our cheeks. It was the first feat in my life that gave me adrenaline and fear at the same time. Of course, as I grew up, I found adrenaline in amusement parks, movies, and sports. But to a kid? It was the pinnacle of an adventure.
There was the tire-rope swing that dared me to attempt it. Yet I never tried, as it did not belong to me (and I was a chicken). There were bamboo reeds that lined the denser parts of the forest along the creek, excellent for swords and batons my friends and I battled with. We would all walk along the side of the creek, picking up what we came across that day. A stick (a possible wand or blade) or rocks (cannons and bombs). We would pick up pretty leaves, flowers, seeds, and fruits and take them home to make collages or press them into albums.
I can recall those blissful evenings by the creek and use them as a source of rich emotions and senses that I apply to my stories. Since a young age, nature has fed my creative and artistic sides—they inspired my imagination and stimulated my mind, giving me my literary voice. The little girl of Fairy Creek still visits and explores through my expression in the world.