The Bog of Blushing Secrets

A Tale of The Sinking Swamps

If you know me, you know I love a good adventure, but this time, I decided to wade into something a little different. “The Bog of Blushing Secrets” is my take on

Bradley Ramsey

’s Power Up Prompt #2, and let’s just say, things get a little... pithy. I hope this one doesn’t come up short, and maybe even causes you a little blush.

Sterling “Steely” Sterlington was, by all accounts, a man who had forgotten the meaning of trepidation. His jaw was perpetually set in a chiseled defiance, his eyes held the distant, unblinking gaze of someone who’d stared down an enraged kraken and politely asked it to step aside. Rumor had it he once used a charging rhinoceros as a battering ram to open a particularly stubborn temple door and negotiated a ceasefire between two warring pygmy tribes armed only with a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey and an impeccably timed eyebrow raise. Fear, they whispered, was merely a quaint concept he read about in dusty old encyclopedias. His legendary bravery, however, wasn’t born of an absence of fear, but rather a profound, almost pathological aversion to any situation that might hint at his perceived inadequacies, particularly those of a… personal nature.

Which was precisely why he found himself, at precisely 11:37 PM, on the precipice of the Sinking Swamps.

Tonight was the night. The night the Floribunda Lunaris, or Lunar Lotus, was set to bloom for the first time in a century. Legend claimed its petals emitted a luminescence capable of guiding lost souls, curing ailments, or, according to a less reputable scroll Sterling had found in a particularly damp antique shop, turning alligators into master chefs specializing in vegan cuisine. Sterling, naturally, was here for the fame, the glory, and perhaps, the lucrative speaking engagements. Not, certainly not, because he was running from anything. Like, say, a particularly persistent memory involving a performance of Hamlet, a rogue gust of wind, and a rather unfortunate pair of breeches that had chosen the “To be or not to be” soliloquy for their dramatic unravelling.

“You’re mad, you know,” a voice croaked from the murky water beside him.

Sterling didn’t flinch. He merely lowered his gaze to a bullfrog of impressive girth, its skin a mottled green, its eyes like twin golden marbles. “And you are…?”

You sir, may call me “Grumps,” the bullfrog grumbled, adjusting a lily pad that served as his personal chaise lounge. “And I repeat: mad. This trail’s been untended for decades. It’s less a path, more a suggestion. A highly ill-advised suggestion, might I add, from a particularly inebriated cartographer with a penchant for quicksand and dead ends.” With a surprising leap that belied his girth, Grumps propelled himself from his lily pad and landed squarely on Sterling’s backpack, clearly not wanting to miss a single moment of the impending disaster, clinging on like a particularly opinionated burr.

Sterling merely adjusted the vintage pith helmet perched jauntily on his head. “Nonsense, Sir Grumps. A true explorer blazes his own trail, even if it’s merely a philosophical one. Besides,” he tapped a well-worn, imposingly thick walking stick, leaning on it with an air of profound nonchalance, “I have my Lucky Stick. Never steered me wrong.” He eyed the stick with an almost obsessive reverence, its solid, unyielding length a reassuring counterpoint to the vague, internal anxieties that had plagued him since that fateful theatrical faux pas.

Grumps snorted, a sound remarkably like a clogged drain. “You mean that overcompensating cudgel? I’ve watched countless fools march in here, swinging their impressive timber, only to find themselves neck-deep in quicksand. It’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And I’ve heard rumors about what it’s really for. Anyway, isn’t it time we get this shartshow on the road?”

Ignoring the frog’s astute observation, Sterling stepped onto what faintly resembled a raised embankment. Almost immediately, his left foot sank six inches into something squishy and vaguely aromatic. “Solid footing!” he declared, yanking his boot free with a sucking thwop.

The Sinking Swamps lived up to their name with unnerving enthusiasm. Every few yards, the ground would give a stomach-lurching shudder, followed by a muffled, gassy BLURP, and a new, perfectly circular sinkhole would yawn open. Sterling navigated these impromptu tectonic flatuli with an almost balletic grace, leaping over newly formed chasms, sidestepping patches of swamp gas that shimmered with an unsettling iridescence, and once, narrowly avoiding a carnivorous pitcher plant that snapped shut with the sound of a hungry suitcase.

Grumps, clinging to Sterling’s backpack with surprising tenacity, continued his running commentary. “It’s obvious you have a lot to learn about this swamp, my boy. That’s Ginger, she’s partial to lost tourists. A low, knowing croak escaped Grumps, his golden eyes narrowed with an almost human-like skepticism. “Over there’s the ‘Whispering Moss,’ makes you privy to all the unsolicited opinions. Avoid that patch unless you want to spend the next hour learning what people really think about that ridiculous helmet of yours.”

Sterling remained unperturbed. “I’ve no patience for dwelling on the past, Grumps. As for opinions, I wear them as loosely as a freshly laundered loincloth. My only minor inconvenience, Grumps, is the woefully inadequate supply of my artisanal swamp tea. A gentleman explorer requires proper hydration for peak audacity.”

As they delved deeper, the air grew thick and heavy, not just with humidity but with a strange, almost electric hum. The sounds of the swamp intensified: the chirping of unseen insects, the distant hoot of an owl, and a new, almost musical thrum that seemed to vibrate from the very earth.

“Ah, yes, we approach the crux of the matter,” Grumps intoned, his golden eyes widening perceptibly. “The very air resonates with its imminent arrival. And that… effervescence… is the pollen, I presume. This, my heroic adventurer, promises to be quite diverting.”

“Pollen?” Sterling paused, a flicker of something un-fearless crossing his face. “What pollen?”

Just then, they stumbled into a moonlit clearing. And there it was. The Lunar Lotus. It wasn’t just a plant; it was an event. A colossal, bioluminescent blossom, its petals unfurling in slow motion, revealing a pulsing, iridescent heart. The air around it shimmered with what could only be described as microscopic, glittering pixie dust.

And Sterling wasn’t alone. Huddled nervously around the edges of the clearing were a few other intrepid—or incredibly foolish—souls: Dr. Penelope Thistlewaite, a renowned botanist, clutching a clipboard and muttering excitedly about phenology, despite her palpable fear of anything that wasn’t perfectly symmetrical. “Well, if it isn’t old Stubby!” Dr. Thistlewaite shouted across the clearing, her voice cutting through the humid air. “How’s it hanging, Sterling?”

A flicker of true, unadulterated terror—far beyond any charging rhino—crossed Sterling’s face. She was there. The realization hit him like a poorly timed stage light. Alongside her were two burly, mud-splattered men, clearly treasure hunters, their questionable hygiene and dubious intent evident in their nervous glances and suspiciously large sacks.

As the final, magnificent petal unfurled, a wave of the shimmering pollen washed over the clearing. The air instantly became charged, not just with light, but with an irresistible urge to… over-share.

Dr. Thistlewaite gasped. Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear! I must confess! All these years, Sterling, I’ve secretly longed to study your… rare specimen of brevi-folium! It’s been my botanist’s fantasy to classify that particular phenomenon!” She dissolved into a fit of shivers, whether from fear or unbridled desire, it was hard to tell.

One of the burly, mud-splattered treasure hunters suddenly slapped his companion on the back. “Alright, I’ll admit it! I still sleep with a tattered blanket I calls 'Mr. Snuggles,' and I brings it on every treasure hunt!”

His companion, tears welling in his eyes, sobbed, “And I secretly practice competitive synchronized swimming in the bathtub!”

Grumps, who had hopped off Sterling’s backpack and was now doing a bizarre, almost rhythmic wiggle, cleared his throat. “Alright, that’s quite enough of this expose-fest for me. I’m out.”

Sterling felt a tremor, not of fear, but of… something else. A tingle started in his toes, creeping up his legs, an insistent pressure building behind his perfectly stoic facade. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to explain, in excruciating detail, the exact dimensions, lighting, and horrified audience reactions of that ill-fated Hamlet performance. He could feel the words forming on his tongue, the precise moment his breeches gave way, the collective gasp, the sudden peals of laughter, and the stark, damning reveal of his… architectural modesty.

This was it. The ultimate threat. Not a kraken, not a rhino, not even a pygmy tribe with questionable fashion sense. This was the threat of utter, soul-crushing, carefully-constructed-masculinity-demolishing exposure. His meticulously crafted aura of unshakeable bravery, built brick by painful brick over years of daring feats and compensatory over-the-top pronouncements, was about to crumble under the weight of a forgotten Shakespearean wardrobe malfunction.

Sterling's hand, already gripping the substantial heft of his Lucky Stick, now thrust it upward, like a gleaming saber. Grumps’s words echoed in his mind: “about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. And I’ve heard rumors about what it’s really for.” It was true. The stick was a cheap novelty he’d bought at a roadside tourist trap years ago, but it had come to represent, in his mind, his unwavering resolve, his solidity, his… manliness. It didn't quell fear; it just gave him something to clench when he felt a twinge of anxiety about, say, communal showers, or small, well-endowed dogs. But in his mind, it’s his talisman, the very source of his carefully cultivated bravado.

And now, it’s his only hope.

He looked at the pulsating Lotus, at the shimmering pollen. He could feel his throat constricting, the unspeakable secret bubbling up, threatening to reveal the true reason behind his over-the-top swagger. He had to act. He had to sacrifice.

With a dramatic, guttural roar that was far more theatrical than necessary, Sterling Sterlington plunged the tip of his Lucky Stick into the pulsating heart of the magnificent, glowing Lunar Lotus. There was a sickening GLOOP-SQUELCH, not unlike the sound of a stout root finding a perfectly moist fissure. The Lotus shuddered violently, its bioluminescence flickered, and with a final, gassy BLURP, it began to collapse inward, melting into the murky swamp water, dragging Sterling’s beloved, thick length of wood down with it.

The bioluminescence flickered, then dimmed. The shimmering pollen dissipated like a bad dream. The air cleared, and a sudden, profound silence descended upon the swamp, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant croaking of a now silent, probably mortified, bullfrog.

Dr. Thistlewaite blinked. “Sterling, I… I…” she muttered, blushing furiously.

One of the burly, mud-splattered treasure hunters suddenly slapped his companion on the back. “Beers on me, ‘Mr. Snuggles!’”

His companion, wiping away tears, “Don’t mind if I do, ‘Orca.’”

Sterling Sterlington stood tall, his chest heaving, his perfectly chiseled jaw re-set. He had done it. He had made the ultimate sacrifice: his most cherished, albeit utterly useless, item to save himself (and incidentally, everyone) from the disgrace of public, pollen-induced confession. The secret of his... anatomical brevity remained safely locked away from anyone who wasn’t already tragically—and vocally—privy to it.

He looked down at Grumps, who was now pretending to be a regular, non-speaking frog, as if hoping the sheer awkwardness of the moment would render him invisible.

“Well, Grumps,” Sterling declared, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes, “that was… an adventure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear there’s a particularly daring botanical expedition to classify a rumored Floribunda Colossus in the most inaccessible jungle. It requires a true, utterly fearless explorer, and perhaps a botanist with a very specific, shall we say, area of interest.”

As Sterling strode purposefully out of the clearing, whistling a tune suspiciously similar to “My Way,” Grumps simply sighed and began to hop away, only to narrowly dodge a discarded pith helmet that bounced off a cypress knee in his direction. He looked at the hat, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his amphibian face. He disappeared into the mist, humming a rather catchy, if embarrassing, self-help jingle under his breath.

The Sinking Swamps, having had their fill of human folly for the night, settled back into their usual unpredictable, blurbing rhythm.