Swamp Secrets

Uncovering the secrets of the swamp

“The basin keeps what it's given. I just write down what it gives back.” — Bayou Beau

The Parish Paper Prints More Truth Than It Knows

the parish paper, porch light on, nobody home

delivered on time. the door was like that.

There is a little town paper out of Le Marais Perdu (The Marsh Chronicle, and I will keep linking it until one of us gets a cease and desist) that I have read faithfully for years, and I want you to go read it too, because it is the single richest primary source in this basin and it does not know it. This month alone, and I am not exaggerating any of this: an alligator has begun attending mass, and the church's response was to bless a pew. A classified ad seeks a night watchman for the icehouse whose only stated requirement, besides punctuality, is that he not count the coats on the hooks. The fishing column, the fishing column, casually warns readers off a slough where the fish bite too eagerly, on the reasoning that, quote, fish that eager are recruiting.

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Count the Lights. Odd Means You Go Inside.

five pale lights hovering in front of a swamp treeline, photographed from a camp porch

the treeline, thursday

A letter, from a reader out past a landing I won't name:

“The lights used to keep to the treeline. Every night now they arrange a little closer to the camp. Last Thursday they made my initials. My cousin says swamp gas. Beau, swamp gas doesn't know my initials.”

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The Krewe That Never Parades Before Dark

white cargo van backed up to a courier depot loading dock at night, photographed from inside a car

sender unknown. postmark local.

There is a social club uptown (old name, older money) that has run a charity blood drive every year since anyone can remember, and here is a fact I have now confirmed with two separate drivers: the collection van does not go to the blood bank. It goes to a private courier depot on the river, and the manifest says catering.

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Where the Basin Gets Angry

survey stake with bleached flagging tape in swamp mud at dusk, failed field equipment laid in a circle around it

survey stake, circle of dead equipment

There is a stretch of the Atchafalaya (I will not print the coordinates, and by the end of this post you will know why I don't have to) where a pipeline project quietly rerouted itself in 2019 at a cost of forty million dollars, and the official reason in the filing is, and I quote, “geotechnical considerations.”

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1610 AM, After Midnight

car dashboard at night, digital radio display reading 1610 AM, empty foggy highway through the windshield

the stretch where it comes in clear. do not stop.

Licensed to nobody, broadcast from nowhere the FCC can triangulate (and yes, people have asked them), there is a station at the bottom of the AM dial that only comes in on the highway stretches between towns, and only well after midnight. A woman's voice, level as a phone operator, reading names. First, middle, last. Pause. Next name.

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Who Is Beau?

backlit mirror selfie, face completely in shadow, wild hair haloed by a lamp, old equipment in the dark behind

the only photo of me in circulation

Your host. Twenty years in the basin, one working tape recorder, no last name you need. The rest of your questions, answered badly →

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© Bayou Beau, 2007–2026 · Swamp Secrets · All stories belong to the people who survived them.
Nothing here is advice. Most of it is warning. · In Truth and Terror.