#unmoored

SOJOURN II

A small wooden boat

unmoored from shore

drifts where the lake forgets its edges

and becomes a mirror for the stars.

The oars rest.

No splashing. No urgency.

Only the soft breathing of water

holding sky in its arms.

Above — a cathedral of constellations,

pillars of fire older than memory.

Below — their trembling twin,

rippling like a thought not yet spoken.

I float between infinities,

stitched into the seam of dark and light,

a quiet thread pulled through eternity.

The stars do not shout directions.

They shimmer — patient, ancient,

their language older than longing.

They have watched a thousand travelers

mistake fear for the horizon,

watched hands grip oars until they splintered,

watched hearts confuse motion for meaning.

Tonight I do not row.

I let the current speak.

It murmurs in a tongue without edges,

a lullaby shaped like surrender.

The boat turns slightly —

not lost, only becoming.

A subtle pivot, like a thought reconsidered,

like a door opening without a sound.

The shoreline is no longer a place

but a memory of certainty.

Its lamps have dimmed into suggestion,

its outlines softened into myth.

What once felt like safety

now feels like a sentence half-finished.

Somewhere beyond the rim of sight

new lands are practicing my name,

rolling it gently across their hills

as if learning its weight.

New mornings are gathering their colors,

mixing gold with breath,

testing the sky for my arrival.

New shores are already real,

even if my eyes have not earned them yet.

The water carries more than distance.

It carries permission.

It carries the quiet dismantling

of who I thought I had to be.

I am not fleeing.

I am unfolding.

Like a map that was never meant

to stay folded in careful squares,

like a wing remembering

it was always meant for air.

Drifting is not the opposite of journey.

It is trust in motion.

It is the courage to be carried

without demanding the destination.

It is listening so deeply

that direction becomes unnecessary.

The night deepens,

but it does not darken.

It expands —

making room for everything I am

and everything I have not yet dared to imagine.

Even the silence feels inhabited,

as if the universe is leaning closer,

curious, attentive,

waiting to see what I will release next.

And the sea of stars

does not swallow me —

it reflects me back,

vast and quietly alive.

Not smaller in its presence,

but wider.

Not erased,

but echoed into something truer.

I am not adrift.

I am in conversation

Thanks for the tag @etoilesombre, who is one of the reasons this writing to publish thing has been sticking this time around, after fifteen years of just drafting bits and pieces for my own amusement.

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have less!) & tag 10 people. (Or as many as you're in the mood to.)

agreeing with prevs: I'm cheating and adding a second sentence (...or even a third) if I don't think it quite captures the vibe.

1. Black Sails, John Silver/James Flint (at this point, it's a full novelization of the first two season with a soulmate AU canon divergence and a 20 year plan).

In John Silver’s experience, sailors came in all shapes and forms, but if he had to make a definition of it, he would speak of three sorts. 

Indentured workers, who payed their way to the new world with hard labour, were some of the worst kind. One trip on a passenger ship taught John two things : people too poor to afford the journey were not worth stealing from, and had nothing that could be lost to cards or empty promises of better prospects in the colonies.

2. The Pitt, Michael Robinavitch/Jack Abbot (Robby POV, over the 3 months post-Pittfest ; that one will be out quicker, thank God, but is still ridiculously lengthy)

“Should we be worried?”

Robby shook his head with a shrug. He was leaning, with Princess, against the central work station. They were both observing Victoria Javadi, in the middle of a strange exercise : the med student was prepping to suture a patient admitted after an accident with a sharp kitchen knife.

3. The Pitt, Michael Robinavitch/Jack Abbot (no idea where this thing is going, but it's going)

Emery Walsh had that pinch on her face again, the one Jack Abbot learned to watch out for.

They were six hours into a Saturday shift ; an hour past Sunday. So far they had one domestic violence victim with a cracked skull, two stomachs pumped for alcohol poisoning, three GSWs, and four MVCs. It felt like a shitty attempt at a Christmas carol : one battered wife, two passed out teens, three gun shot wounds, and four moving vehicle collisions…

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Tom Riddle is a creep, wasted potential, The Devastating Power of Being Seen, Ghost Harry Potter, Ghost Tom Riddle, rip they’re both dead, Stalker Tom Riddle, Watching mourning from afar, The Chamber Of Secrets, Parseltongue, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a real “fuck it i’m dead” can-do attitude, we (read: Tom Riddle) love to see it, Angst

Summary:

When Harry dies, he's greeted with a quiet voice that says, "I've been watching you."

He stands, slowly. "Excuse me?" Harry asks the boy. It's a boy who spoke, one with black wavy hair, and fine, fine features that don't match his dead brown eyes. If it weren't for those eyes, Harry probably would've glanced away by now, overwhelmed. Instead, those dead eyes draw him in. Harry rather thinks it should be the opposite.