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Second Place: Specters of the Sunrise
- Mark F. Owens
- Jun 20
- 3 min read
Specters of the Sunrise
by Mark F. Owens
Second Place
There is something magical about watching the sunrise over the sea. I can feel the warmth of yesterday’s sun as it radiates up through the sand into my feet that are buried toe deep as I sit there, arms wrapped around knees, waiting for the light to slowly appear in the east. The gulls are screeching, the sandpipers twittering about, and the pelicans glide majestically along the cresting waves as the temperature dips in the pre-dawn breeze. I can breathe here, the salt air cleansing my lungs and soul as the sound of the pounding surf renews my spirit.
I would be at peace were it not for the ghosts.
The first rays of light are glowing across the horizon, and to my right there is a young boy, red-haired and freckle-faced playing with a bucket. He fills it with water and runs back up the beach to dump it out and watch it disappear. Over and over, the water is absorbed by the sand, and he is intrigued. I have seen him before, and I know that in a few minutes he will be knocked over by a rogue wave and dragged out into the riptide where he will shout once, then be gone. I have tried to warn him, but he doesn’t hear me.
Then, there is Matilda. I don’t know if that’s her name, but it’s what I call her. She is short and round with pale flesh hanging out of her bathing suit in unseemly places. She strolls towards me from the north with one hand holding the floppy hat on her head, laughing at the wind and looking for shells on the shoreline. She will stop in front of me, bend over to pick up a the remains of a scallop unaware that her pasty thigh is in my face, then rise and move on. She will make it a few hundred yards down the beach before collapsing in a heap. She will lie there as the tide moves in to reclaim the shell, the crabs nibbling her fingers and seaweed gathering in her hair, unnoticed and unaided. I say “hello” every morning, but she never responds.
Finally, there is old Joe. Sixty something, leather skinned and wiry. The surfboard is almost as old as he is, and he runs into the surf with the enthusiasm of youth, lying on his stomach and paddling beyond the swells with practiced strokes. The sun will break above the sea, exploding across the cloudless sky with a silver glory as Joe fades from view and never returns.
I will close my eyes and point my face heavenwards as the warmth of the new day penetrates my skin. Here, in this peaceful moment, there is no betrayal, no unreasonable demand, no acrimony.
Here, I can breathe and meditate on past failures and future opportunities as the birds greet the day noisily and the dolphins play tag beyond the breakers.
And here I will sit, waiting for the man my wife hired to walk up behind me, place a gun against my head, and pull the trigger. The gulls will gather and fall upon the brain matter that lies where the water meets the land as the blood is absorbed into the hungry earth. Every morning is the same. I am alive. Then, I am dead along with the others. Specters on the shoreline holding on to their final sunrise and the last peaceful moments of life.
And for the Ocean with all her ancient memories, our collective loss is but a fading drop of water on countless grains of sand. The tide will roll in and out without ceasing, the sun will rise and set. And our memories will eventually fade and be replaced.
But not yet.
Winning pieces are published as received.
Fiction Potluck
April 2025
Second Place Winner:
Mark F. Owens
Mark F. Owens is an old guy who has found the time to write. He has stories in two anthologies and his debut novel, The Weight of the Gods, is available on Amazon.
He recently began documenting his adventures on Substack.
He enjoys traveling with his wife of forty years and napping on the couch with his dog, Lola. In his spare time, he drives a school bus.
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