Jonathan Medrano
Bio
New writer trying something new.
Stories (4/0)
She Waits for Spring
Beneath the snowdrift I lie. Despair pierces the veil of an eternal winter. One without remorse, without hope, without escape. It’s tendrils of ice have wrapped themselves around my throat and silenced my screams. Alone and forgotten, this is where I will lie. Until the first rays of the spring sun part the clouds of winter and shine upon my face, I shall know nothing besides the cold embrace of the snow. It has enwrapped me until I was swallowed entirely by it. On any other clear day, my face would be known, but in the depths of winter I have no hope of such idle things. So close to civilization yet so far from any hope of salvation. This is where I will lie.
By Jonathan Medrano3 years ago in Fiction
Salvation
The taste of salt water and blood filled his mouth with each passing stroke. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he struggled to keep his head above the waterline. Before him he could see his salvation, but exhaustion was taking hold, choking what little hope he had for survival left. Shock kept the pain from the gash in his leg from overtaking him, but Samuel knew that slowly blood was flowing from him, mixing with the water of the dark salty sea, and ensnaring him in the cold grip of the unknown. Only the raft ahead of him could save him, but it was drifting further and further away. Every time he breathed, fresh saltwater rushed in to fill his lungs and he spat it back out when he surfaced again, but he was losing the battle against the tide. He couldn’t believe it, until in a moment of panicked strokes, his fingertips collided with the hardwood of the raft, its coarse and splintered hull ripping into his waterlogged and pulped fingertips.
By Jonathan Medrano3 years ago in Fiction
Still
It was a cold winter morning as Benjamin made his way into the kitchen to make his daily cup of coffee. In the night, a storm had blown in from the east bank of the river. Rain had turned to sleet, and sleet turned to snow. Now little remained to remind one of a world not covered in the opalescent white of freshly fallen snow. It was nearly identical to the morning one year ago.
By Jonathan Medrano3 years ago in Fiction