And another…


The third ‘take’ on Monday’s writing prompt, ‘Nothing could be heard’, comes from Sharon Scordecchia. You may remember I posted a wonderful piece by Sharon called ‘Her Need to Write’ on April 29th, 

Well, this piece is no less wonderful and she plans to use it as part of a larger work that she has been writing and compiling. I have had the honour of reading many parts of what will be a novel when completed, and I have to say, this will be one to look out for. Keep writing, Sharon. Your audience awaits.

Like Jane-Louise Blewitt’s short story using the prompt, Sharon’s novel is a dramatisation of real events. She has taken a portion of Bible History and brought it alive in a way that I admire so much and, once again, wish I had written.


Beth Shean



Sharon Scordecchia


We sit in the King’s meeting room, three of us; this Jared, his assistant and me. I expected him to look older and sterner, ready for verbal battle. Instead I see a young man, no more than thirty and the look in his eyes can only be described as respectful resignation.

I want this interview over. With my whole being I want him gone from my presence. I open my mouth to speak but it feels thick and sticky and the words I think I might say slide back, dragged down by the heavy glutinous residue of persistent grief. What can this man tell me? Is he here to tear down, to shred, the last vestiges of my family, my father? I should tell him to hold his breath, to save himself the effort of recall and me the unconscious endeavour of retaining his words, the ordeal of recalling them for some future sleepless torment, the exertion of assimilating them into my haunting nightmares.

“I’m alive, because I hid,” he says.

I stare at him. What is he talking about? Why is he telling me?

“It was just before my tenth year. I was looking after my younger brothers.” He swallows, his eyes flickering to the windows, fluttering around the room, landing weightlessly on my hands as they lie folded in my lap.

My skin prickles under his gaze. Just say your words, I will him, say them and leave.

“My mother had run an errand for her sister. Her sister, my aunt, had given birth to her first child only a few days before . . . a girl . . . my, our, first cousin . . .” He frowns slightly, trying to remember a detail.

I don’t want to hear your story, I tell him silently. It doesn’t interest me. Just hurry, and go.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at the forgotten detail. “I was in charge. I was looking after . . .” His gaze flies up from my hands. He meets my eyes. “It’s just the screaming I remember,” he says quietly. “The paralysing screaming. But I don’t think they screamed – my brothers – I’m sure it wasn’t them. It was all the others. And I hid. I was afraid. I hid until the screaming stopped, the shouting stopped, until the feet and the horses and the yelling voices were gone. I hid for a long, long time: until nothing could be heard.”

I can’t pull my eyes from his gaze.

His eyes bore into me. “My name is Jared. I’m from the tribe of Gibeon. I have no-one, no living blood relation. I am here because I hid. I hid from the mighty men of King Saul. I hid until nothing could be heard.”

I start to tremble.

Jared stands up, his attendant following his lead. Together they bow and walk from the room.



5 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Jane-Louise Blewitt
    Jun 15, 2013 @ 23:17:11

    Heart-rending but beautifully portrayed – I’m hoping my goose-flesh disappears soon!



  2. krista
    Jun 16, 2013 @ 03:11:48

    Beautifully written!



  3. Bhamidipati Bharati
    Jun 16, 2013 @ 13:04:08




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