I’m serious. She gave you up. Let her be.
I can’t.
You should talk to Dad first.
I don’t have anything else to say to him.
That sounds about right. I’m sure Mom would co-sign that
attitude if she were alive.
She would. She’s been trying to tell me something in my
dreams for a while now.
Look, Blade, right now you have a father who, despite the
fact you think is a super freak, loves you, and you have an
amazing, talented sister . . . the best in the world, really.
You give up on us, you got nothing.
Maybe.
Go talk to him, Blade.
Where is he?
Follow the music.
Down the hall
past the library
of sheet music
and comic books,
into the foyer
of statues
and ghosts,
the strum of
memories melts
into the air
like a mirage
of a life
that was once there.
The chords are
unmistakable.
They belong
to my mom
and to him.
I follow the sound
out to the pool.
He is rocking
back and forth
weaving a song
with his fingers.
The pain in those strings.
The look on his face
says love never dies off
never leaves
the secret chords
of the heart.
Track 5: Sunny
ROCKER: BOBBY HEBB / ALBUM: SUNNY / LABEL: PHILLIPS / RECORDING DATE: 1966 / STUDIO: BELL SOUND STUDIOS, NEW YORK CITY
This is the song
Rutherford played
between tears
at her funeral.
It’s the only
non-rock song
I’ve ever heard
him sing.
It’s been covered
hundreds of times
by everyone from Cher,
to Leonard Nimoy (Yep,
Dr. Spock from Star Trek),
to Bryan Adams,
to James Brown,
to that kid, Marvin Gaye Washington,
on Showtime’s Ray Donovan.
When Rutherford sings
“Sunny,”
it’s like an eruption
of joy and pain.
To hear him
croon
is to know
his hurt
is volcanic
is to know
he is capable
of loving
even if he refuses
to ever show it.
Bobby Hebb
wrote it
forty-eight
hours after
two tragedies:
The assassination
of President Kennedy
and the murder
of his older brother,
Harold, who
was stabbed
outside a
Nashville nightclub.
Rutherford would never
record it
for an album,
but he loves it
like it’s his,
probably because
he can relate
to the stinging sorrow.
But mainly,
he loves it
because of
the title.
It’s Not Enough
He finishes.
Bowed head,
lowered eyes.
I’m leaving.
I found her.
I fly tomorrow, I say.
He looks at me,
defeated,
says nothing, but
Sorry.
Yeah, me too.
Conversation
You’re really doing this.
Bought my ticket, so yeah.
You’re just gonna pack up and go to Africa.
Yup.
What about shots and pills? You could get malaria or
something.
I got it covered, Storm.
She walks over,
gives me a punch in the arm,
then a hug.
I never told you this because
I thought it would go to your head.
A lot of girls liked you. I mean A LOT.
I was always afraid you would change,
become arrogant and pompous.
Like you?
Shut up. I told them all your weird habits.
What weird habits? I don’t have habits.
We look at each other.
Really look at each other.
Two siblings connected
through experiences
that forever changed us
and now separated
by our blood
and the truth.
Will you call me? Text me?
I’ll think about it.
You suck.
Can you do me a favor?
What?
Before I leave
I want to give Chapel a gift
to let her know
she’ll always be
with me, on my mind,
and deep inside
my skin.
That’s real romantic. Ugh!
Can you call her house for me? She’s not answering her
cell.
Remind her to meet me
at the park
tonight, 7:30.
Sure.
Uh, like now, please.
Sure, soon as I finish reading the Report. We’re famous
again.
. . . .
Hollywood Report
Breaking News: After initial reports, it has now been
confirmed
that Rutherford, and his late wife, Sunny, Morrison’s son,
Blade,
is not their biological child.
He was adopted as a newborn.
According to sources, his birth mother, Linda December,
lives in Mississippi or Louisiana, and
gave him up to pursue a singing career.
How the Morrisons kept this family secret
out of the press for almost eighteen years
is nothing short of miraculous.
Blade Morrison, spotted at the home of his ex-girlfriend,
is now MIA.
It’s safe to say that we can all expect the unexpected
when it comes to the Morrisons.
I pack up what matters
A bottle of malaria pills
Passport
iPad with 4245 pictures of us,
most celebrating
her blue eyes,
Guitar and guitar pics
Graduation gift wallet
Copy of Charlotte’s Web (the one Mom read to me five
times)
Storm’s terrrrrible record
Clothes that smell like here
A pillow with a thousand tears
The teddy bear Rutherford gave me
The unopened letter from Mom
Sliver of faith.
And, then I go
to honor
Chapel.
Conversation
Where do you want it?
Right here, on my bicep.
To honor my girl
and her patience,
’cause I’m about to leave town
and I don’t know
how long I’ll be gone.
You look familiar.
I’m just a small-town boy.
Show me a picture of what you want done and let’s get
started.
I just want her name in a cool font. And maybe a flower.
How long will it take?
However long the muse takes. First tat, huh?
&
nbsp; Yeah.
Buckle up, kid, it may sting a bit.
A Bit?
The pain
is almost instant.
He begins his work
and it feels like
someone’s nails
scratching the heck
out of a bad sunburn.
And I’m just
begging that
the muse moves
a little faster.
It Feels Permanent
What if Chapel thinks
I’m crazy
for declaring
my undying love
this way?
What if she thinks I’m
a pathetic freak
and runs
in the other direction?
I remind myself
how much we’ve been through
and how we could move
canyons and seas
stars and planets
together.
But what if she thinks I’m crazy?
I decide to drive to Robert
to see what he thinks,
and to say goodbye.
Gone, Like He Was Never Really Here
Goodbye man,
is what
I want to say.
I love you, man
is another.
I hope
we see each other again
someday.
But none of these things
are given voice
because,
according to Jimmy,
Robert left Cali
on a tour
three days ago,
replanted himself
like a palm
in another
distant land.
Leaving Chapel
I pull into the park
and turn off the car
sit with my windows down
listening to the teasing sound
of couples laughing,
planning their futures.
It’s the loneliest, cruelest sound
in the world.
How do I tell Chapel
I’m leaving?
Maybe she will come.
Maybe she will break out
of her parents’ prison?
Text Conversation
8:33 pm
Storm, where’s Chapel?
Did you text her?
I’m gonna head over.
8:33 pm
Yes. Come home first.
I need to talk with you.
8:34 pm
Why?
What’s up?
8:35 pm
Blade, come home, please.
I imagine
she jumps into my arms.
We kiss.
Our lips
like two special edition
book covers
keeping our
secret story
safe inside
the history book of
greatest loves.
I tell her I’m leaving,
she insists
she’s going with me.
And that we’re never
coming back.
We’ll compose
some deep cuts—
flip the script—
our B-side
in a place
that’s just ours.
I see
the lights
still on
in Chapel’s bedroom window.
Why am I so nervous?
Her parents are at church. I know this because I called
the church.
So who is that laughing around back?
I slowly
make my way
around to the giggling
and see
her silhouette
in the dusk.
My girl
with—
Van DeWish
Tickling each other
in our hammock.
Locking lips.
This. Can’t.
Possibly. Be.
Happening.
They hear the fallen branch
snap under my feet
and look straight at me.
The cruel moon
decides to
make an appearance
right now,
right over the place
where we’ve made out.
Eight Legs and Fangs
Blade, what are you doing here?
Van falls out of the hammock, like I’ve done
a million times before.
There are no words.
There is no breathing.
I wonder if my heart
is even still beating.
Oh man, dude. Sorry, it’s just not your year.
We had a thing first. Remember?
I rush him.
Ready to finally knock
his block off
like I shoulda done
at the party.
Chill, man.
Chapel steps in front of me,
sees my new tattoo.
A tear falls
from her face.
Dang, dude, that’s a dope tattoo, Van says.
I could die right here. Am I still alive?
I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you in person, Blade, but not
this way. I know you’re upset.
He didn’t look upset when Cammie Wood had her tongue
down his throat.
I look her in those blue eyes.
The deep blue sea.
I’m drowning.
Blade, say something, please, she says.
So I do.
You’re the spider.
Crying
Ever heard
the sound
of goodbye?
The way a door closes.
The way a deer looks.
The way a busted bird sings.
The ending of the world.
The wailing of
a hollowed heart.
You’re Excused
Saturday, late night
Holding him tight
Sunday, upset
Instant regret
I’m not gonna cry no more
I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears
I don’t have to try no more
Might as well just write off all these years
And while I’m at it
Can’t forget it
I got one more question, Boo
Is it that easy . . . to get with you?
Princess weaving
Hero heaving
Wicked Chapel
Poisoned apple
I’m not gonna cry no more
I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears
I don’t have to try no more
Might as well just write off all these years
And while I’m at it
Can’t forget it
I got one more question, Boo
Is it that easy to get with you?
Monday, I said you looked fine and I lied
Your hair was frizzy
Tuesday, your breath smelled so bad that I cried
My eyes grew dizzy
Wednesday, I wondered if you were still mine
Man, I was crazy
Thursday, I bought you those jeans so Divine
And, girl, you played me
I’m not gonna cry no more
I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears
I don’t have to try no more
Might as well just write off all these years
And while I’m at it
Can’t forget it
I got one more thing to say
You’re the freakin’ spider.
© BLADE MORRISON
The heart
is a small
and lonesome place
she is a country
her eyes hold
the river
I used to swim
her skin,
the morning fruit
/>
I touched and tasted
the heart is a small
and lonesome place
she is a country
I no longer live in.
I decide
I will not let
her betrayal
or theirs
ruin one more day
of my screwed-up life.
If Rutherford and Sunny
hadn’t been musicians,
they would have never met,
or adopted me
into this circus.
There would have been
no encores.
If I hadn’t gotten drunk
on love songs,
I would have never fallen
for her.
I’d still be singing,
not bruised, tattooed, and tattered.
I take the cause
of all this pain,
lift it
over my head,
and SLAM.
SLAM it
to the ground
until it hurts.
Until it can’t hurt anymore.
I raise a hammer,
SMASH up
what’s left
rip out
all the strings,
DESTROY
all the love
that was
once played.
I am done
with music,
rock & roll,
and LA.
The End.
Shattered
You can’t destroy that guitar!
Watch me.
Blade, that’s that one Dad gave you. That’s a Van Halen
Frankenstrat. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I don’t care what it is, or who made it. It’s an anchor
weighing down my life. It’s a curse.
She looks at the rage in my eyes and then she sees . . . my
arm.
Oh no. What did you do?
Did you know? TELL ME!
. . . .
Why didn’t you tell me?
I tried to get you to come home so I could—
I’m outta here. This place is rotten, and I can’t be in this
stench one more second.
You’re not right. You shouldn’t go.
If I stay here, I’ll never be right.
Don’t do this, Blade!
I’ll see you, sis.
Can I take you to the airport?
No.
Wrong answer. Plus, I got your keys.
Storm and I stare
at the mangled masterpiece
scattered across
my room.
I can’t believe
I destroyed
an Eddie Van Halen Frankenstrat.
Who does that?
I feel like Frankenstein
has taken my monster
of a life,
Solo Page 8
