Howard Ashman was an amazing lyricist and an amazing artist.

Host: The theater was dark now, except for a single spotlight resting on an old piano center stage. Dust drifted through the beam like slow-moving snow, and the silence carried a reverence that only rooms filled with memories can hold. The seats stretched out empty and waiting, like the echoes of a thousand stories still lingering in the velvet.

Host: Jack stood by the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys without touching them. He wasn’t a musician — not really — but tonight, he needed the sound of something that could still feel alive. Jeeny sat a few feet away, legs crossed on the stage floor, her head tilted, eyes soft with that deep kind of thought that belongs to dreamers and mourners alike.

Host: They had stayed behind after the tribute show — a celebration of Howard Ashman, the lyricist who had given magic to words, melody to emotion, and heart to animation. And somewhere between applause and silence, Alan Menken’s voice had played through the speakers, gentle and steady:

“Howard Ashman was an amazing lyricist and an amazing artist.” — Alan Menken

Host: The words had landed like music without sound — simple, tender, true.

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? How one person’s words can make millions of people believe in love, in magic — in possibility.”

Jack: quietly “Or in hope. Even when they were dying inside.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yeah.” pauses “Ashman was already sick when he wrote ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ right?”

Jack: “Yeah. He was writing songs about love and transformation while his own body was turning against him.”

Jeeny: “That’s… unfathomable courage.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Or maybe it’s the only way he knew how to fight — to turn pain into melody.”

Host: The theater lights flickered, dimming to a low amber glow. The silence between them deepened, like a breath held too long.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder what makes an artist ‘amazing’?”

Jack: “Talent. Vision. Maybe obsession.”

Jeeny: shaking her head gently “No. I think it’s empathy. The way they can feel for the whole world at once — even while they’re falling apart.”

Jack: considering this “You think that’s what Howard did?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. He wrote about misfits and monsters, dreamers and outcasts — people trying to belong. Because that’s what he was doing too.”

Jack: “Writing himself into every line.”

Jeeny: “And hiding himself there, too.”

Host: Jack’s hand brushed a key accidentally — a faint, hollow note echoed through the room. It lingered longer than it should have, trembling with something fragile.

Jack: “You know, when Alan called him an amazing lyricist and artist, he didn’t say it like praise. He said it like confession. Like he was admitting something sacred.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Because it was sacred. Collaboration always is — when it’s real. Two people finding the same heartbeat and building something eternal out of it.”

Jack: “You’ve had that before?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Once. We built something beautiful. And then life tore it apart anyway.”

Jack: quietly “Sounds familiar.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s the risk of creation, isn’t it? You pour your soul into something, knowing it won’t save you — but hoping it’ll save someone else.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s what makes it worth it.”

Host: The rain began outside, faint but steady, tapping against the tall windows like applause from another world. The piano keys glistened under the light — old, worn, but ready to sing if someone just believed again.

Jeeny: “Howard made people sing about longing and love in ways that didn’t sound corny — they sounded true. He made feeling vulnerable look brave.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest kind of art — the kind that makes honesty sound effortless.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You listen to ‘Part of Your World,’ and it’s not just a mermaid singing. It’s everyone who’s ever wanted to be seen.”

Jack: half-smiling “And ‘Be Our Guest’ — that was joy turned into architecture. Celebration as survival.”

Jeeny: “You ever wonder how much joy it takes to mask pain?”

Jack: quietly “Every ounce.”

Host: Jack sat down at the piano bench, pressing one key, then another, letting the sound spill out in uneven rhythm — not music, but memory. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jack: “You know what I love about lyricists? They make us think the words belong to us. Like they’re not written, but remembered.”

Jeeny: “That’s the genius, isn’t it? They write truths so universal you forget they were personal.”

Jack: “Howard’s songs weren’t just about fantasy. They were about survival. About finding beauty even when you’re breaking.”

Jeeny: softly “So maybe Alan was right twice.”

Jack: “How do you mean?”

Jeeny: “He said Howard was an amazing lyricist and an amazing artist. Two sides of the same miracle. He didn’t just write songs — he lived them.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming now — steady, alive. Jack’s fingers traced the rim of the piano key, and for a moment, he seemed to be somewhere else entirely.

Jack: quietly “You ever think about legacy, Jeeny? About what people will say when we’re gone?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I think if they remember your art, they’re remembering your soul. That’s enough.”

Jack: “And if they forget?”

Jeeny: “Then you still lived truthfully. And maybe that’s the point.”

Jack: glancing up at the empty seats “Funny. We spend our lives performing for people we’ll never meet.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s why we do it. Because every audience is a reminder that someone out there is listening.”

Host: Her voice fell quiet, like a candle dimming in a long hallway. The theater itself seemed to breathe with them.

Jeeny: “Do you know how Howard died?”

Jack: “AIDS-related complications. He was only forty.”

Jeeny: “Forty.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine? Leaving that much beauty behind before even half a life?”

Jack: gently “Maybe he lived a full life in half the time. Some souls burn faster because they refuse to dim.”

Jeeny: “And Alan carried him — in every song, every melody after. That’s what love looks like, Jack. Not romance — remembrance.”

Jack: after a long pause “You think people like that ever really die?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “No. Their art becomes oxygen. We keep breathing them in.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed further, leaving only the faint halo around the piano. Jack played a soft note — hesitant, searching — and the sound filled the empty theater like a whispered goodbye.

Jeeny: whispering “You can almost feel him here, can’t you? The way great artists never really leave the room.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. I think Alan knew that. When he said those words… it wasn’t grief. It was gratitude.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the only way to honor someone like Howard Ashman — to keep singing their truth until it becomes part of yours.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world outside was hushed again. Inside the theater, the silence felt holy — not empty, but full. The kind of silence that holds applause long after the curtain has fallen.

Host: Jack looked at Jeeny, then up toward the rafters, where dust and memory shared the same slow dance.

Jack: softly “You think he can hear us?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “He never stopped listening.”

Host: The camera pulled back, rising slowly over the stage — two small figures surrounded by ghosts of melody and light.

Host: And somewhere, between the stillness and the echoes, the truth of Alan Menken’s words shimmered through the dark:

that some people write songs for the world,
and others write songs that become the world —
and those, like Howard Ashman,
never truly fade.

Host: The final note lingered, trembling like a heartbeat. Then the lights went out.