It's been amazing to watch, because for 'Thor', which was always

Host: The comic shop was quiet now, long after closing. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering faintly against rows of shelves stacked with glossy covers — heroes frozen mid-flight, villains in motion, worlds colliding in bursts of ink and color. The faint smell of paper, plastic sleeves, and dust hung in the still air, nostalgic and eternal.

Jack stood near the counter, running his fingers across the cover of a Thor issue — the hammer raised high against a storm of lightning. His grey eyes reflected the artwork: fierce, radiant, mythic. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor beside a cardboard box labeled Back Issues 2007, flipping slowly through each comic with the care of someone reading history in pictures.

Jeeny: “J. Michael Straczynski once said, ‘It’s been amazing to watch, because for “Thor”, which was always a mid-selling book, to be in the top ten for every single issue since the reboot is just a great compliment.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “You can almost hear the humility in that. A creator standing back and watching his creation finally soar. It’s not pride — it’s awe.”

Host: The rain outside pattered gently against the storefront window. Neon light from a distant diner sign bounced off the glass, painting soft red and blue streaks across the floor. The store felt like a church built for dreamers, where imagination was both currency and prayer.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about artists like him — they see success not as entitlement but as gratitude. It’s amazing to him, not because it’s money or fame, but because people believed in what he built. That’s what every creator really wants — resonance.”

Jack: “You know, Thor was never supposed to work the way Spider-Man or Iron Man did. Too mythic, too distant, too heavy. It took someone like Straczynski to make the god feel human again.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. He found the bridge between Asgard and Earth. Between divine power and human pain. That’s the true art of storytelling — making the impossible feel intimate.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window; one of the hanging posters fluttered — an image of Mjolnir surrounded by lightning. Jack watched it move and laughed softly under his breath.

Jack: “Funny how even gods need a good reboot.”

Jeeny: “Don’t we all?”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: The silence that followed was warm — two minds circling the same thought: how creation never ends, it just evolves. The comics on the wall stood as testament — new covers born from old ideas, each generation reimagining the same myth with different eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, Straczynski didn’t just rewrite Thor. He resurrected him. The series had been dead — literally canceled — and he gave it breath again. But what’s more amazing is that people cared. They showed up. They believed in the god of thunder again.”

Jack: “Yeah, because he wasn’t writing about gods. He was writing about redemption. About how even after destruction, you can rebuild. It’s myth as metaphor for the modern condition.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it climbed the charts. Not because it was flashy — but because it was true.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back against the shelf, one of the comics still open in her lap. Her eyes glowed softly in the reflected light. Jack joined her on the floor, folding his long frame carefully beside her, his tone thoughtful now.

Jack: “It’s easy to dismiss comics as escapism. But they’ve always been the mirror, haven’t they? We tell stories of gods and heroes because we need them to tell us we’re still worth saving.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Every reboot, every retelling — it’s not about repetition. It’s about hope. Each generation gets the hero it needs, not the one it remembers.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, each drop against the glass like the soft pulse of memory. The flicker of neon shifted, glowing deeper red, making the room feel almost sacred.

Jeeny: “That’s why he calls it a compliment. To see something you made — something you believed in when no one else did — connect with millions. It’s proof that creativity isn’t wasted breath. That someone, somewhere, heard you.”

Jack: quietly “You ever feel that? That need — not to be praised, but to be heard?”

Jeeny: “Every day. That’s why I write. It’s not about fame. It’s about the echo. That moment when someone reads or listens and says, ‘I felt that too.’ That’s the real reward.”

Jack: “Then Straczynski’s words aren’t about Thor at all. They’re about that echo. About knowing your work mattered.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because art — even pop culture — is really just communion. Between the creator and the believer. Between the story and the soul.”

Host: The sound of a comic falling broke the quiet. Jack bent to pick it up — an older issue, faded and creased, depicting Thor standing beneath storm clouds, hammer raised, lightning splitting the heavens. He turned it over in his hands, reverent.

Jack: “You know, maybe what’s amazing isn’t that it sold well. Maybe it’s that it endured. That something written decades ago still inspires new life. That’s immortality — not in flesh, but in imagination.”

Jeeny: “And immortality,” she said softly, “is what all myths promise us. That we might not live forever — but our stories can.”

Host: The lights flickered again, the shop momentarily bathed in shadow. Outside, thunder rolled — distant, deep, like the echo of a god’s laughter.

Jeeny: whispering with a smile “Seems even Thor approves.”

Jack: grinning back “Or maybe he’s just celebrating his ranking.”

Host: Their laughter filled the small shop — quiet, human, true. It mingled with the sound of rain, with the hum of electricity, with the pulse of myth reborn in every age.

Jack: “You know, I used to think success was about numbers — charts, rankings, applause. But Straczynski reminds me — it’s really about connection. About creating something that pulls people together, even for a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “That’s the miracle of art — whether it’s a comic or a song or a story. It’s lightning captured in ink.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the rain-streaked window, over the quiet streets, showing the small comic shop glowing like a lantern against the storm.

And inside, two figures sat surrounded by the symbols of modern mythology — thunder, light, hope — their conversation as alive as the heroes on the walls.

And as the scene faded, J. Michael Straczynski’s words remained like thunder’s aftersound:

that what’s truly amazing
isn’t fame,
but the moment when art — humble, human, handmade —
transcends its pages,
and gods, once imagined,
begin to live again
in the hearts of those who read.