One person I've always wanted to work with who would be an

Host: The theatre was almost empty, its seats bathed in a faint amber glow from the stage lights. Dust floated in the air, slow and graceful, like old memories refusing to settle. Outside, the city hummed with a distant rain, its drops tapping against the windows like forgotten applause. Jack sat on the edge of the stage, a coffee cup in his hand, eyes fixed on the curtain that hung like a sleeping giant. Jeeny stood in the aisle, her hair slightly damp, her face glowing with a quiet excitement.

Host: The quote had started it — something simple, almost casual: “One person I've always wanted to work with who would be an amazing guest star would be James Earl Jones.” But in this quiet, among the shadows of an old theatre, the words echoed with weight. They weren’t just about admiration; they were about legacy, about the voice that could fill a room and haunt a generation.

Jeeny: “You know,” she began, her voice soft but bright, “I think Nancy McKeon meant more than just wanting to share a screen. It’s about longing for that moment when your art meets its mirror — when you stand beside someone who’s already shaped the world with their voice.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or it’s just about wanting to be seen, Jeeny. Working with James Earl Jones means you get a spotlight too. Fame by association — that’s how this industry works.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, carrying a trace of cynicism like smoke from an old fire. He sipped his coffee, the sound of the rain filling the pause between them.

Jeeny: “You really think it’s that shallow? That admiration is just disguised ambition?”

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Everyone wants to work with legends — not because of what they can learn, but because legends validate them. You work with greatness, and some of it rubs off on you. It’s like touching a star and hoping your hand starts to glow.”

Host: Jeeny walked closer to the stage, her shoes clicking softly on the wood. The sound filled the empty space like a question.

Jeeny: “But what’s wrong with wanting to touch a star, Jack? Don’t you see? People like James Earl Jones — they don’t just act. They embody something. His voice alone — it’s like the sound of truth, the kind that moves through you and reminds you that words still matter. To work with that kind of person is to stand closer to the essence of what art really is.”

Jack: “Art doesn’t have essence anymore, Jeeny. It has metrics. Views. Algorithms. The world doesn’t care how deep your voice is — just how many people click.”

Host: The rain grew louder, as if to mock his words. The amber light on the stage flickered, throwing shadows across Jack’s face — half light, half doubt.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten why stories matter. Remember when Martin Luther King said, ‘I have a dream’? It wasn’t just the words — it was the voice. The power of sound carrying the weight of human hope. James Earl Jones carries that same power — that deep resonance that doesn’t fade. Don’t tell me that kind of presence doesn’t mean something.”

Jack: “Presence doesn’t feed you, Jeeny. It doesn’t keep the bills paid or the producers happy. You talk about dreams, but this world — it rewards visibility, not virtue. I’d rather work with someone who gets things done than someone who just sounds profound.”

Host: Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in hurt. The kind that comes when you realize someone you care about has stopped believing.

Jeeny: “So you’d trade soul for success?”

Jack: “I’d call it survival.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost tangible — thick, breathing, alive. The rain slowed, becoming a soft whisper against the roof. Somewhere in the dark, an old bulb buzzed, like a faint heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… James Earl Jones once said that voice is not just sound — it’s identity. He lost his voice as a child because of a stutter, remember? For years he couldn’t speak. But when he found it again, it wasn’t just his speech — it was his freedom. That’s what art does. It gives people back to themselves. That’s why people want to work with him — not for fame, but for the reminder that even broken voices can still change the world.”

Jack: (looking up, softer now) “You really think one voice can do that? Change the world?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Think of Mandela. Think of Maya Angelou. Think of the way their words echo even now. Every great voice is an act of defiance against silence.”

Host: The light shifted, spilling over Jeeny’s face like the glow of a rising dawn. Her eyes shone, not with triumph, but with truth. Jack watched, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his mind wrestling with the quiet fire in her words.

Jack: “Maybe. But don’t you think that’s just nostalgia? The world doesn’t listen like it used to. People scroll past wisdom in three seconds. The era of great voices — it’s over.”

Jeeny: “Only if we let it be. Maybe people scroll because we stopped speaking with that kind of depth. Maybe what we call ‘the end of attention’ is really the end of sincerity.”

Host: Her words hung there, heavy and beautiful, like the last note of a song that refuses to fade. Jack set his coffee down, the sound echoing faintly across the wooden stage.

Jack: “So you think working with someone like James Earl Jones would fix that? Revive the world’s soul?”

Jeeny: “No. But it might remind us that the soul still exists.”

Host: For a moment, Jack said nothing. The curtain behind him shifted, moved slightly in the draft, like a great breath. His eyes drifted toward the rows of empty seats, their shadows deep and patient.

Jack: “You talk like you believe every performance is a prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what acting, or art, or speaking truly is — a kind of devotion. You offer a part of yourself to the silence, and hope it answers.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even preachers need an audience.”

Host: Her laugh was soft, but it broke the tension like sunlight through a storm. Jack looked at her — really looked — for the first time in the evening. There was a kind of faith in her eyes that logic could never quite defeat.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe the real power of someone like James Earl Jones isn’t just the fame. It’s the reminder that the human voice — when it’s honest — still cuts through the noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about imitation. It’s about connection.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. A single beam of light from a streetlamp outside fell through the window, landing on the stage between them. It glowed like a small spotlight, a silent invitation.

Jack: “Then maybe… we should start speaking like that again. Not louder. Just truer.”

Jeeny: “That’s all art has ever asked for.”

Host: They both stood there, side by side on the old stage, the city quieting beyond the walls. The light lingered on their faces, and for a fleeting second, it seemed as though the ghosts of every performance ever given — every line, every note, every breath — had come to listen.

Host: The curtain moved again, a gentle sigh from the unseen. And in that still air, their voices, though small, carried — soft, human, and unafraid — into the waiting darkness.