The one phrase you can use is that success has a thousand

Host: The wind carried the faint scent of smoke and old asphalt, swirling down the alleyways of the city like a tired ghost. The night was cool, the kind of cool that feels earned — the kind that arrives after long, heavy heat and longer disappointments.

Jack sat alone on a park bench, beneath a broken streetlight that flickered like a nervous thought. Beside him, a crumpled newspaper drifted, its headline whispering something about success — a merger, a record, a victory. He smirked.

Jeeny approached quietly, her footsteps soft against the cracked pavement, carrying two paper cups of coffee. She handed one to him and sat down. The light from the street buzzed once more, stuttering like the start of a confession.

Jeeny: (softly) “Alan Price once said, ‘The one phrase you can use is that success has a thousand fathers, and failure is an orphan.’”
She sipped her coffee and smiled faintly. “Funny thing about truth — it’s never out of fashion.”

Jack: (dryly) “Yeah. Everyone loves the party after the victory. No one shows up for the funeral of effort.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, almost sardonic, but beneath it lingered a kind of fatigue that only failure could carve.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve had a few orphans of your own.”

Jack: “A few? I’ve raised a whole orphanage.”

Jeeny: “Then you know how lonely failure can be.”

Jack: “Lonely? It’s quieter than a graveyard. Success brings noise — cameras, praise, pats on the back. Failure brings silence… and sometimes that’s worse.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t always punishment. Sometimes it’s a mirror.”

Jack: “A mirror that shows you what everyone else ran from.”

Host: The streetlight buzzed again, the moths circling it like tiny desperate souls seeking warmth from something that could never love them back.

Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Failure has more truth in it than success ever will. Success flatters you. Failure strips you.”

Jack: “Stripping’s fine when it’s metaphorical. In real life, it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s also honest. When everything’s gone, what’s left is real. That’s the only part you can trust.”

Jack: “That sounds like something people say after losing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe that’s because losing forces you to grow up. Success keeps you addicted to applause. Failure teaches you to build in silence.”

Jack: “You ever built something in silence, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Belief.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights sliding over their faces like a fleeting judgment before disappearing into the dark. The wind rustled the leaves, whispering like old advice no one wanted to hear.

Jack: “You know, Price’s line… it’s cruelly accurate. Success gets adopted the moment it’s born. Everyone wants their name on the certificate. But failure? Nobody even claims to know its mother.”

Jeeny: “That’s because success is public; failure is personal. You can share triumph. You have to survive failure alone.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I trust failure more. It never lies about who’s really standing with you.”

Jeeny: “And who is?”

Jack: (pausing) “Usually, just yourself. Sometimes that’s enough. Most times, it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “You ever think that maybe failure isn’t the opposite of success — it’s the price of it?”

Jack: “Yeah, but it’s a price few are willing to pay upfront. They only admire success once someone else has already covered the debt.”

Host: The rain began — soft at first, like a sigh across the city. It caught the edges of the streetlight, turning into tiny silver threads that shimmered briefly before vanishing.

Jeeny lifted her face to it, unbothered. Jack pulled up his collar.

Jeeny: “I read once that Thomas Edison said he didn’t fail ten thousand times — he just found ten thousand ways that didn’t work. But we only remember the one bulb that did.”

Jack: “Yeah. History edits out the drafts. Nobody wants to read the version where the hero gives up halfway.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they should. Maybe we’d have kinder expectations of ourselves if we saw the struggle instead of just the shine.”

Jack: “You think the world could handle that kind of honesty?”

Jeeny: “I think the world’s starving for it.”

Host: A bus rumbled by, splashing through puddles, sending tiny ripples over the reflection of the streetlight. Jeeny watched them dissolve, her eyes soft, contemplative.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? Failure feels final, but it’s really just private. Success, on the other hand, is always a performance.”

Jack: “Yeah. Success wears makeup; failure shows up bare-faced.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And yet, we still prefer the mask.”

Jack: “Because the mask gets applause.”

Jeeny: “And the truth gets solitude.”

Jack: “You ever think people need both?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Applause for the dreamer, solitude for the worker.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the metal bench, soaking the edges of the newspaper beside them. The headline blurred until the only visible word was “SUCCESS.”

Jack stared at it, then nudged it with his shoe, watching the ink run.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only start calling something a ‘team effort’ after it wins? No one says ‘we’ when it fails.”

Jeeny: “That’s human nature. No one wants to be related to the orphan.”

Jack: “So success is a family reunion, and failure’s a funeral.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But funerals make you listen. Reunions make you talk.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’re good at this.”

Jeeny: “At what?”

Jack: “Turning cynicism into poetry.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving behind the faint shimmer of reflections — puddles catching pieces of light, like the city had started to weep and then remembered its pride.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Alan Price was warning us, not mocking us. He saw that people only show up for the glory. But if you can stand by your own failure — really face it — that’s when you earn the right to success.”

Jack: “So failure’s a filter?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It separates those who seek fame from those who seek growth.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Growth’s lonely work.”

Jeeny: “But it’s honest work.”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly in the distance — long, sorrowful, but strangely comforting. The night had thinned; dawn hovered somewhere beyond the horizon.

Jack finished his coffee, then looked at Jeeny — rain-soaked, thoughtful, radiant in her conviction.

Jack: “You ever think failure might just be life’s way of asking if you really mean it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And most people answer by quitting.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “But a few stay.”

Jeeny: “And those few change everything.”

Host: The streetlight flickered one last time, steadying into a calm, unwavering glow. The rain stopped. The city exhaled.

Jack and Jeeny sat quietly — two silhouettes framed against a world still wet from trying. The newspaper at their feet was unreadable now, its headline melted into grey.

But in that silence, in that flicker of shared understanding, failure no longer looked like an orphan.

It looked like a teacher.

A patient, unglamorous, necessary teacher — the one no one thanked until much later.

And as the first light of dawn brushed across their faces, Jack whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Funny thing about failure — it’s never really alone. It just waits for someone brave enough to claim it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then maybe that’s what success truly is — learning to love your orphans.”

Host: The camera panned out, rising above the sleeping city, the streets glistening like veins of possibility. The bench remained, two empty coffee cups side by side.

And beneath the hum of dawn and the whisper of wind, Alan Price’s truth lingered — soft, steady, undeniable:

Success may have a thousand fathers.

But failure —
failure has the few who are brave enough to call it home.