Jack and the Author
Once upon a time, an author sat down to write a story.
This story would be about a great hero and his exciting adventures to defeat a dragon, rescue a princess, and restore his kingdom, delivering his people from all of the enemies that threatened them – both within the country and from outside its borders. And in this story, there was a fellow named Jack.
Just Jack. He didn’t have a last name. The author hadn’t gotten that far yet. But that didn’t mean that Jack wasn’t important. He was. The author knew that Jack would have to be there on the last page of the book in order to make the story's end come out the right way.
But there was a problem. You see, Jack wanted nothing to do with stories. He’d heard enough of them. He lived in a town where would-be adventurers were always coming and going. He had his fill of hearing them boast about giants that they had defeated. Or were they windmills? Or of the damsels that they had rescued. Or were they pigs? It didn’t matter to Jack anymore. He was a streetsweeper. He had his gutter, his broom, and that was enough. He had to look out for himself. After all, no one else would.
At this, the author leaned away from the page, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed.
Jack’s attitude didn’t get any better with age. If anything, it got worse. When the hero finally came to town, dressed in rags and riding on a worn-out-looking mule, Jack took no notice – except to grumble as he swept away the mule’s droppings. Who cared about another would-be adventurer? Not Jack.
The author shook his head, disappointed. Jack needed to wake up. He’d have to see what was happening here if he were ever to make it to the last page.
The next day, the author pulled a few strings to try to get Jack’s attention. A piece of paper reading, “Wake Up, Jack” blew up onto a window as he was passing. But Jack stuffed it in his trash bag without a second glance. A carriage splashed mud against a wall in the shape of an upward-pointing arrow. But Jack just dodged to the side, complaining about the rainy weather. That night, as Jack slouched home to his dingy cottage, the sunset shot its rays of brilliance up into the skies above, lighting them up in sudden glory. Jack didn’t even notice. He went inside and ate his dinner in silence. Afterwards, when his children asked him to tell them a story about what had happened to him that day, he went to bed.
He had no time for stories.
The author frowned. It was time to act. You see, Jack had a part to play, whether he knew it or not.
The next day, as he was working, a stranger bumped into Jack, who muttered and tried to move out of the way. But the stranger didn’t let him. Instead, he took Jack by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and asked him if he had any idea who he was. When Jack answered that he’d never met him before, the stranger shook his head and asked his question again.
“No, Jack. You misunderstand me. Do you have any idea who YOU are?”
Again, Jack made no answer. So, the stranger told him.
Jack went home early that day. When his wife asked him if he were sick, he didn’t answer. He just kept touching his head as if he wasn’t sure that it was real. He slept badly, finally getting up just before dawn. Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, he left a note for his wife and crept out of his house.
He climbed the road that led past his house to the top of a nearby hill and looked toward the east.
Just then, the first rays of the sun broke over the top of the distant hills. They blinded him, and he turned his head. He thought he heard a faint squeak of metal on metal. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of metal out of the corner of his eye. But no, there was nothing. As he turned to look down the road that he had traveled, the rays of the sun lit up a half-remembered face. It was the ragged adventurer who had arrived on that messy mule the other day. Jack looked at him.
Now he knew who this was. He nodded and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
The hero grinned, pointed toward the distant horizon, and led the way forward.
Did he ever! Through thick and thin, they went, as Jack followed the hero. Why, the adventures they had together would fill a dozen books! Time and again, Jack would find himself faced with one desperate situation after another. More than once, he would ask himself how he’d gotten into all of this?!
What had ever made him leave his broom and street gutters to chase after this hero?
And time and time again, each time that he asked himself this, he would hear the far-off squeak of metal on metal, or a glint of light would reflect off of an invisible plate of metal, or he would catch half-a-glimpse of himself in a mirror, and each time, he would remember.
He would remember who he was. He would remember what he was supposed to do.
And so, each time that he doubted, he wouldn’t run. Instead, he would pick up his weapon – whatever it might be at the moment – and charge in after his friend! No matter what dangers the hero faced, Jack was always right there beside him!
After a long, long time, the hero succeeded in his final quest. He slew the great dragon, rescued his bride, and saved his kingdom from all of its enemies. The whole land rejoiced! Jack rejoiced, too, surrounded by his family, with whom the hero had reunited him. At the celebration of the hero’s coronation, Jack came forward to offer his fealty once again.
He approached the throne. To his surprise, there was someone else on the dais along with the hero and his bride. It was the stranger who had bumped into Jack and changed his life ever so long ago.
As Jack knelt to pay homage, it was the stranger – the author – who came down, took his hand, and raised him to his feet. As he rose, Jack looked down at himself and saw clearly for the first time that he was glad from head to toe in armor of gleaming steel, thick and strong.
The author saw his look of wonder and smiled. Then he leaned forward, rapped on the breastplate – which rang like the coronation bells – and said, grinning all the while, “Plot armor. It’s pretty good stuff, even if I do say so myself. You see, because you knew that you were to be here, Jack, you did what you had to do again and again. Now, you are a part of this great story. Go on. Join the party.” And Jack did.
Surrounded by his family and by the friends that he’d made in service of the hero, he stepped forward into the never-ending celebration of the hero’s triumph. And, as far as I know, he’s still celebrating!
Michael Somerville is the author of several short stories, as well as an in-progress high-fantasy series called the Tales of the Broken Realm. He loves telling stories of hope about ordinary characters doing their small part to help heal a broken world. By day, he pays the bills as a hands-on storyteller and project manager, leading and envisioning professional teams in the "real-world", even as he is busily building and illustrating imaginary worlds in his evenings and on the weekends.
Outside of work and writing, he enjoys a wide range of hobbies, including playing music with his family and friends on keyboard or guitar, drawing, sculpting, painting, sewing, and blacksmithing, or walking the length of the Appalachian Trail in his home neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley, where he serves as a Board member on his local civic association.
Most important to Michael are his family and his church. Michael and Jessica celebrate their 20th anniversary in 2026 and are happily raising three wonderful daughters. He serves actively in his local church, playing music on Sunday, teaching the older elementary kids, and leading a small group of wonderful saints. He hopes to hear "Well done" one day, and plans to keep serving his true King until then.
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