The Heart Swindlers: How Simon Leviev and Anna Delvey Romantic Comedy Film Could Work

 

Beginning around the early 90’s, the romantic comedy film genre (otherwise known as “rom-coms”) were all the rave. Feel good, lighthearted movies, they were guilty pleasures of many women, and, if we’re being honest, quite a few men. But somewhere around the mid to late 2000’s, the genre plummeted faster than a hang glider carrying a body positivity activist.  It’s too bad because there were quite a few solid rom-coms flicks.

 There were some classics, such as, When Harry Met Sally and Pretty Woman to My Best Friend’s Wedding and You’ve Got Mail. Though I suspect a number of people would characterize these as being “chick flicks,” I have to admit that I do enjoy the previously mentioned films. Hell, I’ll even admit that I still get a few chuckles whenever I watch How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Even the Adam Sandler varieties are quite enjoyable, as The Wedding Singer and 50 First Dates are both humorous and tug at the heart strings.

Yet, eventually the genre became oversaturated with cinematic garbage. Despite having a big name cast, Failure To Launch…well…failed to launch, crashing harder at the box office than  the Hindenburg. Runaway Bride attempted to recapture the magic of Pretty Woman by essentially taking the main cast from the latter to recycle into the former. However, it’s so bad that I would guess that the gerbil Richard Gere shoved in his ass would rather remain in that anal crevice than be forced to watch that film. American audiences paid almost less attention to From Justin to Kelly than Disney and the NBA do to CPP's Uyghur genocide. And who can forget All About Steve, a movie more cringeworthy than a postmodern feminist’s TikTok page.

Nevertheless, romantic comedies have made a resurgence in recent years, as a new generation of actors have taken up the mantle. Thus, now is as good a time as any to pitch a new entry to the genre—something that is bound to entice audiences. My idea is to make a romantic comedy centered around the unique personas of Simon Liviev and Anna Delvey, two like minds recently catapulted into prominence by the Netflix programs The Tinder Swindler and Creating Anna, respectively.

 Simon Liviev, real name Shimon Yehuda Hayut, is an Israeli national and con artist who found women on Tinder, then preceded to scam the ever-living hell out of them.  He did this by introducing them to a life of luxury—flying them in private jets, taking them to lavish dinners, staying with them in fancy resorts, etc. However, it was all a façade, as Simon would pay for his extravagant lifestyle through what was essentially a Ponzi scheme. He would lure these women in, date them for a while, then start begging for cash to pay for other dates. Simon did this by claiming he was in some kind of fix, such as his life being in danger, and claiming he needed cash immediately.

Anna Delvey, real name Anna Sorokin, had a similar upbringing to her counterpart. Like him, she came from modest means, her parents emigrating from Russia to Germany immediately following the Soviet Union’s collapse. Yet, Anna possessed a remarkable ability to portray herself as something she wasn’t. Arriving in America, Anna quickly ingratiated herself within the New York City high society scene by claiming to be the heiress of a vast German family’s fortune. Her guise was so believable that Anna was not only able to rub shoulders with the city’s elite, but con them out of large sums of money. Similar to Simon, she funded her luxurious appetite by convincing her friends to “temporary” spot her cash.

So, the question is—how would a romantic comedy depicting these two charlatans work? Well, I have one idea for a film that if made, would explode at the box office more violently than Jeffery Toobin on a work call.

The Plot

The way I would set up this movie up is something akin to How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. In that film, Matthew McConaughey is secretly trying to prove he can make any women fall in love with him in under two weeks in order to win an advertising pitch. The woman who is chosen is Kate Hudson, who is conversely writing an article on how to drive a man away in ten days or less, with McConaughey being her mark. Hence, both characters have secret agendas unbeknownst to one another until the movie’s climax. This blueprint works well here as you have two people attempting to con one another as a means to fund their respective lavish lifestyles, yet unaware of their partner’s true motives.  

The other essential aspect of any rom-com is the character’s friends. Usually the female protagonist has one or two close friends, each with distinct personality quirks. If there are two friends, one is usually the hopeless romantic while the other is the designated slut. There also sometimes exists the unfiltered gay friend, who makes very poignant and often rude comments, yet whose brutal observations are many times correct.  

         On the other hand, the male character’s friends are usually a bit blander, as they usually serve merely as outlets for the protagonist to express his feelings, too. For the record, this is an issue I have with the rom-com franchise. No man I know of ever talks about their feelings or romantic relationships while playing basketball or poker. They may occasionally swap sex stories, but they won’t go deep into their long-term relationships, at least in those settings. But I digress.

         So, for the fun of it, I’ll just make it that Simon’s best friend is his bodyguard. For those of you who watched Tinder Swindler, he was that big, brooding, behemoth who Simon always claimed was attacked before conning his marks out of cash. Because it’s a rom-com, I’ll make him an ironic character—the large muscular man with a deep voice and Eastern European accent who is actually a clear-eyed romantic. I can’t think of any particular role for Avi, his business partner. He can just be like one McConaughey’s friends from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days-- just make the occasional comment and shocked expression every time some slightly significant event occurs.

         The movie would start out the same way all romantic comedies do—introducing the main characters. Begin with a segment of Simon out on a first date with some chick he just met on Tinder. It’s a luxurious restaurant with incredible food and magnificent décor. Throughout the date however, Simon consistently has to leave the table to take “business calls”. In reality, he is texting with another girl, a previous date he is trying to scam money out of in order to pay for this meal. The bill eventually arrives, and Simon is terrified he won’t be able to pay, thus unraveling this new scheme before it can get off the ground. But at the last second, he receives a notification that $50,000 has been wired to his account. Phew, that was a close call!

         We then meet Anna, who is on her way to some major New York financial institution. She has a meeting with several executives in order to try to acquire a line of credit. This scene would be important in demonstrating Anna’s intelligence and charisma, as she’s able to obtain a line of credit amounting to $2,000,000. She then joins her friends for a nice lunch at an exclusive country club outside the city, where she somehow convinces several boomer men who just finished a round of golf to pay for their meal.

         The next day, Simon decides to take a last minute trip to NYC with his friends. While traveling in Simon’s private jet, his bodyguard says to him,

         “Boss, have you ever thought that maybe it’s time to settle down?”

         “What do you mean settle down?” Simon replies.

         “You know, find a girl you actually like and start a family with her. Live happily ever after.”

         “Why would I ever do that? I’m in the prime of my life. I got the perfect thing going: girls, money, expensive vacations. I’m living the life.”

         His bodyguard sighs.

         “I don’t know, I just feel there is more to life than all this. I mean, what’s the point of money, cars, and fancy dinners if you can’t share it with someone special; someone you really care about, you know?”

         “To each his own,” Simon retorts, as he leans back, putting in his headphones and closing his eyes.

         Now we get to the next essential rom-com juncture and that is the meeting. Simon arrives in New York, and upon checking into his high roller suite at whatever obscenely lavish hotel he’s chosen, Simon scrolls through Tinder and eventually lands on Anna’s page. His eyes light up when he reads her profile, discovering she is from an affluent German family. At that same time, Anna is also perusing Tinder, hoping to find a rich man she can woo into investing in her. She gets excited when she finds Simon, whose pictures portray the uber-wealthy man she’s been searching for. The two immediately swipe right on each other and get to talking.

         The two then go on their first date. Though this should have been like any other date for Simon, he soon finds himself impressed by Anna. He’s never met a girl so confident, direct and charismatic. Likewise, Anna is intrigued by Simon’s mysteriousness. Simon then offers to take Anna on a trip to the Bahamas. They immediately go to his private jet, where they take off take off and stay at some swanky hotel for a few days.

         Anna arrives back home and meets up with her friends, recounting her experience.

         “Oh, my God!” exclaims her hopeless romantic friend, “That’s so sweet! Why can’t I find a man like that? Just for once I would like to fall for a guy who treats me like I’m his one and everything.”

         “Girl, you got to lock that shit down,” counsels her token gay friend. “Men like that have short attention spans and quickly like to move on. My advice— get yourself pregnant, so then he has to stick with you. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

         “Who cares about all that?!”

Her slutty friend chimes in, “What’s important is did you get any? How big was his penis? Is he one of those rich guys who compensates for small genitals with fancy stuff or is he packing a magnum under those Gucci pants?”

         Anna and her friends stare at their slutty comrade.

         “What?!” She defends herself, “Can’t a girl have a little fun?”

         Simon and Anna go on several more dates. And though they don’t want to admit it, they start falling for one another. Simon’s observant bodyguard begins to notice this.

         “Simon, if you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you pulled the scam on her yet? Normally, you would have done that by now.”

         “I’m just waiting for the right time. This is a tough girl to crack.”

         “Ahh, I see. So, you are starting to like this girl, aren’t you?”

         “What?! Me?! No….this is all strictly business. I have no personal attachment whatsoever.”

         The bodyguard gives off a slight smile, knowing full well what’s really going on.

         We’ve now arrived to the next rom-com stage—the breakup. Torn between his feelings for Anna and that fact that he desperately needs cash, Simon decides to enact the next phase of his scam. He texts Anna one night saying that he is trouble. Men want to hurt him and he needs money immediately. To his surprise, Simon doesn’t receive the typical concerned text. Rather, Anna asks him for money and says she will wire payment for his problems once he gives her cash. Simon is confused.

         The two keep going back and forth, trying to gain money and account information from one another. Eventually, a stalemate ensures. This is when both characters decide to look into each other’s backgrounds and M.O.’s, and realize that they are both con artists.

         They then confront each other at some high-end, New York public function. (These fights always MUST take place in front of large crowds). They accuse each other of being frauds. Eventually, a tearful Anna runs out and takes a cab home, as a distraught Simon watches her drive off.

         A month later, a dejected Simon is sitting on his hotel couch watching TV. His bodyguard picks up the remote and shuts it off.

         “Boss, you need to get out. You’ve been moping in here for weeks. This isn’t healthy.”

         Simon ignores him, still staring at the black screen.

         “Sir,” the bodyguard says, “I’ve been with you for many years through numerous scams. I know you well and I can tell you, I know you aren’t sad because this scheme went array. It is because you realized, for the first time in your life, you found something more important than hotels, cars, private planes and fancy meals. You found love.”

         Tears start to run down Simon’s cheeks.

         “And let me tell you,” he continues, “no amount of money can ever fill that gaping hole inside you. The only thing that can is that special someone.”

         Simon shoots up.

         “You’re right,” he says. “Get the car!”

         “Where are we going, sir?”

         Simon turns to his friend.

         “We’re going to get the girl.”

         The bodyguard excitedly pumps his first.

         “I get the car.”

         Now, we’re at the final climatic scene—the rekindling. Simon calls up Anna’s friend and discovers she’s about to flee the United States. Simon and his bodyguard swerve through NYC traffic, eventually spotting her cab and forcing it off the road.  Anna then gets out of the car, and begins screaming.

         “What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to get me killed?!”

         “Anna, listen. All my life, I’ve been pretending to be something I’ve not. I thought that if I could be something else, I could have the life I never had. I believe that I could make myself happy with expensive clothes and vacations. And for a while, I did. But I soon realized that this gaping void remained inside of me, and it was only until I met you that I realized what I needed—it was you.”

         Tears begin falls down Anna’s cheeks.

         “So, you run me off the road just to tell me that?”

         “No, I came here to tell you that you swindled me. Not out of my money or my possessions. You swindled my heart.”

         The cab driver honks.

         “Hey, lady! You comin’ or what?!”

         A tearful Anna stares at Simon for a few seconds, then rushes up to him. The two embrace while everyone in the preceding traffic jam begins to clap.

         And that’s it. That’s the movie. There could even be a sequel in which Anna and Simon go on a double date with Billy McFarland and Elizabeth. But that’s a story for another time. Hope you enjoyed.

© Copyright 2022 by R. M. S. Thornton

I Updated My Book!

 

Last year, I published my third poetry work titled Poet Without a Cause. I'm happy to announce that I have recently release a new edition containing a dozen or so more poems. Be sure to link it out in the link!

Poet Without a Cause : A Collection of Poems from America’s Favorite Basic Bro - Kindle edition by Thornton, R. M. S. . Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Gump 2020: How a Forrest Gump Sequel Set in 2020 Could Work

 

Forrest Gump is a movie about a mentally deficient man who experiences first-hand many of the most turbulent and significant events of the 1950’s through the 1980’s. Despite his cognitive handicap, he achieves remarkable success in a wide range of vocations, including, among other things, becoming an all-American college football player, war hero, ping pong champion, shrimp boat captain, millionaire business owner, and wandering runner. Gump does all this while maintaining an unhealthy obsession with a girl named Jenny, a hippie who grew up next door to him and later bears his spawn.

Considering how tumultuous 2020 was—feeling almost as if it was a single decade rolled into 366 days—I thought it would be interesting to conceptualize how a Forrest Gump set in 2020 would play out. How would the protagonist experience, interreact with, and interpret last year’s events? The following is how I think such a hypothetical sequel could transpire.                                    

The film would begin several decades past where the last movie left off. For those of you who need a reminder, after years of aimless, drug induced, hippie excursions, Jenny returned home to stay with Forrest. She repays his hospitality by sneaking into his room late one night, taking his virginity, then heartlessly ditching him. It’s only when she’s about to die that she decides to reach out to Forrest, inform him that they have a son, then marry him, thereby leaving the poor man to raise their child as single parent.  

Back to the current premise, the first scene would transpire in Iraq. As a shrimping tycoon, Forrest is visiting the country under the auspices of a special U. S. visa in order to help the struggling nation develop its seafood industry. While waiting outside the U. S. Embassy, Forrest notices several men sitting in a parked car, panicking. One of them seemingly throws or drops his phone out the window. Forrest, being the Good Samaritan he is, runs over and picks it up. He then chases after the car yelling, “Excuse me! You dropped your phone!”

Forrest chases the men for several blocks. Because he’s still really fast, Forrest eventually catches up with the car. He hands the driver the phone and quickly strides away. Realizing what has happened, the men began panicking, until suddenly, a drone’s missile strikes their automobile, instantly vaporizing them. As it turns out, the car held Qasem Soleimani and his entourage. They ditched the phone because they figured out they were being tracked on it. Forrest had thus unwittingly alerted the U. S. military to his location.

Due to his inadvertent heroic actions, Forrest is invited to the White House to meet with President Trump. I can only imagine how great a conversation between Gump and Trump would be. A fly on that wall would certainly get its money’s worth. Trump would then ask Gump to go on a secret mission with Rudy Giuliani to investigate Ukrainian corruption and find any missing computer servers. Gump, knowing as much about computers as he does about astrophysics, would assume that “servers” means the President is looking for cocktail waitresses.

   Upon landing in Ukraine, Gump gets separated from Rudy and just wanders around, not knowing what the hell he is doing. He eventually ends up at a fancy building to which he is ushered inside to a meeting room by several large men clad in suits and ties. It turns out that he has ended up at the headquarters of Burisma Holdings, where he was mistaken for an American investor. Forrest stays after another American there named Hunter takes a liking to him.

When the conference concludes, Hunter invites Gump back to his hotel room. They end up having a drink before eventually ending up at a Ukrainian brothel. Forrest would then make the observation, “That Hunter sure was strange. He kept snorting sugar up his nose, which is weird because I always thought sugar was supposed to enter through your mouth.”

I think it would actually be funny here if Hunter ended up convincing Forrest to snort the “sugar”, which would then lead to a scene in which super hyper, coked-out Forrest and Hunter Biden run naked throughout Kiev at 3:00 in the morning. All the while, the Forrest Gump running theme would be playing.

The next morning, Forrest receives a phone call from an unknown number. A shrill female voice demands to know what he’s doing there. When he replies that he doesn’t really know, the anonymous woman demands to meet with him upon his return, to which Gump agrees. But before leaving, Hunter gives Grump a laptop computer and implores him to keep it safe.

 Forrest makes it back safely and meets the woman who called him. It’s Nancy Pelosi. He tells the Speaker that Trump sent him to the Ukraine on a mission to find “servers” and that he made friends with Hunter. She demands he hand over every document related to the trip. Forrest complies by handing over his visa documents and other papers which include information he’s clueless about. However, he’s so uneasy that he doesn’t relinquish the computer. When the exchange ends, Forrest sees a store with multiple computers, so decides to just leave the laptop there.

Thus, Forrest has unknowingly set off the impeachment proceedings. However, to his dismay, he realizes that he accidently gave Pelosi the newest recipe to Bubba Gump’s latest shrimp concoction. Forrest tries to retrieve it from her at the State of the Union address, but is too late, as Pelosi unwittingly shreds it.

Depressed and demoralized, Gump does what he does best—pointlessly runs across the nation. While jogging through Oklahoma, Forrest becomes fascinated by a big cat sanctuary which is run by a unique character named Joe Exotic. Joe asks Forrest if he likes animals to which Forrest replies, “Very much so.” He tells Gump that he can stick around and work for the animal sanctuary if he wished. Forrest being Forrest agrees and begins doing low-paying, menial labor at the zoo. Just picturing Gump’s daily interactions with Joe and his staff alone would make this film worth the watch.

During one day, Cardi B visits the big cat refuge hoping it will help inspire her to write a new hit single for some odd reason. She meets Forrest, who is so enamored with her that he accidently spills a tub of water on one of the tigers. “Whoops!” Forrest says, “Well, that there is a wet pussy cat.” He then tries to dry off the animal with a nearby bucket and a mop.

Meanwhile, Joe starts to become infatuated with Forrest. I can imagine this scene now.

Joe: “You know, I like you, Forrest.”

Forrest: “Well, I like you too, Joe.”

Joe: “No, but I really, really like you, Forrest.”        

Forrest: “I really, really like you too, Joe.”

[Forrest is so innocent that he has no idea what’s going on]

Joe: “Forrest, would you want to join me and my husbands to form a quadruple?”

Forrest: “You want me to help you make a shape?”

But before things could be taken to an even more uncomfortable level, Joe Exotic is arrested. This couldn’t have occurred at a more perfect juncture, as Forrest has received an invitation to celebrate the anniversary of the ping pong diplomacy. Once again, Gump is off to the land of China.

Gump traverses the country, playing in numerous ping pong matches, his final game being in Wuhan. While there, a well-dressed Chinese man politely asks Forrest if he could discretely take a few cylinders holding an unknown substance back with him to America. Being the nice guy he is, Forrest agrees. But upon receiving them, he breaks the canisters. The mysterious man freaks out, shouting, “Do you know what you’ve done?!” Gump profusely apologizes. He then returns home, thinking little of the incident.

Upon arriving in the United States, all hell breaks loose. Gump handles the COVID-19 pandemic well. His positive outlook on life, along with the fact he doesn’t really need to do anything, means he remains relatively sheltered from the outside world. That is until Forrest is informed that Bubba Gump’s is experiencing supply chain issues, particularly in its Pacific Northwest region.

Forrest travels to Seattle. While there, he gets lost and wonders into the newly formed nation of CHAZ. He quickly falls in love with the place, as its debris filled streets, awful stench, drug use, sexual promiscuity, and delusional, radical left-wing residents all remind him of Jenny. He then somehow ends up becoming its warlord. At this point, I really don’t know what he would do other than just rename every single building and statue within the zone after Jenny.

The now FGAZ (Forrest Gump Autonomous Zone) wouldn’t last long. However, it would once again propel Gump to celebrity status. This would primary be because his younger followers would create a TikTok for him. Forrest begins making videos, which for those above the age of 15, seems ridiculous. But his odd demeanor and antics become a hit with the younger audiences.

Now we reach the election, and there are one of two ways I could see this could unfold. First, the election could go the same way it does in our timeline i. e. Joe Biden being elected President. Forrest does not really care about politics, so this would have zero effect on him. Nonetheless, I could imagine an incident in which he is visiting D. C. during the day of the Capitol Hill Riots and inadvertently wanders into Congress (see image below). Forrest would then be arrested, but soon the White House staff realizes that he is the only person who can understand Biden. Hence, he is pardoned and kept on as the President’s personal translator, to the ire of Kamala Harris, who now can’t easily toss him aside like a used-up Willie Brown.

The second way, and the one I personally like better, involves Forrest meeting Kanye West, who is so impressed with the man, that Kanye insists Forrest sign on as his VP for his presidential campaign. Gump agrees, but through a registration fluke, the shrimping mogul ends up on at the top of the ticket. Forrest turns out to be an excellent campaigner, as voters resonate to his simple, yet untestable style. For instance, when asked how he would reunite the country, he responds, “We are all just like peas and carrots.” His team also comes up with the memorable campaign slogan “Run, Forrest! Run!” Get it? Because he’s “running” for office. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s a Medal of Honor recipient, even though he no longer possesses the actual medal itself, since we all know that Jenny definitely pawned it for heroin almost immediately after Forrest gifted it to her.

Forrest rises high enough in the polls that he is invited to a three-way debate between him, Trump, and Biden. Following the event, the public becomes overwhelmingly convinced that Gump is easily the smartest person running for the office. He ends being the first candidate from neither the Democrats nor GOP to win the presidency since 1850. Millard Fillmore, who was a Whig, was the last one, just in case you were curious.

Anyways, like every other task Gump has attempted, he ends up somehow being an incredible president. He appoints Lt. Dan as the Secretary of Veterans Affairs and Forrest’s old war buddy does a solid job, since he’s personally experienced the system’s pitfalls. I could envision a White House scene in which Lt. Dan remarks, “It’s time to walk all over these Washington Bureaucrats”, to which Forrest responds, “But, Lt. Dan, how you gonna step on them when you ain’t got no legs?”, earning the President a look of distrain from his cabinet member.

And yet, the Gump Administration is successful, ushering in a Second American Century. Forrest goes down in history as the best president the United States has ever had. Oh, and he renames the Washington Monument, “The Jenny”.

The End

  

Where are you, Marcus Aurelius?

He thought it would be glorious—an audition of his courage, patriotism and strength. For isn’t this what every man desires—to test one’s might or resolve through the crucible to struggle? To prove he is capable and resilient enough to endure life’s hardships? To not cower in the face of danger, but to meet it head-on, and eventually triumph in spite of all odds? To sacrifice his life and limbs, yet emerge triumphant for the noble cause of King and Country?

He could still feel it, the shiver that went up his spine when he saw that image of Lord Kitchener. It was as if the general was pointing directly at him, singling him out with call to defend the homeland from the barbarians who wished to decimate it. It was as if for the first time in his short life, he felt needed. He would no longer just be a working-class boy from the north, but a savior of a people, called to arms when the enemy stood at the gates. The course of history had finally presented him with a purpose, something worth fighting for and enduring all suffering. How could he let such an opportunity pass him by, a chance to prove his worth to his friends, family, and all those naysayers who saw him as nothing more than the son of mere coal miner.

But as his frail body endured the agony of the night air, stiff and throbbing as it was harassed by the winter breeze, the young Britton could not help but question his decision. That nationalistic fever which had once so splendidly infected his entire being, had now morphed into an anguished longing for nothing more than mere survival.

He was told it would be a short war, intense, yet quick and decisive. And like all other of the nation’s conflicts, it would serve as a reaffirmation of the steadfast determination and rigor of the British people. But here he still was. It had been well over a year, yet they were still where they had started. It was as if they were trapped in some filth ridden purgatory, enhanced by the scent of bodily waste and rotting corpses.

The young Britton could not remember the last time he’d had a shower. His uniform was ragged, it’s olive coloring now polluted with dried mud and blood, both of which gave his outfit a harsh, bristling feel. His hands were filthy and rugged, his fingernails entrenched with thick, dry dirt parcels. His face did not fare much better, as it was actually grubbier than his father’s was when he’d return from the mines.

He hadn’t had a warm meal in months, and he forced to subsist off the meager, rancid rations of a foot solider. Even the tea was putrid, which tasted like water infested with the crumbs of decayed leaves. He was exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in years. The last time the young man had actually felt the smoothness of a mattress was just before he was shipped off to France.

But here he was, a mere pawn thrust into a dystopian nightmare, a place of indescribable horrors, a region where the chimes of nature were drowned out  by the concussive and earth-shattering blasts of artillery, not to mention the numerous friends he’d lost, witnessing them cutdown like weeds by machine gun fire or fulminated by explosions, their fragmented remains decorating the battlefield like butchered ornaments. And for those lucky enough to escape such fortuity, they were often greeted with the affliction of illnesses that spread across the trenches like ink through a glass of water.

And amongst all this discomfort and anguish, his only current source of joy was the cigarette nestled between his lips, it’s spark being one of the few objects discernable within his vicinity. The young solider could feel the smoke rise into the air, offering his forehead only a temporary relief from the frost, as it gently curled up against the brim of his steel helmet.

He sat, leaning back into the wood and dirt embankment of the trench, his rifle close by his side as if he was a small child and it was his comfort toy. And as the young Britton remained perched there, wary yet vigilant, he thought back to all the things in life he had not experienced that he wished to accomplish.

There was a time, he remembered, when he believed himself invincible, impervious to the dangers that plagued weaker men. But after seeing his comrades ravished and maimed before his very eyes, many of whom were his age or younger, he knew now with certainty that death did not play favorites. Everyone in these trenches, friend and foe alike, were all the Grim Reaper’s potential prey. For he was a malicious presence which stalked these youths, as this war offered him the prime occasion to gratify his unquenchable appetite.

And so he sat, the young warrior, a boy who existed on this Earth only nineteen years, whose chances of departing this world too soon grew substantially greater with each passing second. For he knew now that every breath he took could very well be his last; and with that final gasp, all his hopes and ambitions would dissipate into oblivion.

            For there was so much he desired: to move out of Manchester, to earn a decent living, to purchase a home rather than being forced to rent a rundown apartment. He wanted to explore, to grow old, experience all the fruits this world had to offer. Moreover, he wished to achieve some notoriety, to be recognized for some great achievement. But most of all, he wanted to settle down, to find someone special and to start a family. Yet, here was, nothing more than a raw and unexperienced lad, unremarkable and unaccomplished in terms of career, distinction, love and self-fulfillment. Fighting a man’s war, yet ironically still a child. But would he ever live to full maturity? Would he survive long enough to reach life’s milestones: to move out, to achieve professional success, to lose his virginity, to get married?

            And as he contemplated this, sadness overcame him, because he knew this was his fate and there was nothing he could do about it, except to hope and pray. It was a harsh realization, one that viciously besieged his morale and faith. And as continued to puff on his cigarette, a tear stealthily descended down his cheek, dragging along the small tracts of muck as it did.

            And as he moved his head to wipe the tear away, he saw it. It was lying there, slightly hidden by a cover of dried mud. The young Brit picked it up and dusted away the grime. The book had a dark maroon leather cover, which felt rough as he slid his fingers down its jacket. He picked up his lamp and placed it near the manuscript. Meditations by Marcus Aurelias, the faded gold lettering read.

            The soldier opened the book, dusty residue escaping it as he did. The pages were an off-white color, old and tarnished. Yet, its words were still decipherable. And as he held the lamp on his knee with one hand, he began to read. In what felt like a mere instance, the young man was immersed, digesting each and every word, pausing to fully assimilate the text’s themes and messages.

            It was like nothing he’d ever read. He was never a big reader growing up, only reading a few books when forced to by his teachers, which he never enjoyed. But this was different. It was as if it was written for him, as if an author, a man had who existed two-thousand years earlier, was somehow conversing directly with him through the confines of space and time.

            For as he as scanned the text, the young Brit could imagine it: the grizzled Emperor, sitting at his at his desk penning his thoughts, all the while trapped by the cruel, cold confines of a Northern European military camp. Here was a sickly, fatigued military officer, cloaked in the armor and imperial garb of the princeps, contemplating his life, his mind always focused on his inevitable demise. It may have been a different time, different people, a different war, yet so much about them were alike. It was as if they had been fighting the same conflict, only centuries removed.

            This is how he imagined the great Marcus. A man, who like him, was fighting hordes of enemies from the Germanic frontier, at a time when many of the nations now embroiled in this war were under the united rule of one governing order. The young Brit pictured the battles he engaged in, the turmoil he suffered, the chaos he endured. And though things had changed since that time, the solider realized that man’s nature had not. For though technology had developed, the human mind was still just as prone to the sins and animalistic behavior of its ancestors.

            And so he continued his journey, reading day and night, whenever he had the chance. His stiff, frost ridden fingers jostling through the tatty pages, absorbing each word with swift and efficient deliberation. It became more than just a distraction for him, it was a way to put himself at ease, to find comfort in the most horrible of circumstances.

 His fear of death, of never knowing what else life had to offer, began to dissipate. For the young Britton came to accept that death was not the end, but as Marcus put it, the changing of matter from one form to another. Although we die, we are transformed into something else: the earth, the soil, the grass. And though the young Brit knew his fate may be sealed early, he adopted the view that all life is short. We are but a mere speck in time, our lifespans existing only for a quick instant. In the grand scheme of life, the universe’s perception of our existence was significantly less than what we perceive the lifespan of a housefly is.

And so he realized that with one’s demise came something else—freedom, liberation from impulse, pain, and sensation. For when one ceased to exist, so would the memories, along with urges, that control us like they’re puppeteers. Thereupon all would become a blank slate, our bodies no longer in existence, yet our matter forever whole and undamaged. And regardless of who we were in life, our class, career, fame, monetary status, we would all eventually suffer the same outcome. For death played the role of the great equalizer, it’s inevitable visit a consistent reminder that no organism standards of a god; that no man, no matter their status or self-aggrandizement, ever truly stands above his peers. 

            And though the young man wished to achieve much, to gain praise and acclaim, he realized that such things were trivial. As the sagacious Emperor told him, fame is only temporary. For, like the sands that constantly drift over other sand, so too does prominence over time. Though you may be remembered for a moment, others will appear; and no matter how renown you may become, all will eventually enter obscurity. For if all of humanity were to be exterminated in this war, the memory of everyone would be extinguished, and there would be no minds left to reminisce. Even the great empires of their days, The Roman, the German, the French, the British; if humanity ceased, so too would the chronicles of their rise and glorious achievements.

            And just when the young Brit finished the work, the order was given. The generals had ordered a new assault. They were going to try once again to break through the lines, to cross “No Man’s Land” and shatter the enemy defenses. Such attacks had failed so many times before, resulting in such needless carnage. Yet, it had become all too routine. For this was the reality of The Great War. If disease or malnourishment didn’t finish you off, then surely bombs, bullets, or bayonets would.

            Despite this awful truth, the soldier was ready. He was still scared, yet something about him had changed. For in consuming the philosopher’s work, he was now ready to accept his fate, no matter what it may be. And as he remained crouched near the ladder, the ground rumbling beneath as the shells blasted off, accompanied by the sound of the bullets as they zipped through the smoke infested air, he remained poised, ready to go over the top and charge straight towards the hostile barrage. For he now felt something he hadn’t experienced in a while—calmness. The young Britton was at peace, fully prepared to accept the whatever fait awaited him. And when the whistle finally blew, he flung himself up the ladder, as if it was the last thing he’d ever do.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton

Edelweiss for Emily

“Kill that little bitch!” an older gentleman screamed with unhinged fury. “Slaughter that evil little whore! Make her pay for what she has done! Make her pay!”

His deranged cries melded into the flurry of other shouts and roars from hundreds of others congregated with signs, whose depictions were rife with insults and derogatory slogans undignified of a civilized people, yet worshipped with cultish zeal by the horde. And as with all mobs, its avidity was infectious, spreading through each participate until their individual virtues of logic and reason had been subsumed by the vicious lusts of the body politic.

And all the while, within the eye of this monsoon of yells and ire, was an inconspicuous brick building. It was old, slightly rundown, and four stories high. It possessed no noteworthy attributes other than what it served. It was the home of a forum, a bastion of the rule of law, a symbol of civilization and justice, all aspects which distinguished humanity from all other living things. It represented the species’ abandonment of its animalistic nature for institutions and mechanics designed to uphold order, and thus quell the savage impulses of our ancestors.

            But as the screams and banging of the tribal masses were hurled at it, the building’s worn foundations began to tremble. Shaking could even be felt at the top floor where a seven-year-old girl sat. She was petite, with long, smooth, brown hair and slight lips. She possessed wide green eyes and a nose, while tiny, was well proportioned to the rest of her face. She was clad in a white dress decorated with animated characters from a popular children’s show, as well as shiny, miniature, black shoes. Her name was Emily; and though she appeared like any other little girl, she was the reason for the mob’s existence—the target of its animosity.

            She stood on the flimsy wooden chair, her legs crossed, fingers interlocked, as she swayed uneasily back and forth. Emily heard footsteps approaching down the dimly lit corridor and frantically turned to see who was there. Her apprehension immediately subsided when she made out the figure of Winston Disraeli, her father’s friend and attorney.

 He was in his late thirties, tall and gangly, with narrow shoulders. He had a thin face, which sported narrow, circular glasses. Winston always appeared to be disheveled and tonight was no exception. He was wearing a weathered, wrinkly, black suit, with a sportscoat that seemed like it was several sizes too big, along with a shoddy black tie and a blue dress shirt. His hair was dark and of medium length, curly and unkempt.

Winston sat down on the chair beside Emily. He lifted his old, haggard, brown briefcase on his lap and opened in. He reached in and pulled out a spectacular white flower. Winston handed it to Emily, who gleefully took it.

“It’s an edelweiss.” Winston said. “My sister grows them in her garden. Your dad told me they’re your favorite.”

Emily gazed at Winston and smiled before sniffing the flower.

“Thank you.” She coyly remarked.

They sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the ominous brown door in front of them. Winston looked over at Emily and noticed several tears rolling down her cheeks.

He softly placed his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Emily.”

She sniffed while wiping away her tears.

“I don’t understand,” she uttered in a broken voice, “why does everyone hate me? What did I do to make everyone hate me?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

She turned to face Winston.

“Then why do they hate me?”

He paused for a moment, contemplating how best to explain this to the young girl.

“Emily, have you ever heard of reincarnation?”

She shook her head.

“A long time ago some people believed in this thing called reincarnation. They believed that when people died, their souls would pass on to new bodies and they would live new lives, while having no memory of their old lives. So, though your body dies, your spirit continues on living a new life as a different person. Well, several years before you were born, scientists discovered that this is what happens. That when we die, our souls or our energy, transfer over to a new life, so that we are born into a new body. Not only that, it was discovered that there was a way to track our souls and learn about our past lives.”

Emily continued gazing up at Winston, her eyes unmoving. Winston closed his brief case and placed it by his feet before continuing.

“But you see, Emily, sometimes our past lives belonged to people who were not very good. This is common for many, as lots of us have lived multiple past lives. But unfortunately, Emily, a past life you lived was of a very, very, very bad man.”

Emily looked away from him and at the floor.

“So, I’m a bad person?”

Winston placed his hand on her back.

“No, Emily, you’re not a bad person. You’re a wonderful human being. The problem is you share the soul of someone who was a bad person. But that bad person isn’t you. It was someone else, someone from a different time who did things that you have no recollection of and that I firmly believe you can’t be held responsible for. And that’s why I’m here tonight, to explain that you’re not that person—that you’re a good person.”

Emily remained with her head facing the floor.

“I promise it will all be okay.” Winston reassured her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The door swung open. An old, short, plump, woman with glasses and thinning hair came halfway into the room.

“He will see you now.”

Winston picked up his briefcase with one hand and took Emily’s with the other. She tightly clenched his and they slowly made their way through the door, past the secretary’s desk and into a dark office. It had a massive oak desk, with a big wood and leather chair behind it. Two more smaller chairs were located along the other side of the desk, along with one in the far corner of the room, adjacent to the door.

Winston motioned to the corner chair. Emily complied and trotted over to it, then perched herself upon it. She sat silently, nervously twirling the white flower’s stem in her hands. An older gentleman then entered from a small, obscure, door beside a large book case. His hair was gray and receding. He possessed thick glasses and wore a long black robe. He stumbled over to the large chair and was about to sit down until he saw Winston.

“Where the hell is he?” Judge Marcus Mill demanded.

“I have no idea. We were just waiting out in the hall. I never saw him.”

The judge peered over at Emily, squinting.

“Aw, so this is the girl in question,” he said.

“Yes, your honor.” Winston answered. “That is her.”

Just then, the office door violently swung open and a man charged in.  He was in his early forties, tall, with dark eyes and a thin face. He was dressed in an ornate charcoal suit, a white dress shirt, and a dazzling red tie, along with a gold watch and offensively expensive black shoes, so well-polished that they shined, despite the room’s dull luminesce. His brown hair was slicked back, decorated with various shades of gray, some strands he purposefully dyed as he believed the frost would reward him with higher credibility. His posture was immaculate, emanating a strong presence—an arrogant allure made all the more prevalent by his derisive charisma.  Jeff O’Rourke placed his briefcase on the desk and straightened his tie. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said in a contemptuously apologetic tune.

“Mr. O’Rourke,” Judge Mill, pronounced, “I have a full docket. I don’t have time to wait around. Next time, be here on time or don’t bother showing up. Understood?”

Though clearly slighted, Jeff responded in the affirmative. The Judge took a seat.

 “Alright, let’s get started,” he said, as he opened a vanilla folder and began reading. “I hereby open this closed-door session of this tribunal for the Citizen’s Republic of California, Monterey Division, case number 1692, on the date of February 19, 2075.”

The judge gazed up at the men and leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his belly, fingers interlocked.

“Mr. O’Rourke. You are the prosecutor bringing this case, so you may begin.”

Mr. O’Rourke took several steps forward, cleared his throat, and began.

“Your honor, I’m here today not for my own benefit or that of any other interest other than that of justice. For a society to function, for its people to continue to have faith in its institutions and procedures, it is important that we insure all people are held accountable for their actions. This is true for anyone, no matter who they are, how wealthy they are, what they do for a living, etc. When someone commits a heinous act, that person must receive his just desserts.  But for this to be true, punishment can’t just be reserved for actions committed in this life, but past actions as well. Now, some may argue that it’s unfair to impute the bad deeds of one onto another. However, crimes of the past can’t just go unanswerable, especially when we know who the culprits are.”

Jeff turned and aggressively pointed to Emily.

“She may seem like a sweet, innocent, little girl,” he said in a tone of tranquil ferocity, “but inside her lingers the soul of one the most evil men to have ever walked this earth. A monster whose crimes tarnish our species’ history, spitting directly in the face of morality and humanity. For, sitting there, on that bench, is none other than the devil himself, the butcher of so many, the slaughterer of millions through war and genocide— Adolf Hitler.”

The room went silent. The judge twiddled his thumbs, contemplating the attorney’s words for a bit, before turning to Winston.

“Mr. Disraeli, your response.”

Winston stepped forward. He turned to Jeff, took note of the obnoxious smirk which oozed from his lips, and began.

“Your honor, there have been many moments throughout mankind’s history where people were judged and punished based on actions which they had taken no part in, which occurred generations, often centuries, before they even existed. Blood libel, ancestral sin, intersectionality, these were all ascriptions of collective guilt onto specific groups or segments of society without regard to the nature, circumstance or character of an individual. In essence, because of circumstances beyond their control, certain persons were imprinted with a sort of original sin, like a large, conspicuous birthmark. They were blemished with certain attributes and characteristics based on notions of group identity, regardless of the often obscure and subjective nature of such groups. Thus, numerous innocent people were tarnished by former deeds which some believed, rightly or wrongfully, were perpetrated by their ancestors.

            Disraeli paused for a moment, then continued.

            “Today, the days of holding those answerable for ancestral sins are long behind us, mostly because we now know that many lived a variety of different lives throughout our souls’ existence. Yet, the ugly pervasion that we must assign guilt to someone in order to atone for some forgone incidents, to rectify some earlier depravity in order to scapegoat, ease resentments, or offer comfort via displays of one’s moral superiority, continue to pollute the human psyche.

Your honor, I’m not here today to defend Adolf Hitler. Far from it. But the child you see sitting there is not Adolf Hitler. Does she share the same soul? Yes. But she is not him. Emily and Hitler have lived completely different lives during completely different eras. Their personalities and upbringings are nothing alike. Moreover, Emily has no memory of these incidents. For her, World War II and the Holocaust are just as much historical occurrences as they are for everyone else living today. The idea that we can pass judgment on someone based on prior lives, which they have zero recollection of or connection to, is preposterous and unmerited. I therefore ask the tribunal to dismiss this action against my client.”

            O’Rourke snickered.

            “You can’t be serious?” he scoffed, with a sardonic smile. “You’re really trying to equate things like the blood libel and original sin to this instance? Look, let’s get something straight here. That little girl is not on trial because she’s a descendant of Hitler or his henchmen. She’s on trial because she literally is Hitler. The soul of that wicked man manifests throughout the entire essence of her being. How can that not be any clearer?”

            “So, you believe we should judge people based on lives they don’t remember?” Winston fired back.

            “Yes. I mean, it’s the same soul after all. And there is precedent for it. We’ve been holding these trials since we first learned about reincarnation and how to track souls. We tried and punished Angelia Wong when we discovered she possessed the soul of Nathan Bedford Forrest. We did the same with Judy Stein when we concluded that she was the reincarnation of our current defendant’s right-hand man, Joseph Goebbels.”

            Jeff O’Rourke, infused with certainty that he’d deflected his rival’s lackluster argument, haughtily turned to him. But the feeling quickly dissipated, when he made out a subtle, confident smile on his opponent’s face.

            “But you’ve made exceptions, haven’t you?”

            Jeff mockingly raised an eyebrow.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I’m talking about soul amalgamation. Does the name Trent Baker ring a bell?

            A look of rage permeated the prosecutor’s face.

            “Those were completely different circumstance and you know it!”

            “What the hell is he talking about, Mr. O’Rourke,” the Judge demanded.

            Jeff signed with annoyance.

            “Trent Baker was a man who several years ago we discovered possessed the soul of the serial killer Ted Bundy. We were going to bring a case against him, but there were other facts which came to light.”

            Jeff paused.

            “Like what?” the judge asked, impatiently.

            “That he was the product of soul amalgamation. You see, souls are a strange thing. Even though we can track them, there is still much we don’t understand about them. One thing souls sometimes do is merge, meaning that two or more souls of deceased persons will merge, becoming a single soul and occupying a single individual.  In the case of Trent Baker, it came to our attention that his soul was an amalgamation between Ted Bundy and Martin Luther King, Jr. Because of these unusual circumstances, we decided not to prosecute. Dr. King was a great man and a hero, after all.”

            The judge meticulously rubbed his chin before responding.

            “But yet, Mr. Baker was still technically the reincarnation of Ted Bundy, was he not?”

            “Yes, your honor. There is no doubt about that. But he was also the reincarnation of Dr. King as well. To be honest, I have no idea what this has to do with this proceeding. Only one soul dwells within this girl and it’s Hitler’s.”

            “The point I’m trying to make,” Winston retorted, “is that you let someone off the hook despite the fact he shared the soul with a mass murderer. It may not have been his only soul, but it was part of it. Thus, the question becomes how does one weigh the evil deeds of Ted Bundy with the good deeds of Dr. King? What if Ted Bundy’s soul had merged with someone of an undistinguished past who lived a morally average life? What would you have done then? Would Ted Bundy’s deeds have completely usurped the other soul’s and thus would you have sought punishment?”

            Jeff began to comment, but his opponent interrupted.

            “And let’s not forget, the souls of Bundy and King lived other lives as well. One of Bundy’s past lives, for instance, was of St. Francis, while it’s been recently uncovered that King was one of the reincarnations of Atilla the Hun.”

            “One of the reincarnations?” a puzzled Judge Mill remarked.

            “Yes, your honor.” Winston responded. “Which brings me to my next point. The issue of soul splinter. Would you care to explain that, Mr. O’ Rourke?”

            Jeff shot his rival a brief, poisonous glance, then gave his explanation.

            “Soul splinter is another aspect of what can happen to a soul post-mortem. For reasons unknown, sometimes a soul can split into two or multiple souls, occupying more than one individual.”

            “Which brings me to the next point,” Winston added. “Several years ago, it was uncovered that Abraham Lincoln’s soul had split following his assassination. There are three current inhabitants of his soul. The first is a man named Robert Lindgren, the current chancellor of the city-state of Scottsdale. The second is Royce Franks, an electrician from Tahoe. The third is…”

            Winston paused for a moment before revealing.

            “The third is Barney Neel.”

            The judge’s eyes widened.

            “You mean,” Judge Mill said, “that Barney Neel, the man who drugged and raped a dozen women, was…”

            Winston turned to Jeff, who uttered a painfully unambiguous, “Yes.”

            “Which is why,” Winston continued, “he was given the light sentence of one year’s jail time, plus probation and community service.”

            The judge’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the prosecutor.  

            “Is this true, Mr. O’Rourke? Though I was not involved in this case, I’m surprised to hear he got such a cushy deal.”

            “You honor,” Jeff responded in a tone of reposeful uneasiness, “my office has always been dedicated to upholding the highest senses of justice and fairness. But we felt that such a harsh sentence was unwarranted due to the fact that this man was a reincarnation of the one the greatest people to have ever lived; of a man who ended slavery on this continent and kept the former United States together during such turbulent times.”

            The judge stared at Jeff for a while, his expression ominously unreadable. He then looked at Winston.

“Any further comments regarding this matter?

            “No, your honor.”

            “What about you, Mr. O’Rourke.”

            “Same.”

            Judge Marcus Mill rose from his chair, grabbing the vanilla folder as he did.

            “Gentlemen, I have much to think about. I thank you both for your time.”

            The judge turned towards the side door and exited.

            Without glancing at Jeff, Winston swung around towards his client. She was still huddled in the corner, visibly shaken by the ordeal. As he approached her, the two locked eyes, as Winston shot her a quick smile. She beamed back, hesitantly, but with an unmistakable warmness. She took his hand while her other clutched the flower, and they exited the room.

            Later that night, Winston sat at the bar of his favorite local joint, sipping a beer as he tried to unwind from the tense ordeal. He thought he had done well, but his mind couldn’t help wondering about the fate of Emily. Even if she was found innocent, it wouldn’t be the end of it. The mobs would still clamor for her blood, all for something she couldn’t even understand—for something which he couldn’t even understand

            Winston placed the glass to his lips, when he felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder.

            “I’ll have what he’s having,” said the familiar voice.

            The man sat beside him and without looking at Winston, Jeff said, “Good job, today. Honestly, I’m quite impressed. It appears the Sandra Day O’ Connor College of Law produces more talented attorneys than I thought.”

            Winston, ignoring the backhanded praise, took a quick drink.

            “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment coming from a Harvard man.”

            O’ Rourke chuckled.

           

            “Well, I guess no one’s ever as truly smart as they think they are, least of all us Ivy Leaguers.” He said, with an air of pompous humility.

            The bartender handed Jeff a glass and the two drank together in silence for what felt like ages. Finally, Winston turned to Jeff.

            “Look, I have to ask. Between you and me, lawyer to lawyer, why are doing this? You’ve seen that little girl. How can you possibly want to bring such charges against her? And don’t give me this bullshit about how you’re ‘committed to the interest of justice’. We both know that’s not true.”

            Jeff took a drink, contemplating for a moment how to respond.

            “Winston, look our society today. I mean, really look it. We’re living at the pinnacle of human achievement. Yet, we’re more unhappy and discontent than ever. We have everything we ever need, yet something is missing. And let me tell you, I know what that is—it’s purpose. People today lack a sense of purpose, something to standup and fight for. People need that. In fact, they crave it like an irresistible narcotic.”

            He took another drink then swung his head to face Winston.

            “As for me, I have purpose. I know what I want in life. What I want is to be something. To be a person whom the masses can look up to and who can provide with the sense of purpose that they’re searching for. And to do that, I need to rally them around something—some kind of cause that can feed their appetite for righteousness; that can provide them with a sense that their lives have meaning, that we’re not just pointless specks who are briefly and aimlessly passing through a fruitless existence. So I give them a cause, and they reward me for showing them the way.”

            “So, this is all about personal ambition for you?” Winston accused. “You further your career by pointing out those who are sinners and saints for no other reason than to further your own career?”

            “You make it sound so devious,” Jeff said, “but think about it, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m fulfilling the masses’ need for a cause while helping myself in the process, and, by achieving higher office, I can help them further. I guess I’m killing three birds with one stone.”

            “The way you speak though, it sounds almost religious.”

            “Of course it’s religious, Winston. A man’s heart needs to be filled by something, and if not spiritual, then it needs to be something else. Otherwise, what are we living for? What are we working towards?”

            The two lawyers sat silently for a moment before Jeff began again.

            “I know it’s not ideal, Winston, but think of it this way. In ancient times, certain individuals were sacrificed in order to appease the gods and ensure that civilization continued to exist and prosper. That’s all I’m doing here. I’m sacrificing a few to ensure that the people have something worth fighting for; worth living for.”

            Jeff finished his drink and stood up. He started to walk away, before turning back to Winston.

            “You really did do a good today. I mean that.”

            With that, Jeff departed the bar leaving Winston sitting there drinking, alone.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton