When There Is A Will There Is A Way

All Rights Reserved

Published by

Free Spirit

Poets Choice & Free Spirit LLC

First Edition April 2023

A special thank you to:

Roy Kindelberger, William Brent Heckler, Alex Lily Camarda

Winner of Contest: Alex Lily Camarda

Cover Design by Koni Deraz

Edited by Akshay Sonthalia

Book Design by Adil Ilyas, Pakistan

ISBN: 978-93-94615-90-8

Price: $25

BCID: 712-16847164

The views and opinions expressed in this collection of stories are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Free Spirit. Any content provided by our authors are of their opinion and are not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club. organization, company, individual or anyone or anything. Details and curiosities about the places in this book have been found on Wikipedia and on the Web. They do not reflect opinions or quote from the publisher.

Not suitable for children.

Contents

Roy Kindelberger

When There Is A Will There Is A Way

Kris Green

Sanitation

William Brent Heckler

Norman’s Archie

Lily Finch

Delores Quagliata

Melancholy Of A Cheerleader

Kristen Herrington

View from the Top in Cheap Flip-Flops

Alex Sultan

The First Storm

Alex Lily Camarda

Grandma’s Cookies

Roy Kindelberger

Edmonds, Washington - United States

I’m a poet, writer, and a kindergarten teacher. My website: https://www.roykindelberger.com/

When There Is A Will There Is A Way

When there is a will there is a way. That’s what people told him in the past. As well as, pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Dave echoes the George Thorogood song, One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer. He sings it to the bartender, out of key, and unintelligible. The bartender, however, understands the drunken language and gives Dave his last call. His only willingness and way, at the moment is to see how fast he can drink the refreshment. As easy as glasses of water. The rest of the night turns into darkness. Until the haze lifts many hours later. Dave realizes he’s in his own bed. Somehow. Someway. He decides maybe there is a better way.

when he was willing

to let go of everything

surrender

not forever

just the booze

Kris Green

Lutz, Florida - United States

Kris Green lives in Florida with his wife, three-year old son, and new baby girl.

Sanitation

The woman across the table leans in as I speak. She thinks I’m rich. I light the cigarette, the only time it touches my mouth and hold it. It’s the easiest way to blend in.

What is your favorite place? She asks, her thick French accent filling my ears.

I’m tempted to say something completely absurd. I filter through options while killing time. Grocery store parking lot. Too dangerous. Tower of London. Too grim. Eiffel Tower. Too romantic, but it’s French and I’m in Paris. Ah.

Paris in the rain.

She frowns. Why the rain? but I don’t think she really cares. Anything she says sounds romantic: the curse of the French.

I look out the window. I picked her up easily. She believed my lies too quickly. Maybe I should be suspicious, but I’m not.

She reaches out and touches my hand. Is it because you need it to paint?

I forget for a moment that I told her I was an artist and almost puff the cigarette but the whole mirage will fall apart if I start hacking on inhaled smoke. I exhale loudly and shake my head trying my best to look like a tortured artist living in Paris.

Everyone thinks you need the rain to paint. It only helps when the desire comes. My accent, British, is hard to maintain.

She stirs at my words. I hit the mark. My hand turns onto hers and I grab it. Another half hour and I’m off for the night. But I sigh as I look and see the man parachuting through the rain toward the Cathedral rooftop. The mission is on.

Always shocked that nobody notices these things. Absurd things happen every day with hardly a notice.

Saint Athanasius Cathedral is party central tonight. The French enchantress thinks we’re going. If I didn’t see the man parachuting, I might’ve gone with her. I put the cigarette out on the dish of food that I didn’t touch, and for which, I have no intention of paying. Without comment, I rise. Still holding my hand, she tugs at me.

Au revoir, mon amour.

She frowns. Ignorant that this is usually where I get awkward or stupid, it’s probably good I leave on a high note.

Your name? She asks and I know she will google it as soon as I’m gone.

Jakob Baer. Standard fake artists websites already built to back this story. I mean, what kind of woman is going to fall in love with a guy named Curtis.

I find the fire escape outside the church on the far back right. The alley is dark with a soft yellow glow from streetlights down the way. Trying to jump up and reach the handle, I slip on a puddle. The church is louder than any congregation’s prayers had made it with the booming base causing the walls to shutter. It takes a few jumps before I reach the handle. Happy for the rain to have stopped but not for my clothes to be damp, my body swings forward like a gymnast. I begin to pull myself up when I hear something clang on the ground behind me. At first, I think my mademoiselle has followed me, but then I realize it is my knife.

Climbing up onto all fours on the wet fire escape, I turn to look at the knife lying in the alley. It seems like an acceptable thing to leave behind. My fingerprints aren’t on it. It’s a relatively inexpensive piece of equipment