Onto the Next

‘Just the regular Iris?’

‘Yes, thanks Doris.’

A small bell tinkled as gust of wind drifted through the door of “Due North Café” at the heels of a young Iris Casletto.

She sat herself down at her usual table by the window, pulling out a pen and a notepad. Iris was a slender girl with brunette locks that fell in perfect waves, shaping her beautifully structured face and complimenting her chestnut eyes. While jeans and a loose sweater may have left her ill prepared for most situations, they were the perfect combination for a sudden rush of inspired writing.

‘here you go deary, one large black coffee and a cinnamon scroll,’ the waitress placed the coffee and the plate on the table.

‘perfect, thankyou Doris.’

‘more writing today then is it?’

‘that’s the plan’

‘I do hope you’ll give me a copy of that when you finally share it with the world. When will that be exactly, surely it’s done by now?’ Doris asked with jest.

‘It’s not finishing the book that’s got me stuck; I’m still trying to save, to get it published.’ Iris sighed and reached for her coffee

‘You know we could help you out with that deary,’ Doris replied, with a tone that suggested she had said that exact thing a hundred times over; and by her next expression she was met with the same answer as each time before.

‘Thankyou Doris. But I could never. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’

‘Oh, all right. Well let me know if you want anything else.’

‘will do.’

Over the next few hours Iris sipped her coffee and nibbled her dessert, every so often scribbling down some notes. She turned and paused, her face just shy of the window, watching. With each exhale her breath coated a patch of glass with warm vapor, only to be rapidly consumed on the inhale by the growing cold of the outside.

She wondered if her attraction to this quaint café was born of her infatuation with literature. As cliché as it sounded, books were her escape, they were a way for her to be someone else or something else, to live in a universe where the impossible was possible. So, writing too became that escape, because she was no longer just visiting someone else’s universe she had the power to create her own!

After some time had passed, Iris glanced at the model, tower of London, clock hanging on the wall opposite her table and realized that she had sat, gazing into nothingness for over forty minutes. So, she packed up her things, and called out her thanks before leaving. The same little tinkle rung in her ears as she stepped into the street.

Being guided by her subconscious, Iris was still in a sort of hazy trance. However, in the next instant she was abruptly awoken after slamming into an oncoming stranger.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,’ Iris apologized, flustered.

‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all my dear, I was being careless,’ the old man replied.

‘No, it’s my fault, I was daydreaming and got distract—’

Iris looked up into the stranger’s face and was taken aback.

His face looked aged but not tired, the lines gave him character from expressions well worn. He looked as though from another time, original yet classic, and his attire was definitely not of the 21st century. Under a very long, sophisticated trench coat he wore a textured, mocha turtleneck, tucked into a pair of plain, brown slacks.

Now that Iris was face to face with him, she was amazed at how he hadn’t stood out to her before they collided.

With the thought of his interesting choice in clothing aside, Iris turned her gaze to the ground to collect the items they had both dropped, however she was met with an unexpected sight. Cast across the pavement was a remarkable pile of bank notes, clearly from the old man’s bag. As she put it all back, Iris immediately thought to herself, why is this nice old man around walking around with a bag full of bank notes?

As if having read her mind, he answered her, ‘Why it’s for you of course. ‘

‘me?’ iris said, shocked.

‘well, that’s if you’d like it’

‘what do you mean, you cant just give me a bag of money,’

‘is that so? Why not, I’m sure you could use $20 000?’

‘well people don’t usually just hand out twenty thousand dollars now do they?’ There was a short pause as Iris tried to understand what had just happened. Then out of curiosity she asked, ‘what exactly would I have to do for the money?’

‘It’s quite simple really,’ the old man began. ‘All you have to do… is sign your name a little black book.’

Oh yeah that sounds completely legit, she thought in mockery.

The old man raised a brow at her. Now she really hoped he couldn’t read her mind.

Iris thought it couldn’t hurt to entertain the man, so she inquired further, ‘And what is in this little black book?’

‘see for yourself,’ and out of a pocket embedded in his trench coat, the old man produced a small charcoal, black notebook.

Iris took it, glancing over the pages, and to her astonishment, they were completely blank.

‘It’s empty,’ she said, growing more sceptical by the second.

‘It appears so,’ said the man. ‘Were you expecting something in particular?’

‘I guess some sort of contract or terms of agreement I guess,’

The old man nodded in understanding but answered quite bluntly.

‘Why bother?’ Iris looked up from the book puzzled. ‘Don’t the youngsters of this generations just click agree and move on anyway?’ He mused, cracking a smile.

Iris still wasn’t convinced. She began to comb through each page, carefully scanning for some sign that told her it was all some elaborate hoax.

While Iris stood in the middle of the walkway with cars streaking past and pedestrians dashing all around, she went over the details of the last five minutes: I bumped into a stranger, who spilled a massive pile of money; He offered it to me, on the condition that I sign my name in a blank notebook. Iris admitted it sounded insane. Yet she felt herself wanting to reach for a pen.

A published book with the name Iris Casletto printed in gold script on a brand-new spine, was all she thought about. This money could make the impossible… possible.

With the same telepathic understanding as before, the stranger held out a pen.

Iris took the pen and with one last flick through the pages asked, ‘where do I sign?’

‘Right hear deary,’ the stranger flipped to three quarters of the way in and pointed to the bottom edge of the page.

She did consider the specific placement a little strange, but then again, what about this situation wasn’t?

She resolved not to question it any further. Putting the tip neatly on the line, she began to sign.

Ir… is … something odd started to happen Cas…as she signed, words began to materialize across the page before her let…but it was too late, the last stroke was already in motion… to.

‘wait what is happening, what is all this?’ Iris thought she might have been hallucinating, finally her inner paranoia about strangers with big bags of free money had gotten the best of her. She slammed the notebook shut and blinked a couple times in hopes of refocusing her vision. Then, she began to reopen the book so slowly, the suspense hung thick in the air around her, forcing out all sense of peace. Until finally she looked upon the first page of the book.

This time she knew she wasn’t seeing some panic painted illusion. The previously empty page now proudly displayed what seemed to be a handwritten limerick.

A humble sum for one with passion and skill

An aspiring artist to do what thy will

We hope this will help thee on thy journey ahead

To prosper or perish do not be mislead

While we do bestow, our pittance to you

We hope only that thee may repay what is due

Iris tore her eyes from the script and looked about, seeking an explanation, but the stranger had vanished as swiftly as he had appeared. This situation required deeper concentration, so iris collected the bag and went home.

She began inspecting both the bag and the notebook in finer detail. Below the handle sat a striking, gold plaque with the words “est altera” engraved in cursive, the same phrase seemed to appear on the cover of the notebook. What is est altera? Iris was now beyond confused, so she turned to the only source that could giver her some answers… google.

‘onto to the next?’ she said to herself as she read. ‘why do I have a bag with a Latin engraving?’

Iris pondered for some time, then suddenly, a moment of clarity; iris felt she understood what the bag and the notebook were trying to say…

This was it; the opportunity iris had been waiting for, no more excuses, no more gracefully declining her friend’s assistance; Iris was finally going to publish her book and she wasted no time about it.

As soon as the sun broke over the horizon the next day and the open signs down Piccadilly made their debut, Iris was on the move. First to her agent, who’s earnest elation for her assured success made her all the more confident. Then she turned her greatest pride over to the dreaded editor. However, she suffered no major losses and finally she was on the final step before introducing the world to Iris Casletto.

She was always too humble to admit it, but she truly was an astounding writer, and now that Iris’s words were being impressed upon pages like an artist composes a masterpiece, all the world would know it.

Iris’s novel was like a salacious scandal burning on every tongue. It started as whisper, spoken about between, friends, family members and colleges but before long it was selling out of every bookstore in London.

Iris was now caught up in a whirlwind of book signings and press conferences, where she was flattered with eager requests for an array of potential sequels. I’ve done it, I am truly happy she thought. Amidst all the commotion Iris hadn’t realized that it had now been exactly a year since she had collided with the charitable stranger and she suddenly felt a sense of remiss.

Returning home, Iris ventured into the depths of her closet and retrieved a leather duffel bag with a gold, Latin inscribed plaque, and a small charcoal notebook.

She rushed from her apartment, heading straight for the bank where she withdrew such a sum that the bank teller gave her a vey unnerving stare that was clearly laced with suspicion. Iris however said simply, ‘It’s for a friend.’ Still glaring, the teller handed over £21 000 which Iris placed in the bag. Iris pushed open the door with ease and though she was struck instantly by the frosty autumn wind, she felt completely warm and satisfied. Iris was practically floating along when she collided unexpectedly with someone on the street.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said flustered, and became even more so upon looking up. Just like that, the stranger had appeared once again.

‘You read the terms and conditions then?’ he asked with a hearty grin.

‘something like that,’ Iris replied, returning the gesture. ‘so, I guess you take this back now,’ she asked while bringing the bag forward.

‘I do. But before that, is there anything else you wish to write in the notebook,’

‘yes actually, I think there is one last thing,’ Iris opened the notepad, back to the very page she signed and, turned it over, on it she wrote…

Make the Impossible Possible!