You know, why do riddles always have to be some dramatic and the wording so ridiculous? They could say: this word starts with d and ends with h and is opposite of life.

Do you know how much easier that would be? 

But sadly, nothing's ever easy.

So,

answer to number one . . . ?: There are many answers to it, but the "broken" area is odd. Is it a bone? Like you can't live without bones, a broken one still helps you stand up (sort of), and if someone catches one the bone won't try to escape because it can't?

Well Kate already solved the second one. (I was gonna guess the answer was pain)

Third one: Pain?  

(Top/bump/whatever)

I have to be honest, these riddles are really stumping me -- the first one especially. Guess it's R.I.P. to somebody else!

Day Thirty-Something Else

Of course.

OF COURSE.

Why did I not know?

Why……

Of course that was it.

I know so much now.

But...how to tell you, of all people? I really don’t want to. I like this how it is. l’m pretty sure this will throw a wrench in everything. You’re going to get mad at me for it, of course. Can’t be helped really, now can it?

Welllllll…...

On second thought.

The bottom half of the paper has been violently torn away, the last shaky words just barely hanging on, teasing the mind with what it to come.

But it's never going to come.

Brian laughs quietly at the piece of paper. “Hah. like you’re helpful.”

Well you’re not exactly helpful yourself.

He blinks.

“That was….”

Weird?

“Yeah. never mind that a letter is talking to me…..”

He starts floating serenely off of the ground.

“This isn’t real, is it?”

Pretty much.

Is this the end, dear human? Get educated, get a job, get a family, die. Rinse and repeat. Well, of course not. There’s always popcorn. In the end, there will be popcorn.

Well quit staring at me. Here, take a bowl. Come sit down. It has butter and salt and whatever you left in that container with a skull and crossbones in the freezer marked “High School Science Project”

What’s that? That’s not yours? Oh nevermind. It’s fine.

Hey! Quit stepping on my cloak. This thing is dry clean only, you hear? Shush. It’s starting.

Classical music pings in the distance, softly, as a rainy, dark city street opens up to the darkness, a lone figure strolling in the shadows with the fuzzy grain of a security camera.

This is Paris. She disappeared from her own completely ordinary world only a day ago, transported to the mysterious rooms of boxes, of odd notes and a single goal.

Or so she thought.

She also thought that Germany didn’t exist and peanut butter was actually made out of peanuts . She was right about the former, however came to change her views on peanut butter.

But she is to learn something very soon.

“Germany does! Not! Exist!” She yells into a room. A room much like every room in the universe, except it had walls. And a floor. And a ceiling. Which was most strange and perplexing.

This room had neither a box nor a door. In fact all it had was walls. With was just really strange.

Paris kicks one of those walls.

I don’t know why. Maybe she had something against walls. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. While she was busily kicking the wall, without her noticing, she began to float slowly upwards.
She yelps, and finds much to her dismay that she cannot get back down again.

“Well….how so very pleasant.” She grumbles.

Mirax awakes.

Not the normal kind, where you completely forget everything, which is of course completely normal, but the strangest kind where she suddenly remembered everything. And l mean everything.

She remembers her love for pencils. Sits up. Blinks. Finds a pencil in her hand and begins scribbling on the walls. Mainly shopping lists, reminders to eat more lobster and many, many drawing of the idea that Germany exists and--

Oh my.

What is that?

Mirax appears to have a severe case of tunnel vision. For one, a ghost orchestra has been attempting to play  for that last hour below her, and for another, there is a right below her, where a right below her shouldn’t be, namely in the middle of the hotel. Also there was a wall on which to write stuff. Always take issue with walls. Always. The wall and floor and everything ended very abruptly, leaving a cylinder spaced hole in the middle of the building stretching all the way down from the roof, exposing the floors of the building and the sky filled with exploding space ships--ah now but that’s off topic. She appears to be on one of the lower floors, seeing that the ghost orchestra has been locked in the dungeon of course, as all orchestras are required by law. And other then that...there is nothing else. this place is empty. She wonders why.

She blinks. How did l ever forget?

The walls have no answers.

The air holds but death.

They surround her, chillingly cold and merciless. She does not know exactly what they are, but they seem to be in the walls, in the building as if it is alive she quickly banishes that thought from her mind. Nonsense. Alive? How could this be alive? It’s not like the hotel was invaded by shapeshifting alien monsters without faces that possibly sent everyone into a coma while they took the hotel over and--

Oh.

Nevermind then.

The floor boards vibrate, shuddering her bones, with a deep rolling sound, washing over her, soothingly out of place.

 

Will you ever wake up?

You wonder what l'm talking about don’t you?

You’re puzzled, disturbed even. Your hands are starting to shake as a vast chasm of freezing fear spreads through you like poison. You feel so cold.

I know.

I've felt that way. And l've never felt anything since.

Fear is such an odd thing. At first you will reject it as an unwanted parasite, something that will eventually go away. Sometimes it does. Other times it’s in the back of your mind, like the shadow in the corner of your eye. And sometimes it takes up residence inside of you. Fear becomes a friend. It becomes a constant companion.

And the funny thing is….

I don’t know what l’m afraid of.

Mr. Brian,

We are mistaken.

You are the Artifact.

Good day.

Miss Paris,

We’re sorry. Our condolences, we’ll be sending our thoughts to your family. This must be a very difficult thing for them to go through, it’s the least that we can actually do.

Oh. of course. You don’t know.

Well, we’re sorry.

But you’re dead.

She knew that there was others. There just had to be. Mirax wouldn’t even let the thought of being alone cross her mind. She would find them and she would save them! All of them! And everyone would be okay. And them they’d go home and tell stories of what a great joke all of it had been and everything would be normal again--

Ah! Okay okay. Erm.....large hole in staircase, possibly leading to a death pit of full of rabbits. Or something. She didn’t know! She yelps quietly and gripped the railing of the velvet lined stairs as they are abruptly cut off below her, leading only into darkness.

Fear. so much fear. She the light fingertips of mist brush her skin, raising goosebumps that prickle across her skin.

Mirax carefully sits down on the last step, experimentally dangling her legs below into the darkness. Somewhere, something is moving, slithering across the ground with a wet, sticky sound that makes her shudder. The dim light from above her down not seem to even touch this kind of darkness. She stares down for the longest time, caught in some trance, debating.

But it was always too late. She was caught in the trap. And without even seeming to think about it, she falls off of the last steps.

There is a feeling of wind, then panic as she hits water, and desperately claws her way to the surface, all in darkness.

And then something. She doesn’t know what it was. It was so strange, something that humanity had never set eyes on, it was to her indescribable. It was beautiful.

Some sane part of her knows what this is, however, some part that is still unchanged despite having been in this hotel for who knows how long.

She knows that this is light.

And she has been  in darkness all of this time, even though she didn’t know it.

It is a deep amber, bleeding into the drifting mist. It is glowing so hot it’s burning, refracting off of the glass.

Mirac is sorrowful, from the core of herself a sorrow that one cannot know exactly what for, but simply a sorrow for...everything, as of the universe is an infinite tragedy and they can only sit on the sidelines laughing and throwing popcorn at it all because they are so sad.

“I'm going to die today.” She informs the light bulb. “I'm going to die. And l can’t do a thing about it. My existance is going to stop. Just like that.”

She snaps her fingers. The sound echos softly, quietly pinging on forveer.”And l’m not trying to save myself. I'm not sad nor happy. l suppose this is what dying is like.”

She decides to lay down on the soft and not unpleasantly prickly moss below the bulb. “No one will remember me, l suppose. I freed myself of such ridiculous things as dreams and hopes a long time ago. They kept bothering me into being a better person. Ptth. l didn't need that now l can live my life like l actually matter despite whatever  do.”

Her eyes wander to some point in space that the rest of us cannot see.

And then they close.

Awake.

Awake .

Awake the beast within.

Awake you people of the world.

Awake.

You know how you can tell if you’re in a dream? Reality never makes sense.

Dreams always do.

The world isn't made of atoms. It’s made of stories. So open your eyes. Reality is so much stranger then this. You should know that. Of course you do. You’ve probably been told it hundreds of times. For maybe not. We make reality make sense, not the otherway around. Now awake.

We were there at the end of the world.

No, only l will be there when the world falls at my feet.

The world is ending. And l am alone.

She awakes.

The ground is pulsating beneath the, rolling and shaking, rising up ever so high and crashing down again.

Water. The vague thought drifts into her mind….and out again.

Body. She thinks, attempting to get to her feet.

Hrm. Body. Nice word.

Blue. Very blue. Also but not quite water, because it is completely solid unlike actual water.

Dead body. She wonders.

Blue is very calming, in fact, so much so in that she doesn’t feel afraid--

Dead Body.

“Oh my--” She clamps a hand over her mouth, though for what reason it isn’t clear.

This body once belonged to someone, don’t you know. She doesn’t care to think about it.

Because….another person dead means only two more alive.  That isn’t going to stay like that for any amount of time.

Mhm. Popcorn.

~~~~~

Rest in peace, Mirax.

Answers to riddles!

“You cannot live without me….”. Is a heart

“Explorers never come back from me….” as Kate guessed, is death.

“I contain….”, is a clock.

Tune in next time and for the last time to hear the answer to the other riddle in 2-3 days. In the meanwhile, place your bets on the murderer!

The Last One---At Least For Awhile

As all things began, so they will end.

It was the darkest of the dark nights, when the night never seems to end, and all things are uncertain beyond our eyes. It was that sort of night.

He knew.

Of course he knew that it would come to this. Did he have a choice? Other then doing it, well no. He watched as they all died, and he knew, he felt so guilty for it. He felt like he should be the one doing in their place. And yet he never did anything about the dying part, now did he? No.

Creak, creak. Swish swish. The building sounds like the moan of the dying, the symphony of an ancient place. The song of passing. Of her passing. Of the passing of this era that should have been so bright and beautiful, that should have been glorious.

This was the future. Things were supposed to be better.

Right? This was how it always turned out no matter what. She knew this. This was just a story and stories always had happy endings!

So where was the glorious ending for this story? She feels childish for thinking this, in all of this time. She should know better!

And yet….she doesn’t.

For her, for Paris, there is hope, and there will always be hope. Such a childish, enduring hope of….something. It is a hope that transcends all reason and logic of the human mind. She hopes one single thing. She hopes for a happy ending. And for once, she wishes that she was one the sidelines watching it all with a bowl of popcorn.

Ah, alas, there are no sidelines here. Maybe popcorn, though.

It has still yet to hit her as exactly how real all of this is. She still can’t see it for what it really is. This is kind of disturbing her. She feels like she is standing on train tracks, waiting for the train to come and to end everything. And yet it never does.

Brian is polishing his knives. Why he owns these knives in the first place or feels the needs to polish them is questionable and odd. He watches his reflection in the dark, shiny, metal. In his imagination, his reflection is suddenly obscured by a flood of crimson. He does not think about it, only in a robotic actions. Step, step. Stab. scream. Thud. Draw back. Spin around. Exit.

And then nothing. It will be all over. That will be it. He will walk out of there. Alive. Finally alive. After all of this, simply alive.

They meet in the expected place. It seemed odd, this thing, that after all of these weeks it had come to this. Brian quietly opens the door. Paris would find him here. But first, he wanted to be prepared. Things had to go exactly right. He could not be surprised--

“Do you want some popcorn?”
“Wha--what?” He stumbles back, partly tripping on the carpet, and nearly impaling himself on his shiny knives.

Paris smiles innocently. An unnerving smile. A sharp smile, filled with too many things he didn’t know.

”Oh come on, don’t look so surprised. We both know who it is.”

Brian regains his composure, narrowing his eyes at Paris. “Yes and….? What does that have to do with anything?”

Paris’s features fall. “Well…..l was just kind of thinking that because we both know like exactly how this is going to play out we enjoy life for a little longer instead of dramatizing everything.”

Brian is reluctant. This is putting a twist into his plan and one that he does not like. Too many things could go wrong here. Still….it couldn’t hurt, could it?

Paris looks delighted. She thus declares the wall an interesting subject to study, and stares fixed at it whilst delighted devouring the popcorn. Brian grumbles about how some people can be happy at anything.

“I feel like l should be sad about this.” Paris says.

“You should.”

Brian does not say that.

Paris finds her bowl of popcorn suddenly invaded by a black gloved hand that she somehow doesn’t notice, rather rudely taking command of the popcorn. She makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat but does not turn her head. Brian squints at the wall, as if he is missing something.

“You know what they say about art? She doesn’t wait for his reply. “They say that art is everything, that it is purely subjective to the viewer and therefore there is no good or bad art universally.”

Brian did not come here for a lesson on art or to stare at a wall. He came to finish something once and for all.

“--And you see, that’s why it was revolutionary for art…..” Paris blinks at the knife handle that has appeared in her chest. She is neither shocked, or rolling on the floor dying as Brian had wished her to. Which is pretty annoying. She wasn’t gasping her last words, or begging on her knees for forgiveness about the art lessons. Also annoying. She instead reaches into the bowl, eyes locked on Brian, and draws out a knife.

How she had managed to hide a knife there was beyond him, but there it is. While he is wondering about the next course of action, the knife is quickly drawn back and thrown.

Brian doesn’t even have a second to think before it whizzes right past him…..and beyond, striking the not-so-subtle person behind him.

“That’s what you get for stealing my popcorn!”
“Popcorn theft is not grounds for murder!”

“You’re still talking, so you’re not dead!”

Silence.

“....I think she’s dead.”  Brian says, timidly, attempting to keep both an eye on Paris and an eye on the collapsed cloaked figure on the floor, which is impossible, if you were wondering. Paris’s face twists into something between disgusted and slightly gleeful but not trying to show it.

“That’s nice.” She mutters, as if she actually meant it. Brian thinks so.

“Well she was kind of annoying. And scatterbrained. And never really helped when everyone was getting murdered in her hotel….Also, um…….why aren’t you dying yet?”
“Maybe l just don't want to.” Paris says, lifting her eyebrows.

“That’s not how death--oh nevermind. You’re going to die sooner or later.”

She shakes her head. “You’re going to die sooner, l bet.”

“Haha. l'm not the one with a knife handle--”

Oh.

Nevermind then.

“How did you---?”

“You're not very observant, are you?”

“I think l should notice when l've been stabbed.” Brian grumbles.

“You could be in space and you wouldn’t notice.” Paris says, with a shrug.

“I would!”

She snaps her fingers, causing the double doors to swing wide open with a gust of air. Or rather, lack of air. A vacuum.

Brian’s eyes go wide. “Oh come on!”
“I told you so….”

See, the thing about space  is that you can only view it with one sense. There is no sound, only perhaps of your own ragged breathing, no feel, no taste, no smell, there is nothing absolutely nothing, to warn you beforehand of it’s coming.

You open your eyes….and it is simply slapping you in the face with pure light and darkness and infinity.

And now, now he knows why so many humans have dreams for millions of years of reaching the stars, have looked up at the night sky and they have dreamed, one single, absolute and powerful dream. One infinite dream.

They wanted to touch the heavens.

Behind him, there are sounds. Words. Slow words. But he does not heed them. It all seems so tiny now, so very tiny, because here none of it mattered none of it ever would make the slightest bit of difference.

He steps out of the door, but there is no need as the vacuum of nothingness greedily, violently, grasping him.

He does not feel anything.

Only there are the stars rushing up to greet him.

Epilogue

We have dreams. So many of these dreams. And yet faced with them, with everything else thrown away….one will find that they have no use for these dreams.

Paris knows. For some how, her dream of being alive after everyone else was dead...is here. And it seems, though she knows not how, that she is in control of the hotel. She is its master now. The Teller of Tales is….dead, she supposes. She nudges her body with her foot. The Teller jerks up alive, with a sudden yelp. Paris jumps back with a scream.

“What is it with you people who can’t die?”

“What’s with you and stabbing people with knives?” The Teller gasps. She sits up, slowly and painfully.”Nevermind. l’ve come back from dead for my revenge.”

“And that is?”

“The Hotel.”

“What?”

“You. Get. The. Hotel. It’s not rocket science, though you will probably will need that later….”

“But….it’s yours! I don’t even know how it works or what it is! I can’t have it!”

She can hear the dark smile  in The Teller’s words.

“Neither did l when l inherited it…...l didn’t know a thing, never have….”

Paris blinks the tears out of her eyes--more pity for herself then The Teller. (She still stole her popcorn, Paris will never forget that.)

“l…..” But the question dies on her tongue as she watches The Teller’s body slowly dissolve into smoke and just….drift away. Just like that.

“This shouldn’t end like this….”

But no one will hear her words, or her screams. There is no one.

And so here is where we will leave our dear hero, or perhaps our dear villain. She has fought the good fight in in the end, she has gotten what she wanted, with a price. And as it seems dreams will come true, but should they?

Because here she is, in charge of lonely, vast, living ship full of ghosts.

She knows not where to go, only that the universe is before her and the Hotel Le’Faye behind her….and yet she feels so empty.

This night has been a long one, for the both of us, reader. While Paris may drift the stars, forever lonely, we hope that you have learned something from this night, unlike Paris.

Good night, Hotel Le’Faye, good night.

Ah, such a wonderful, mystical tale. You live up to your name. It was so dramatic and emotional. This must be done soon. We will await your next story excitedly, Teller of Tales.