A Tap on the other Shoulder

13 April 2018

She was on my left. To my right, no one sat, for there was no one. But someone tapped my right shoulder yet again. I thought it was her. I tapped her from the other side. She turned back. She turned further. Now she was facing me. And I was facing her. And I saw her face. Lit in the moonlight. Illuminated from top. Dark from the bottom. It was not her. It was no human. Another tap on my shoulder. I noticed her neck. It has rotated by 270 degrees. Her body still faced the front. My phone beeped. I could not move. I have never seen a scarred face so close to mine. My phone beeped again. My heart was pounding. I noticed that the optic nerves were visible in the eye socket, since one of the eyeballs were missing. Instead the eyeball was in her mouth. She was chewing it. My shoulder got tapped again. I looked down momentarily into the vibrating phone. She was calling me. I accepted the call. ‘It’ looked down. I looked up. ‘It’ looked back up having swallowed the eyeball. It smiled. I say ‘it’, for it looked no more like her. I heard a voice out of my phone. A voice that I knew. My voice. It asked whether I knew where she was. I don’t remember making that call. A drop of saliva dripped onto my screen. It was smiling. Suddenly, I noticed its hand. There was a phone that looked like hers. In it, I was video calling her. Another tap. I turned back. She was there. Looking scared. Sitting on my left with her phone in her ear.My eyes widened. I looked back. It was no more there. I turned back, she was to my right. I turned again, my left side was empty. I was dumbstruck. She was indeed sitting on my right. In her hand was a phone. That looked like mine. The phone in my hand looked like hers. Someone tapped me on my right shoulder. I thought it was her. I turned back, turned further and looked into her eyes. She seemed awfully scared to see my face. To scare her further, I swallowed my own eyeball.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

A Freaky Friday Post

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Blood Floods Clown Town

11 April 2018

A massacre took place. A man with a machine gun, killed a hundred innocent inhabitants of clown town with a knife. Why he did not use the machine gun is not not known, however. As a result, blood flooded the streets of clown town, which is located to the North of Frown Town.

After killing those people, the killer found out that those were not people in the first place. They were instead watermelons disguised as people. Instantly, he came up with the idea of running an errand and earning some money. He sold those cut pieces of watermelon for five bucks and earned quite a fortune.

He used this money to hire investigators so as to find out if blood was not shed, what exactly did flood the town. To this the investigators turned red and blushed before admitting that it was  out of their ability to solve such a mystery.

Hence, the killer hired Sherlock Holmes. Holmes arrived and within a second said, “It’s elementary my dear Watson”, which is weird because Watson was nowhere near, and then swiftly pointed to the sunglass the killer was wearing, which allowed only red colour to pass through.

The killer instantly understood the mystery behind the red colour, but he still did not know what the fluid was which appeared red. But before he could ask that, he sneezed and the machine gun fired twenty round of bullets into his own abdomen and he instantly flooded the street himself. This time, the flood was red even without the sunglass.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

A Weird Wednesday Post

End was Near

8 April 2018

Even if we dropped a tear,
Even if we changed the gear,
Even if we overcame fear,
We knew, our end was near.
We were trapped here right inside,
Our eyes were open wide,
The water rose due to high tide,
“We’re fine!”, we just lied.
Soon we saw the sun go down,
The dark forced us to frown,
We were in this unmanned town,
To describe it was no noun.
Our hearts started to pound,
When we heard a scary sound,
The reason of which we found,
Is a barking old greyhound.
We were figuring out a scheme,
To survive as a team,
Suddenly there was a smell of fresh cream,
That simply woke me up from my dream.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

A Serious Sunday Post

Modular Kitchen and Sizzling Humans

5 March 2018

Everyday while returning from work, he saw a small shop at the Southern corner of the 5th block in St Peter’s Avenue. The small shop had no shopkeeper. It did not sell any goods. It was just an air conditioned cubicle with a modular kitchen setup. On the dilapidated banner hanging right above the transparent glass door, was written in algerian font, “For Sale”. The only thing that bothered him about this setup was the presence of juicy meat sizzling upon the Induction oven.

He had recently moved to a new unfurnished flat following an appreciable hike in his salary. He wouldn’t have denied, had you asked him then, his temptation to buy that specific kitchen set-up and install it in his new home. The next day, driven by his new desire, he stopped in front of that cubicle shop. No one was inside. He pushed open the door. The delicious sizzle greeted him, along with the aroma of well cooked meat. He walked into the shop.

Inside, all was silent, except the sizzle. The din of traffic was restricted on the other side of the glass door which sealed shut as soon as he walked in, to ensure that the conditioned air did not leave the confinements of the shop.

But a shock greeted him as soon as he turned back. Through the transparent doors all he could see, was not the bustling traffic of the street beyond but instead, was a reflection of him. Clearly, the door was photochromatic. Light traversed out but not in. Being claustrophobic, his breath rate and pulse quickened. Sweats popped up disobeying the air conditioner. He began to look around.

He stared into the sizzling dish resting upon the induction oven. His gaze got fixed. Along with some juicy pieces of meat, was an artefact that exponentiated his fear. It was an ear. A human ear.

Suddenly, the lights went off. A sharp blow. The end.

Who knows who will be tempted in tomorrow by the visual aroma of his sizzling flesh cooking upon the induction oven of a modular kitchen setup, because by tonight the flesh that had attracted him in would already be eaten.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

Buy Me a Coffee at ko-fi.com

Waking up to a Fully Charged Phone (feat. Nightmares)

1 March 2018

It is a joy beyond what words can express. A completely charged smartphone lying next to you when you wake up has the strange power to wash away all your worries and can cure the bruise imposed by the scary nightmare, that you had dreamt just before you opened your eyes.

It reminds you how pure, the love that exists in our world really is. It motivates you so much, that you find yourself fiddling with it till the first two digits of your three figure charge wipe away. You post screenshots of your phone onto social media and declare that those three digits at the top right corner make you happier than seven new digits at the end of your bank balance.

Immersed in joy, you completely forget that last night when you had gone to sleep, it was displaying the “Connect Your Charger” message with only six percentage of battery power to boast about. Had I reminded you that fact, you would have been scared immeasurably because you live alone, and if you didn’t charge your phone then there is possibly no way it can charge itself to the round figure of a hundred percent.

But happiness, as you might have already realized, is transient. You just opened the gallery of your phone. And one of the recently clicked images, disturbed you a little. You clicked on the thumbnail and threw away the phone in disbelief.

A picture of you sleeping on the bed in the house that you lived alone would have been scary but what you saw, was worse. You saw, a dark figure lying next to you, with sparkling eyes making direct eye contact with you. Your eyes were open. There was a hand on your mouth that was not yours.

Although you did not get who charged your phone, you just understood that the nightmares you had dreamt last night, actually did happen last night.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

Buy Me a Coffee at ko-fi.com

One Man, Two Places, Three Times

24 February 2018

I think it happened again. This would be the third time! I saw him driving my Black Toyota. I was sitting in the backseat and was momentarily distracted by a gleaming Porsche across the street. And I saw him driving that car too! I looked back and here he was driving my car. I looked away and there he was driving what I wished, were my car.

Two hours back, it had happened for the first time. I was calling him up to drive me to the airport. Over the phone, I heard him say I’ll be there soon, and one second later, he was ringing my doorbell. I know it was him because I could see him from the CCTV Camera we had recently installed at our doorstep, to stop the trespassing mosquitoes. But that isn’t the weird part. The strange thing happened when he crossed me in a hurry on my route towards the door, and asked me to get ready fast as he’ll answer the door. It struck me only after the door was answered that he could not have possibly let himself in but by then, I could see only one of him.

The second time this happened, it was worse. This was half an hour before the third encounter. We had stopped at a roadside KFC for some food. I asked him to buy some hamburgers for me. He complied and on his way to KFC, collided with a man carrying a food packet. I saw him apologise and walk back towards my car to hand me over the burgers before climbing back in and starting the engine. Then I saw him walk into the KFC, only a second before we cruised away in our car.

Now I am on an international flight. Boarding procedures have almost obliterated the double trouble from my mind. I relaxed upon the airplane seat and read through the newspaper. It was then that I read it…

Black coloured Toyota suffers the ‘Worst Accident Ever’

The Passenger is dead but the driver escapes in perfect health

Then I saw my body, lying peacefully in 2 severed pieces, soaked in blood and he was shedding tears of loss, in a photograph accompanying the newspaper report. “That poor man looks just like you”, he observed from the seat beside me.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

Editor-in-chief

Antarctica Daily

His Last Words

23 February 2018

His last words were, “Keep me anonymous“. Hence this article began with a pronoun. Had his last words been, “Keep me alive“, those wouldn’t have been his last words.

He fell from a motorbike. Into a manhole. Then fell for about 5 seconds. Into the sewer. Sank under sewage for about 5 minutes. Flowed into the water treatment plant. Got treated for about 5 hours. Ultimately, got rescued.

He was drenched with water and other aromatic constituents of sewage we will prefer not to highlight. His motorbike was stolen by somebody or it had become invisible or it was annihilated by an anti-motorbike. Or someone had dropped an invisibility cloak over it. His clothes were dyed black and washed dirty. His spectacular spectacles were inspected by a spectator and reported to be damaged. His wallet had liquid cash and a dollar soup. Worst of all, he was unbelievably ashamed of himself.

The rescuers called up an ambulance. The paramedics asked him for any last words, before dumping him in the emergency room, expecting a plea to stay alive. But he said, “Keep me anonymous”.

They drove him to the graveyard.

Arkadeep Mukhopadhyay

Editor-in-chief

Antarctica Daily