The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

They dragged out my habit of folding page corners (even though I was not the only one reading books), the fact that I had not contributed my handkerchiefs to the communal pool (even though I was not the only one with a nose), that I occupied the shower for longer than was allowed (twenty-eight minutes on average, when the norm was twenty), bumped my wheels while driving (and wheels need care!), and, finally, arrived at their main point—that I was a smoker. If you could call someone smoking one cigarette every three days a smoker.

Neat little boys in neat little shirts, so earnest and wholesome, but hidden underneath their faces were old hags, skin pitted with acid. This was not the first time I saw through to those wrinkled old crones, so it was not a surprise.

he wasn’t called Shark for nothing. He was precisely that. A blotchy, slit-mouthed fish with eyes looking in different directions.

The older the house, the bigger and wiser its Hairy. For those she likes, she makes her domain benevolent and gentle, and for the others—the other way around. In the ancient times, people used to call her spiritus familiaris and made offerings to her. They hoped she would protect them from dark influence and the evil eye . . .

The hairy hearth of the house

Sing as you run and shout as you dance, You’re a freak, so let out a scream— Let the whole world know you’ve been born by chance Of the tree and the forest stream.

I like the sound of the harmonica, provided I’m the one playing it.

I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? So she’s a bit on the scary side, but not excessively so. And live Gaby is certainly better than dead Black. Just my opinion.

have to suffer it until I begin melting under the layers they’ve wrapped me in, sweating milk and coughing out cream.

The one who got the acid in the eye shouts the loudest.

“Tried to get you a little bit stronger,” Mastodon’s voice muscles its way into my head. “Can’t say it worked too well.” “Sure would be handier with that machine gun,” comes the voice again. Mastodon holds a pregnant pause. The audience giggles. “But as I told you time and time again . . .” “The only good cripple is a dead cripple!” an entire chorus sings in unison. Of course. Mastodon’s maxims are classic. Quoting them from memory is something even Elephant can do. “You bloody bastards!” Mastodon roars, slamming both of his fists against the top of the lectern. “Waste of genetic material! Human debris!” A cloud of dust floats up in the air. The audience howls and applauds furiously. “I wish I had a hand grenade, screw the gun . . .” He is being dragged off the podium.

Now I need some time to come to grips with the Joseph complex that these two have managed to force on me, with being that one guy who always rubs his brothers the wrong way.

I’m sure I resemble an Ouroboros, but I’d like to see someone get a good grip on their calf with his teeth while looking dignified.

“Macho offspring of a middle finger!

The progressive-sporty style. These stares seem to unnerve Noble, but he’s handsome even in a jersey hanging down below his knees. It gives him this edgy hobo flavor with a dash of the dump. Combined with his looks, the effect is simply stunning.

discoursed on the topic of revenge. According to him, the best kind was to sit at the bottom of the river and wait for the bodies of your enemies to float by.

“You can’t know these things about me,” he says. “You just imagine that I am the one you need.” Blind takes the sleeve away. “I do sometimes become a changeling,” he says. “And it’s a lot like being a dog. I’m sorry, but I happen to know for sure whom I’d follow if I were a pup. That’s about the only difference between us: I’m a little bit more of a dog than you are.” “You’re a little bit more of a whole bunch of things,” Humpback mutters. “And a little less of a human. No space for him, with so much other stuff in there.” “But you like dogs.” “They’re better than humans.” “Then I am better, too.” “I don’t like you.” “That’s only because I don’t eat out of your hand or wag my tail.”

“Hey,” he hears a dejected voice say from above. “What do you think the Pied Piper would be playing?” “Madrigal of Henry the VIII,” Blind answers immediately.

Someone not very bright has fashioned a sleep nest and shoved me inside. I’m sure they had only the best intentions in mind. You have to have a knack for building nests, it is even a science of sorts, because if you get it wrong it’s liable to collapse or smother you accidentally.

He sniffles and scratches his chin. Or rather the place where chins are supposed to be located on people. His meditative state does not bode well for the prospects of us having tea in the foreseeable future, but it certainly improves his overall appearance.

Leadership has pushed him to the edge of inspired madness, beyond which even familiar people turn into strangers.