The House That Breathes

Megan Harmon a junior at Watauga.

She enjoys writing "because it is a way for me to reflect on compact ideas, thoughts, and emotions in indirect ways."

She says, "Writing is a way we can bring attention to issues within our society in unconventional ways."

Megan said her story was inspired by the quote, "Everything happens for a reason." She says, "The main character faces alienation from his uncanny observations of the world and grievance from the deaths of his parents. However, he is able to use these experiences to create something behind just himself."

Megan continues, "There is always something or someone there to stop you, but what matters is how you will move on from such. There is an entire world outside of yourself; it all begins within."

You can read Megan's story below.

The House That Breathes

Megan Harmon

Once upon a time there lived a man by the name of Henry Vitál. He was a short man, standing only 5’6” at full growth-- but his personality was far taller. Henry was an optimistic individual, and he was said to have been born on another planet: abnormal beauty. He spent most of his childhood days frolicking in fields of dandelion and foxtail. The weeds would reach to his upper thigh, brushing against his skin with a joyous tickle. His laugh could be heard from any corner of the small town; it began deep in his belly, low and thunderous, before bursting from his throat with an effervescent howl.

“He’s such a happy little boy,” the townsfolk would often observe.

Rootless was a quaint town hidden behind rows of thick oak trees, beyond the rolling hills, a place where everyone knew everyone. And Henry Vitál was certainly known. He came from an acknowledged family, with a carpenter of a dad and his mother working Rootless’s biggest farm. In his early years, Henry worked the farm with his mother, Athena, tending to crop and feeding livestock. Though, his mother found him dancing with the butterflies and picking the prettiest of flowers more times than not.

“Henry, what ever are you doing romping in the grass? You must be working; The cows need feeding, the horses need brushing, the tomatoes need harvesting!” Athena insisted with her voice like honey, but her words stood sharp.

Henry would huff a long, heaving sigh. “But the cows speak in gossip, the horses speak in jokes, and the tomatoes scream bloody murder!” Henry would whine.

Henry Vitál heard the world. Not just the singing birds or the wind against trees-- No, he could hear the ground screaming as feet trampled it, the trees whispering wisdom, and the sky crying as rain fell; Henry Vitál heard the world.

But the loudest voices were those of homes. His family’s eccentric cottage spoke like a wise grandmother in her ancient years of life. At night the browning wallpaper would tell stories of those before Henry who lived. The creaking wood of the floor lectured to the boy the importance of support. Henry found that quite ironic, though he would be a fool to turn his ear away from the insight. Its roof heaved from the distant years of keeping the weather and the words from the rooms within. So, he would listen to his home as it spoke with love and with pain.

Henry would spend nights giggling as the nightly cicadas and spiders told him jokes of all they’ve seen. In the morning, he would frolic in fields of gossiping dandelion and foxtail, dancing with singing butterflies and picking the kindest flowers.

“Henry, what ever are you doing romping in the grass? You must be working; The cows need feeding, the horses need brushing, the tomatoes need harvesting!” Athena recited by memory at this point in time.

Henry would huff a long, heaving sigh. “But the cows speak in gossip, the horses speak in jokes, and the tomatoes scream bloody murder!” Henry would whine as always.

What a happy little boy he was. The happiness of Henry was challenged on his twenty-fourth birthday. On that spring day, mid April, with the blossoming crop and lush trees, Henry Vitál’s parents passed away. Who was once a boy, now a man, weeped and sobbed on the floor of the cracking cottage for three weeks, His mother’s favorite number.

He cried out, “Oh, tell me why you mustn't return my parents to me, world!”

The house was silent, as was the world around him. Henry thought they were playing tricks on him, teasing him for his grievance. The truth was that the world was grieving with him.

On Henry’s twenty-first day of crying, the cottage windows spoke. Their voices were high-pitched, sharp, and whined long vowels, “Everyone looks through us-- don’t look through the world-- we must go on, past death and beyond life.”

With this presumptuous advice, Henry stood from the floor blanketed in a month’s worth of dust. He smacked his pants and shirt, freeing the material from dirt and grime. At this moment, Henry Vitál decided he must honor his gifts as his father would’ve wished for.

With this, the man began building houses for the townsfolk of Rootless. He didn’t just build houses, rather he created homes-- he gave these buildings a heart, a soul, and a mind of their own. Some were subversive towards their owners, this was not the choice of Henry but instead the property of life. Others, usually the ones for elders or families of children, were kind and sang bright melodies into the world beyond their four walls.

Henry built a house of his own. He knew he would die in that house and his last breath would be interrupted with a smile. For that is what he hoped he could achieve for those around him.

The town of Rootless quickly came to recognize the nobility of Henry Vitál. The town’s governor, Knavelus Serpentous, however, found humor in the claim that Henry withheld such intention of building breathing homes.

With this, he called forth the amiable man, requesting such a laboring commission, “Oh, Mr. Vitál, the happy man of Rootless! Hear my request and take forth such desire. It would be my honor for the Magical Man to build me, Governor, a new house.” Knavelus Serpentous spoke in sincerity, yet a look into his eyes would reveal the conniving silver-lining.

Henry was shocked by the prestigious man’s request, though he knew his talent was not to be overlooked. With this, he humbly agreed, going to his whispering home to develop a blue-print for the build.

“Oh, Mr. Vitál, the happy man of Rootless! Hear my request and take forth such desire; This house must be eight floors high, reaching the bellies of the clouds! This building must contain a room for every chore I feel necessary! The home must have a garden stretching miles beyond the spine of my property, planted of nothing more than purple asters! At last, a fountain made of gold, a sculpture of myself, must be placed in the center of this scape! Magical Man, build me, Governor, a new house.”

The Governor made this request with nothing less than the intention of making a fool of Henry Vitál-- he could not build a house of that intensity!

Henry was shocked by the prestigious man’s request, though he knew his talent was not to be overlooked. With this, he humbly agreed, trading his blueprint paper for a large poster. Within three weeks time, 21 days had passed and Henry Vitál had built the governor’s home.

It was conducted of eight stories, reaching the bellies of the clouds. There was a room for each chore the governor felt necessary. And a fountain of gold, sculpted with the finest focus, the face of Knavelus Serpentous along with an outstretched garden planted of only purple asters.

Knavelus Serpentous stood at the gates of his solictacian with his mouth agape. His eyes flickered across the details with a poisonous glare. It was the prettiest building he’d ever seen! And that deeply angered the man. Henry Vitál had made a fool of him.

“What a deprecating man who built this ignominious house!” The enraged man cried out.

Henry did not understand why the governor had become so upset. He’d done exactly what was asked of him. Though, he wasn’t a fool as assumed-- the house spoke. It spoke with a vicious tongue, the paintings screaming bloody murder as Knavelus Serpentous walked by.

The floors creaked with cries and sobs: “Get your grotesque feet off of me!”

The mirrors perched in every bathroom whispered truths, “You are a conniving man, Mr. Serpentous. You are malevolent, disgusting, and in need of nothing less than a humbling embrace!”

The governor’s ears bled from the truth. The townsfolk heard the heaving sobs of Mr. Serpentous every night, the frightful truth withholding his conscience. With his name falling out of every mouth, he could not live this way-- he could not live under the dirty feet of the commoners.

Exactly one week after the completion of the house which dishes the dirt, Knavelus Serpentous set fire to Henry’s joyous home as it slept. The fire blazed with jealousy, stripping the crying wallpaper from the charring walls. The floors heaved as the spine of the home fell and the roof could hardly accept the first mark of defeat.

At last, by midnight, the breathing house breathed no more. Henry Vital burned inside with a smile on his face, for the happy man heard the world. Not just the singing birds or the wind against trees-- No, he could hear the ground screaming as feet trampled it, the trees whispering wisdom, and the sky crying as rain fell.

At last, he heard the content relief of the burning home as it spoke with wisdom: “We now go on, past death and beyond life.”