"But mother, please, I want to hear the original."

"Do you?" the witch asked, sighing as she waved a hand at a candle to ignite it again. "I suppose you are big enough now-"

"I'm five stone."

"Yes, dear, you are. Do you promise to stay your tongue until the end?"

The young wizard nodded, pulling the wool sheet to his chin.

"There was a man named Horace Sheene, whose days were poor and mean.

He worked on his potions all e'en, trying to make himself green.

He purloined a feather of a drake; he wondered what brews it might make.

Yet in his stupor he made a mistake; he knew not that the feather was fake.

In the glass stared the face of a lord; he needed only a robe and a sword.

He wore what was in his stolen hoard, but soon he found himself bored.

Sheen went to the lord's wife to see, and she readily believed it was he.

They went about business an hour or three, whatever that business might be.

He found a lost hair, in a lost comb, doubting it would make him a gnome-

put the hair, furtively, into the foam, of his brew just as the lord came home.

Lord Glemis was angry, understand he did not; his rage boiled oil in a gold boiling pot!

Sheen disappeared, but the lady was caught, and screamed as she found the oil quite hot!

He laughed as he flew, looking a maid, safely away from the penalty paid.

On his broomstick he was unafraid; he sought what trouble could be made.

As a young muggle girl did he appear, he walked into town to seek a seer,

to whom he might confess his fear, that the end of his life was near.

The diviner said he had heard no lie, that soon, quite soon, would he die.

To spite the seer, he mixed with rye, a draught to make him dead to the eye.

The town saw as in earth he was laid, the rites ever swift for an unknown maid.

At night he rose, as the priest yet prayed, both potions had faded, their parts played.

By morn men raged at the open grave, and at the false telling the diviner gave.

For such bold predictions, were he so brave, he would have no trouble in a bear's cave.

There was a roar, there was a scream, the seer wished to be having a dream.

He knew little magic, as it would seem; his only use was as food for the bream.

Sheen laughed again, in his original shape, howling and beating his chest like an ape.

Having had yet another daring escape, he could hardly wait to be in a new scrape.

A merchant passed by, rich as a king; Sheen followed him to an inn, where he was sleeping.

He stole the wizard's clothes, even his ring, then turned into him, for the time being.

In the morn he overpaid the town belter, he clothed hungry men and gave the sick shelter.

Visiting the bank, and then the smelter, he threw razors of gold in the streets helter-skelter!

Some tried to take care, but had no time to think, others pushed and acted the fink.

The wise meant to flee with but a clink, but as blood spurted, their hopes would sink.

The gold edges they turned on each other, sister slashed sister and brother slashed brother.

Clutching gold there was a dead mother, lying face down in the street, her infant to smother.

Sheen laughed as people screamed, more and more naughtiness he dreamed.

Guiltier and guiltier the rich man seemed, begging for a chance to be redeemed.

Sheen was away as he met his fate, fearfully groveling before reckless hate.

The town decided to take his estate, yet nevermore was he called a cheapskate.

At last he decided to go home for more, awaiting whatever tomorrow had in store.

The potion he had made was no bore, but collecting and brewing was ever a chore.

He traded the gold for various meats, drake, game, and swine, to mix with beets.

Even there, he heard shouting in the streets; some remained unimpressed by his feats.

Sheen would awake to brew a new brew, to continue trouble or start trouble anew.

Yet as he thought, and finished his stew, the smell of smoke nearby grew and grew.

Was the town on fire? Had he set it ablaze? He felt the greatest delight in all his days.

He looked outside for the glowing praise, yet it seemed a different sort of craze.

Almost all of the houses were on fire, and though his spirits could be higher,

he had a concern, greatly more dire, that his own hovel would be his pyre.

He sought an escape, but none could he see; the fire ignored his silent plea.

It surrounded and he could not flee, not e'en to be smoked out like a bee.

If any had seen what he had done, he had not once seen anyone.

Sheen was always quick to run, but ever had he too much fun?

He knew he was the master of jest, but in apothecary, not the best.

Perhaps a master took an interest, perhaps as he changed or dressed.

He may even have been followed back; a shape changer outside his shack.

An easy task, for one with the knack, was reversing the work of a quack.

If it were so, he would not know, for out of his home he could not go.

Into fire, did he hastily throw, potion stuffs made but a moment ago.

The fire roared and devoured him whole, separating his body and soul.

Both burned and burned, as might coal, but for his remains there was no hole.

A moment passed.

"Is that the end?"

"You wished to hear the original, dearest. I remember no explanation of what happened to the town. I invented the one I told you."

"Oh. Well, I didn't know it just ended like that." He lacked the words to describe the abruptness; the lack of satisfaction. The young wizard's mother patted him on the head.

"That's quite alright, dear. Earlier, I thought it best to simply give you the meaning of the story, but you're half a man now, so perhaps it is time you think of it on your own. My father seemed to believe Sheen would tell the moral of the story, but when I was a little witch I always thought if I were that far gone, I would not be learning lessons from stories. I tried to take lessons from some of the other characters, and I believe they served me well." She rose, extinguishing the candle again, and making to leave the room. "They say the best stories do not need an explanation."

The young wizard did not watch as his mother left. His eyes were fixed on a book sitting on the end of his bed.

Ensnare the Senses from An Early Age by Gregory the Smarmy, the cover read- or it would, were it light.

 

1189 words - this felt a bit disjointed, in part because of the rhyming, but also because parts weren't clear. Still a neat idea with some good lines!

Spoiler

Props for using ‘stone’ as a measure of weight. I can totally see a kid saying something along these lines – especially one young enough to only weigh five stone.

I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that some people don’t like the rhymes, even if they appreciate the effort that went into this.

I really and truly do appreciate the effort that went into this, but it’s a bit awkward to read. There’s too much and too many italics for my eyeballs to enjoy it. I find it easier to read in non-italics and coupled, a bit like this, in case you decide to edit it later:

There was a man named Horace Sheene, whose days were poor and mean.
He worked on his potions all e'en, trying to make himself green.

He purloined a feather of a drake; he wondered what brews it might make.
Yet in his stupor he made a mistake; he knew not that the feather was fake.

In the glass stared the face of a lord; he needed only a robe and a sword.
He wore what was in his stolen hoard, but soon he found himself bored.​

The rhymes are clever and they might work well with pictures, like in a Dr. Seuss book, but by themselves I have trouble painting a picture of what’s going on. I’m too busy parsing the words to let them flow, I guess? I can’t seem to explain this. Moving on!

Gets a bit terrifying here. Sister v sister and brother v brother is bad enough, but that line about the dead mother smothering her infant was harsh. Well done if you were going for that, and I think you were.

This line will probably be my favorite, it just… feels giddily sociopathic:

Was the town on fire? Had he set it ablaze? He felt the greatest delight in all his days.

But I also quite like this line, which will probably stick with me longer:

My father seemed to believe Sheen would tell the moral of the story, but when I was a little witch I always thought if I were that far gone, I would not be learning lessons from stories.

All in all I think this is a fine story but telling it with this much rhyme detracts from it somewhat, perhaps? I recognize and acknowledge the effort that went into this, but it needs some tweaking to work for me. I admit to having done the same thing before and a beta-reader (or two) telling me to drop the rhymes (and another one telling me to be smarter with my rhymes but to keep them), so I offer their advice to you as well.

Good idea, thanks for writing.