A post I wrote on the plane, which makes it pretty much nonsensical. But just follow me to a world where aristotelian plot lines aren't necessary to happiness.
There was once a Spanish queen who was very proud. Her skirts were always of the finest silk, and the colors dying them were of the most expensive liquids. Her silvers were true silver thread, carved from the mountains by the villages who dwelt there. Her pearlescent greens and blues were made of the essences of pine and herbs, laid over by the tears of maidens.
Her panniers were so wide, they filled half her drawing room, and as she grew older, they grew with her, until they covered a tent-wide swath, so much that no one could approach her, and her underlings used long horns to communicate. In this time, she noticed a strange sound emanating from underneath.
The sounds croaked in the morning, and again in the evening. She couldn't sleep for the low tremors and aching gutterations from underneath her skirts. One day, her eyes carrying huge circles beneath them, she shrieked in frustration, and started cutting away all of her silks. In an hour or two of vicious hacking, she came upon the guilty parties.
Many frogs of colors, each tinged by the tints of her silks, sat happily in the huge shade cast by her enormous gown. The whole small city of frogs were joyfully communicating with one another in singsong warbles and strange narrations of coughs. The queen did not cry in fear, nor did she shriek in horror, rather, she carefully moved her feet around, which she could see again for the first time in many years, and her brow wrinkled in thought.
That evening, she crowned each knobby head with a ring of gold, and bequeathed upon them ponds of their own, each to a kingdom of water and stone. She set a new fashion that made skirts quite outre' and took to wearing pants instead, turning her skirts into luxurious canopies for her drawing rooms. She painted her eyes with kohl and took to writing music upon the Spanish chitarra while making eyes at her music master.
