Free Write

This is from my friend Kathy at 10 Minute Writer. It's a "free write." Details are on her blog, but this is my result:

The city of Glome stands on the left hand of the river Shennit to a traveller who is coming up from the south-east, not more than a day's journey above Ringal, which is the last town southward that belongs to the land of Glome. Just outside the city there were 2 run down houses, side by side, with gardens in front. One belonged to a witch. The other belonged to a poor but honest farmer and his wife. Now, both the gardens were full of plants and thriving, but the witch grew the most beautiful rampion in the whole land of Glome, but the farmer and his wife couldn't grow any rampion to save their lives. The wife was bitter over their failure, and spent days at a time nurturing rampion seedlings and watering and fertilizing the delicate plants, only to watch them wither and die before fruiting. One day, in the height of summer, the Queen of Glome was making a progress through the land, and was planning to visit all her subjects. The wife made a beautiful bread, but knew that the best garnish for it would be the rampion. She sat in her kitchen and wept over the fact that she would be unable to show her cooking off to its best angle. Her husband came home early from the fields and found her weeping.
"Why do you weep?" he asked.
"I have no rampion, which is the only thing which will bring my bread distinction," replied his wife, weeping. The farmer sighed. He couldn't stand to see his pretty wife cry, and he formed a plan.
So at dusk he climbed over the wall into the Witch's garden, and, hastily gathering a handful of rampion leaves, he returned with them to his wife. He didn't realize, however, that the Witch was watching from behind the curtains. The demon just laughed and laughed. She carried a quantity of matches in her old apron, and held a packet of them in her hand. Now she struck one in the gloom of her kitchen, and let it burn down almost to her finger. Just before it made contact, she muttered, "Let the rampion burn their throats just as this match burns my finger."
The next day dawned bright and clear for the Queen's progress. The farmer and his wife took their appointed places along the road. There was a space next to them for the witch, but she did not appear.
"Where do you suppose she is?" asked the farmer, nervously.
"I don't know and I don't care," replied his wife, smiling as she arranged the rampion over the bread.
"If she comes, how will we explain the rampion?" he asked again, still nervous.
"Say we bought it at market," she replied, unconcerned with anything but her beautiful dish. The farmer sighed. No market rampion ever looked as good as the witch's, but he was in this thing now no matter what.
The trumpets caught their attention, announcing the Queen's approach. All along the road were farmers and their wives, dressed in their best clothes and holding modest offerings. The farmer's wife could see that no one had such gleaming green rampion as she, and her heart swelled with pride.
Dust rose on the road as the retinue approached. The trumpets continued playing. First appeared a group of jugglers and tumblers, rolling around and doing tricks. The children in the crowd were delighted, but the farmer's wife had eyes for nothing but her bread. Next came the trumpeters and drummers, making a beautiful melody, but the farmer's wife just kept her eyes on the bread and sighed with joy. And then, finally, came the Queen. She walked regally, taller than any man there. She was accepting each donation into her hand, and then passing it back into a large wagon. In return she offered a gracious blessing. The farmer's wife was so nervous she felt like she might faint. Then the Queen was there, her hand graciously reaching out to her.