Once upon a few minutes ago, there lives a Lizard afore-named Stitch. He lives not a stone’s throw away, but you wouldn’t know that. He minds his business as do the rest of us. A swell guy if you ask me.
Stitch is special, you see.  Albino lizard.  You might be well acquainted with his extended family that rather enjoys the view from up your ceiling. The food is aplenty, so they say. His relatives love the view so much. And so they stay.
Not so for Stitch. You see he suffers from an acute case of vertigo, if his doctor’s diagnosis is anything to go by. Let us be polite as polite can be. Let us go by what the good old doctor says.
Stitch lounges outdoors in a special place where the sun has been muted and the rain has been defeated. Only a little moisture and we all get along swimmingly. A little too much I might add.
His relatives in high places warned him against it, and his mom who knew about it all before it spread whipped Stitch a few. All in vain.
Stitch swore a thousand nothings to her ear, whatever that may be. Whatever she wanted, he’d be the man for the job. He promised to take her where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. A far-fetched dream, I would say, just that one night it wasn’t far-fetched anymore.
Loud mouthed and braggarts as is expected of them, Stitch’s esteemed relatives, you know those that love the climb; well they sleuthed a Garden of Eden not far off. They told such tales of such a place where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. The flies flew low and were fat as fat. 
Just the place Stitch had in mind. A honeymoon spot and if he played his cards right, a new home for Stitch and his…Aah…She-Who-Can’t-Be-Named (She might sue)
As the dew settled on the petals and the crickets serenaded their spouses, Stitch got it in his head to whisper in her ears, wherever they might be. A while later, off he went to the place where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. He made it a place where she too would like. The flies flew low and were fat as fat and as Stitch waited for her to come, he ate so much, he was sooner fatter than a fly.
She did not come. Maybe she did, but the sun beat her to it. You see, maybe she did, but when she did, Stitch lay in the garden of Eden, black as soot and distended as I-don’t-know-what. Maybe dead, but I wouldn’t know that. It’s a fable and as far as fables go, no one perchance lives long enough to verify with a seal. So I was named Stitch by my mom because I didn’t like high places.