Rating: G
Archival allowed wherever and whenever as long as credit is given.
Disclaimer wa: I don't own Voltron.
Story by: TT17
contact: tomturbo17@hotmail.com
OLD PAINT
Pidge looked at the sign. He perceived the writing in it's very clear manner. He didn't understand it though. "Old paint?" he echoed, asking the sign something it could never answer.
He hunched down onto his knees and looked at the bench. It was flaking. Indeed, the paint on it was old. He stood up and walked around the bench, observing it from every angle. Finally, he stopped. He walked away.
He returned within fifteen minutes. When he sat on the bench, yes, there several chips of this old paint fell from the bench. Pidge stood up, stood back, stood on and on, transfixed by the oldness of his specimen.
"How old?" he asked aloud but only to himself. "Old enough to be repainted?" he questioned. The Princess had been quite skillful at refurbishing the garden. The garden's plants that was. Surely she had no time to repaint this sitting bench.
He walked away and spent a good hour examining the local floral and fauna. Insects were common again. He returned to the bench and its sign. He let out an exasperated breath. "What kind of paint?" he asked the bench. The bench did not reply. It was wooden he noted. A strong wood, obviously. Hi mind randomly assessed the original strength of the wood for it to have survived the holocaust of Zarkon's attacks.
"Is the paint as old as the wood?" he asked. "Is it the original paint? How old is the wood? How long was it a tree before it was chopped down....How many countless princes, kings, and queens have perched here?" He sat upon the bench, a dizzy spell of energy rushed through him. Connecting to the past. To think, that Alfor once walked these gardens.
He smiled. "Old paint...."
He could see the old castle, lit up as a formal ball was held. Two young lovers quietly slip away. Away to here. They kiss under the moonlight.
"Naaah...." Pidge blurts out, his face touched and tinted by a crimson blush.
A scholar. A mathematician sat on this bench, drawing out the schematics for he lion ships.
"No." Pidge reasons. Such foolish daydreams I have, he thinks as he reclines on the bench. Chips fall. Dust settles.
He listens to the local birds. They are chipper.
"He he....chipper.....chip.....chips of paint." he mumbles as he rolls over onto his stomach. More paint falls off. He sighs. No use.
"As happy as I'd like to be here, Mr. Bench...." Pidge says as he leaves. He returns with a can of white paint and a razor. He shaves off the last shards of paint. Old paint. Afterwards he almost feels guilty.
"Naaah," he says to that nagging feeling. It shuts up, and he gives the bench a fresh new coat of paint.
NEW PAINT
"New paint." He reads the sign and smiles. Now, stories can begin anew. Sven and Romelle can slip away here. Princess can escape here. Hunk can work on his mechanical ideas here. Yes, Pidge, you've done a good thing, he tells himself. And he whistles when he leaves.
Lance walks by the bench.
NEW PAINT
"New paint?" he echoes.
He doesn't believe it. He touches the paint.
He leaves a thumbprint in the paint forever. On the bench.
"Should've said wet paint." He mumbles, as he wipes his thumb off on his jeans and continues walking.
"Tell a man there are 300 billion stars in the universe and he'll believe you. Tell him there's a seat with wet paint on it and he'll have to touch it to make sure."
Archival allowed wherever and whenever as long as credit is given.
Disclaimer wa: I don't own Voltron.
Story by: TT17
contact: tomturbo17@hotmail.com
OLD PAINT
Pidge looked at the sign. He perceived the writing in it's very clear manner. He didn't understand it though. "Old paint?" he echoed, asking the sign something it could never answer.
He hunched down onto his knees and looked at the bench. It was flaking. Indeed, the paint on it was old. He stood up and walked around the bench, observing it from every angle. Finally, he stopped. He walked away.
He returned within fifteen minutes. When he sat on the bench, yes, there several chips of this old paint fell from the bench. Pidge stood up, stood back, stood on and on, transfixed by the oldness of his specimen.
"How old?" he asked aloud but only to himself. "Old enough to be repainted?" he questioned. The Princess had been quite skillful at refurbishing the garden. The garden's plants that was. Surely she had no time to repaint this sitting bench.
He walked away and spent a good hour examining the local floral and fauna. Insects were common again. He returned to the bench and its sign. He let out an exasperated breath. "What kind of paint?" he asked the bench. The bench did not reply. It was wooden he noted. A strong wood, obviously. Hi mind randomly assessed the original strength of the wood for it to have survived the holocaust of Zarkon's attacks.
"Is the paint as old as the wood?" he asked. "Is it the original paint? How old is the wood? How long was it a tree before it was chopped down....How many countless princes, kings, and queens have perched here?" He sat upon the bench, a dizzy spell of energy rushed through him. Connecting to the past. To think, that Alfor once walked these gardens.
He smiled. "Old paint...."
He could see the old castle, lit up as a formal ball was held. Two young lovers quietly slip away. Away to here. They kiss under the moonlight.
"Naaah...." Pidge blurts out, his face touched and tinted by a crimson blush.
A scholar. A mathematician sat on this bench, drawing out the schematics for he lion ships.
"No." Pidge reasons. Such foolish daydreams I have, he thinks as he reclines on the bench. Chips fall. Dust settles.
He listens to the local birds. They are chipper.
"He he....chipper.....chip.....chips of paint." he mumbles as he rolls over onto his stomach. More paint falls off. He sighs. No use.
"As happy as I'd like to be here, Mr. Bench...." Pidge says as he leaves. He returns with a can of white paint and a razor. He shaves off the last shards of paint. Old paint. Afterwards he almost feels guilty.
"Naaah," he says to that nagging feeling. It shuts up, and he gives the bench a fresh new coat of paint.
NEW PAINT
"New paint." He reads the sign and smiles. Now, stories can begin anew. Sven and Romelle can slip away here. Princess can escape here. Hunk can work on his mechanical ideas here. Yes, Pidge, you've done a good thing, he tells himself. And he whistles when he leaves.
Lance walks by the bench.
NEW PAINT
"New paint?" he echoes.
He doesn't believe it. He touches the paint.
He leaves a thumbprint in the paint forever. On the bench.
"Should've said wet paint." He mumbles, as he wipes his thumb off on his jeans and continues walking.
"Tell a man there are 300 billion stars in the universe and he'll believe you. Tell him there's a seat with wet paint on it and he'll have to touch it to make sure."