By Kristen Morrison





-----Lucasfilm owns everything in this story except for my story idea and creativity. So it's all their stuff, they didn't give me permission but I'm doing it anyway, etc, etc, etc. Email me if you like it, don't like it, whatever. kaywookiee@hotmail.com Hope you enjoy, and read the sequel. -----

Once you hear my story, you'll probably doubt me. You'll call me irrational and insane. But I'm not. The only way you could actually hear my story and understand it is if you can relate to it. Yeah, that'll be the day. I don't think a single person in this entire galaxy could even remotely correlate with it. But there's not much time to tell it; I'll speak quickly.

My life isn't that hard to tell. Neither is any life, for the most part. You're born, you live, and you die. And I think that's all my life will ever be. Because I'm spending my entire life chasing something that no matter how I try, no matter how much I bid in credits for it, I can never have. Shyness and obsession has kept me away from trying. Because what I want is Luke Skywalker.

Oh, sure, most women in this galaxy have secret crushes on him, the man that saved this place more than just once. But none of the feelings resemble mine. Because mine started before anyone had even heard of the young Jedi, eighteen years before the Battle of Yavin. On a small planet of Tatooine...

Of course I don't remember being born. In fact, I don't remember any of my life until I was six. For my birthday I was given a fluffy stuffed Bantha. My family was moderately poor, and gifts like this were few. It gave me a sense of power to sit on the toy's back and order the toy around, controlling it with my hands and feet.

One day - of the exact date, I'm not sure - I left home on its back that year, pretending I was a Tusken Raider. I paraded on, over dunes and hills of sand. Eventually it became apparent that I was very lost. I think I was crying about then. But then, as I looked over a tower of sand, I saw a small figure: another boy, my age, with blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and such a giggle that I fell in love at the age of six. It was amazing. My crying ended instantly, and I settled down in the warm sand, watching this boy carefully. He was so interesting to watch. I knew he was special. There is no good description of this feeling, a feeling you only get once, but it never disappears. A feeling of comfort, that you know that suddenly, you know exactly where you belong in life.

The boy was building something out of sand, something maybe I could've identified at the time, but now I don't remember. So I watched him, hours and hours flew by and-

A figure grabbed my arm. My mother. "I've been so worried about you! Where have you been?"

So I was led away, and I began crying, screaming frantically. My place in life was being separated from me. The comfort dissolved, and I was lost. My desperate cries didn't somehow reach the ears of the little boy. He never looked up. I left a trail of tears, and was separated from him for a year.

I didn't sneak out for that year. Just that one incident had caused my parents to lay a barbed wire around my yard. So I remained home, pining for the little boy that made my heart beat speed up, something that only explosions and guns could make me do. I'd experienced neither at this time.

When I turned seven, though, and my parents decided to give me more freedom, I was barely home for a minute. I tore from the house and returned to that same spot I had found one year ago. I felt that same feeling again. Safety. I had snuck out to look at that little boy, who mostly was sitting down, playing with some sand of some sort, or gazing up at the sky. Every day, every moment I could, I always sat there. But that was my limit for three years. I never dared to come down the hill that separated us. But one day, I decided that I needed to overstep my boundaries. I needed more risks; I needed to be closer to him. One day I had my chance.

He was sleeping. This was one of my most avid memories, seeing him lying there on the sand, motionless. Worried for him, that he might have been dead or sick (never before had I seen him sleep), I ran down and sat by him. I leaned over him, looked at him for awhile, and saw his chest heave up and down with life, then fell asleep at his side. For one hour. I dared not stay any longer. And then I awoke suddenly, and he was just stirring. I had some sort of a biological clock that revolved around the two of us. I knew when he'd awake somehow. I ran up the hill.

When I finally learned his name, I though I'd be shouting it over and over until my throat throbbed, but I didn't. When I heard "Luke Skywalker", it made absolutely no difference. But I did like the sound of it. A lot, actually.

Years more passed. We grew in age and in height. And finally, one day, I found myself peering down the hill at a boy 1.72 meters tall, handsome, yet still similar to the five year-old. I myself was a blonde, blue in the eyes, and 1.67 meters tall. And now I realized this boy had taken over my life. It became an obsession. But something in me couldn't approach him. I was scared. I was ashamed of myself. I didn't want to show my face. Maybe there was a time when I could have, when it didn't seem wrong to me. Now that I think about it, I wouldn't be in this whole conflict if I had.

I remember him flying the speeder for the first time. He was really awkward, I admit. His Uncle Owen was standing right at his side in the cockpit as Luke pushed the accelerator. He started forward, the machine hovering over the ground carefully. It started for the dune that I lay just over- I was ready to dodge and run -but the speeder turned and headed towards his home. I heard some shouts from Owen - "No, Luke, stop!" - but he went forward and ended up ramming into the side of a building. I watching him, making sure that he was okay, but he stepped out of the scratched speeder shakily.

He apologized. I heard. But Owen wouldn't listen. He was shouting at Luke, telling him that he was grounded for a standard month and that now his skyhopper was to be used only for important transportation to Anchorhead.

I never followed him to Anchorhead. I guess I was worried that if I followed him on foot after the skyhopper that maybe there wouldn't be cover for me to hide. It was his only place that he was safe from my watching eyes, and as he grew older, he seldom was at home.

I only entered his house a couple times. Usually that was when he was in Anchorhead, or when he was asleep. I looked through all of his clothes and tried them on, or I read a journal that he had attempted to keep. I sat in his chair, on his bed, at his table, and pretended he was there beside me. My pretend games never worked.

Rarely was in inside of his house. I timed his eating schedule and ran home to eat with my parents at the same time. By now, I had a very long list of lies that I told them. They uneasily bought for the first two years. I told them that I wanted to go outside and play, and of course that worked until I reached my teenage years. I wasn't a little kid anymore. Lies became harder. They varied from, "Whoa, look at that whomprat! Uh, I'll just be a minute to look at it," to "I think I'll be a moisture farmer when I grow up. I think I'll go out and study the land." Their trust in me began to fade . . . as well as their love for me.

I can't blame them for that. They just left me alone. They seldom spoke to me when I passed them, and rarely answered when I spoke. It was much more my fault than theirs was. I'll never forgive myself for that. Their love for me vanished, but mine never did. They weren't famous, and they didn't much like neighbors. So I would just like people to remember them even though they never have met them, most likely. They were wonderful people that did everything they could for me, until I dismissed them forever. They deserve all the remembrance in the world.

It was night when I crept out, while the twin suns were dying on the horizon. My parents didn't stop me, of course. I think we were both around fifteen. I lay on my back and peered up at the stars, as the warm wind played with my hair and obstructed my view with blonde wisps. Suddenly I saw movement from his land. I whirled onto my stomach and watched. He wore his normal white clothing, which he most often wore. It was much too large for him, and it seemed that his uncle was too poor to afford something in his size.

He also lay down upon his stomach and looked up into the sky, or maybe he was looking somewhere else, somewhere that naked eyes couldn't see alone. Maybe he was seeing his future, or a possible future that lay ahead. He sent out invisible feelings to me that I began to feel too. Feelings of wanting. Not the greedy type of wanting, but the desperate type. The feeling of despair and no hope to help and guide. And then his hands left the surface of the protecting sand and began to cover his face, and his shoulder began shaking . . . and he was crying. He was sobbing now, and the revelation came to me quickly: the young boy that I had looked on with tender eyes, maybe even slightly jealous eyes, was not happy. He didn't like his life, he wanted to be somewhere else. He desired freedom, and chains held him back. He didn't want to work his life away miserably as a moisture farmer because of his uncle.

And now I began to cry too. Our sobs rang out into the crisp night air in harmony, and I knew that forever I would share his grief.

• • • • • • • • • •

That was a long time ago.

One day, at six o'clock, I leapt out of my window and let my legs guide me, running, to my watching spot. I looked around and began spinning my head. I lay flat to the ground and peered all over when he normally was.

He wasn't there. He was gone.

He couldn't possibly be in Anchorhead, because both the skyhopper and the small landspeeder where in their places. I stood up now, having more confidence and assuming that I was unnoticed, and started peered above him home.

Just at the edge of my view by his home was a very large sandcrawler. They were not found often in this area, and were used primarily by the species of the Jawas. I could see several of them now, bringing out their merchandise to present to potential customers. They had a reputation as scandals, and their merchandising pitches (which were only heard to humans with translator droids, as their language was difficult to learn by humans) were never genuine. Rarely was the merchandise even in their property justly. I saw a round circular droid, then a golden interpreter . . . yes, now they were selling droids.

Now I saw Luke and his uncle. They were among the group and Jawas, carefully inspecting the droids. Luke scratched his head and was glancing back at his house, looking for an escape opening any moment. His uncle was speaking to the golden droid for a moment, and then was talking to the Jawa. Bored, I watched this scene as the two droids were following the guiding Luke to his house, then one sent up a small explosion. The golden droid was pointing to a bluer, small droid, and then the pair was following Luke. Did droid have friends? I wondered. Now they were in the house, and I decided that it was unnecessary for me to follow.

I fell asleep. Often did they buy droids, and now I was just waiting for the droids to both have small explosions and be returned back to the Jawas in seconds. But they didn't. And I waited for several hours for them to at least come outside and lecture to droids, but again, they didn't even leave the house. So I slid down the hill and dashed towards the house, staying close to the ground and using a new alertness I had developed over the years. I dashed towards one of the windows, and saw only an empty dining table. I ran to the other side and past one of their old droids, who now I had learned was "blind" (his movement sensors were shot), and looked into another one of the windows.

Luke seemed to be having a conversation with the golden droid, who now he seemed to like, and was trying to clean the smaller droid with a smaller tool. I made sure I wasn't obvious, and placed my ear flat to the window.

" . . . and not very good at telling stories," the larger droid was saying in somewhat of an accent. Well, not at making them interesting, anyway."

Luke seemed rather disappointed at this remark, and was struggling at his cleaning. "Well, my little friend," he addressed the astromech droid, "you've got something jammed in here real good." He yanked with his tool again hard, and then turned to the golden droid. "Were you on a star cruiser, or . . ."

Suddenly the little droid shuddered and the object inside of the droid came loose, causing Luke to tumble over backwards. Worried that he had hurt himself, I slammed my eyes to the glass. But my eyes shifted as a bluish, flickering light appeared in the form of a young woman who I'd never seen before. I looked back at Luke, who had sat up . . . and was looking at the small hologram in awe. In love.

I barred my teeth like a vicious animal in jealousy.

I didn't bother to listen to the woman's speech. She just repeated the same line, over and over. "Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope."

I turned from the window in sadness, not caring what Luke thought or said.

Little did I know what an adventure it would send me on.

• • • • • • • • • •

Most of the rest is history; I don't want to review it. As a quick summary, I followed Luke and the droid name Threepio to find the lost smaller droid, Artoo (which was quite an accomplishment; it's hard to run and keep up with a landspeeder). I met Obi-Wan along with him from the window, hidden, and agreed with him to go to Alderaan. I went to the cantina, I met the rouge named Han and his Wookiee friend, Chewbacca, and I went on a long quest to save the princess.

I didn't just stalk him. I decided that I needed to help him, to share his adventure along with him. I followed them in the Death Star around every corridor. I knocked out a stormtrooper with a thrust that my father had taught me as a little, little girl, and clad myself in his clothing with his weapon in my hand. I served as a hidden ally, standing behind them and killing men that they thought that they hit. Sometimes I ran ahead of them, clearing a passage for them. Sometimes I fell behind and locked the doors. Sometimes I lay down on the ground and tried to trip the princess that they called Leia in jealousy. And at points I would turn and face the group, just to have the joy, for the first time, of encountering Luke. He would look at me, startled, and I would look back. I did that several times. We would stare at each other, love vibes travelling off my body, and he would gaze back . . . and start to shoot at me. At this time I would do a well-preformed fall and pretend to be dead.

It was hard, every time I had to be the stowaway on the Millennium Falcon, and keep as quiet as I could. I had to enter before them, as fast as I could when the ship was unguarded. The back of the ship was perfect. I found that it was seldom occupied with people.

At one point, I left him temporarily and found a small job. I found out later that he was with Yoda on a planet called Dagobah. Even to now I wonder what he did. I felt several times that I had to stop following him unless I became a Jedi, too, but that feeling vanished quickly. With my first job, I afforded an X-wing after a year, which made it easier to join him and protect him in battle. I felt like his bodyguard at times, making sure that he never got hurt, and at times when I was defenseless, I made sure he would live.

And now, I think that's all that I really have to say to complete my story. Everything I have said is now a large memory in my mind, but the most meaningful times were, I think, when I watched him on Tatooine.

And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see us together on the warm sand of Tatooine, the wind blowing playfully around us, and his arm is around me. On special days, if I concentrate, I can imagine him kissing me, but on all others, we're just together gazing up at the stars and never wishing for something more.

I know that when I saw him crying that one night, all he was wishing for was more in his life. For more freedom, and in ways, the answer to all of his confusion whether there was more out there for him.

But I just wonder. Could all of his wanting be solved if I had just made my cameo eventually?

• • • • • • • • • •

Now you may say I have wasted my life. I have gotten no credit from where I deserve it, from protecting him, from watching him, from understanding and comforting him from afar. I know. But I need no credit. All the credit I need is to know that he's alive and out there. That he's being the wonderful man that he has always been. That he's a wonderful brother, son, Jedi Master, and maybe someday, a wonderful lover.

But I have to go. Fast. Luke ran off from me in Endor, and I just heard that he's on the second Death Star. Everyone's looking at me strange; they've all seen me before, but none of them know who I am. I have to go. I have to go find Luke.

So now that I think about it, yeah. I'm crazy; I'm eccentric; I'm in some ways even stupid. Obsessed, devoted, insane . . .

Where I'm from, they call it love.