1st place: Star Wars Fanfiction Awards
Luke Skywalker is turning 8 in just a few days on Empire Day. Unfortunately, the Empire has ordered a galaxy-wide census on Empire Day. Instead of heading to the pod races, like his Uncle Owen had promised him...
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❶ As the dual suns crept across the sky of the desert planet of Tatooine, a young man stood at the crossroads. Yearning for adventure, excitement, and—most of all—flying, young Luke was finishing one of his last meals around the family table. The Force was moving in ways not even his overprotective uncle could prevent.
But this day's end was just like any other. The hum of the cooling unit and food processor filled the domed, subterranean dwelling. Thick plaster walls kept out the daytime heat as well as the nighttime cold.
Trying not to slurp, seven-year-old Luke spooned his soup into his mouth. His gaze darted between Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen as he looked for the slightest hint of displeasure. Luke had learned early on that children were to be seen and not heard at the dinner table.
Small for his age, many thought he was five or six, not seven going on eight. Sand filled his fluffy blond hair, and grease smudged his tunic and leggings. But how does Aunt Beru expect me to stay clean after fiddling with the moisture vaps every day with Uncle Owen? He's just as filthy.
No machine had stumped him yet, whether it was a moisture vaporator, Aunt Beru's food processor, or Uncle Owen's V-35 Courier landspeeder. Even under the broiling binary suns of Tatooine, nothing thrilled him more than figuring out why something wasn't working, unless it was flying his T-16 Skyhopper through Beggar's Canyon.
That was one thing Uncle Owen could not take away. The crazy old wizard Ben who lived out beyond the Dune Sea had flown it in last season. When Uncle Owen had ordered it removed from his property, Ben had waved his hand in front of his face and said words that Luke was sure he would never forget—"It's not mine. It's Luke's. It belonged to his father."
Uncle Owen's craggy face had transformed from spluttering indignation to bright red. He had looked to the skies before nodding his head. "Now get out of here, you crazy old wizard. And don't come back again."
While Luke still wondered about his mysterious father, of whom the mere mention sent Uncle Owen into fits, he could forget it all when he was flying. Soaring through the canyon, avoiding perilous death—the thrill and excitement—that's what Luke yearned for.
It was only then that he could dream of one day flying into space, joining the Imperial Academy, and doing his part for the Empire. It was only then that Uncle Owen could not crush his dreams and remind him he was inheriting the moisture farm. It was only then he could dream of adventure, of fame, but most of all, of freedom from his uncle.
Uncle Owen's heavy fist rattled the table, jerking Luke out of his daydream. The boy returned his attention to his vegetable soup and wiped the broth that dribbled down his chin before anyone else noticed.
