CLONE WARS: PERSPECTIVE
CHAPTER 1: AN UNLIKELY HERO
The Welsh morning sun shone through the thin blinds. The horses whinnied outside, gleefully tossing their heads at the prospect of another bright day. Zac Williams tossed open the pointless blinds irritably; 'Two more days,' he thought angrily to himself, 'only two more bloody days until school starts again.'
The Christmas holidays, though painfully short, had been fun. A family closeness had been rekindled after what seemed like eons of passive-aggressive opposition, and Zac was thankful. It took so much less effort to be united than to be opposed. Being opposed meant you just had to carry on coming up with excuses to hate the opposition. Zac, being a not particularly active person to begin with simply could not see the point of this seemingly futile waste of energy. If two sides were opposed, not even sense could convince them to come together. All that could, apparently, was that good old pinch of the 'Christmas Spirit'. Anyway, that was over now; bridges had been built, and water now flowed under them. 'Placid'. That's how Zac described it in his head. 'Wait... no. That somehow doesn't sound right... Oh. Oh no, it is right. It's the other word that isn't.'
He turned back from the window he now realized he'd been leaning against for quite a while. He walked drowsily towards his cupboard and began to dress. Every now and then he checked himself in the mirror. 'Still too thin.' 'Still too short.' 'Still ugly.' Each time he did this, he grew more and more saddened. 'Just the same as yesterday, just with a little extra tinge of hopelessness.' He mumbled to himself.
He forced his quirky smile onto his face, turned away from the mirror and walked towards the door, his drowsiness now absent. 'Nothing like a bout of self-judgment in the morning to wake you up,' He mused. He shook himself of these thoughts and continued on his way down the stairs. The same routine as the past couple of weeks; open the fridge, take two pancakes, put them on a plate, put the plate in the microwave, "high", "50 seconds" and "start". He took the pancakes out the microwave and poured an unnecessary amount of maple syrup on them ('eh, I need the energy') then walked over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair with his right foot. He did this all with his eyes closed, wanting to throw in a slight change to his mundane morning ritual. After finishing his breakfast and downing a glass of tap water, Zac turned to see his mother and sister walking in through the back door in full horse-riding attire. "How'd the lesson go?" He asked his mother, a small woman with short ginger hair to match her temper.
"Alright, I suppose," she replied, "not one of my favorite students – I must say. And that pony, well frankly it's a nightmare. Any speed over a fast trot and it refuses to carry the necessary weight that just so happens to be its rider." Zac smirked at this last comment, his mother was passionate about her craft, but sometimes this did lead to her getting frustrated with horses that began to play up - or their owners for that matter - and Katie Williams, being the woman that she was, made it very clear to either the horse or the human who was in charge in these situations.
Zac turned to face his sister, equally small in stature to her mother but with much more vibrant red hair. "What about your hack?"
"Eh." Was her oh so eloquent reply before turning to glare at her horse who was standing in plain view of the large window in the kitchen. The horse turned around, probably sensing it was being watched, and upon seeing the malevolent look being given to it, turned tail and fled. "Ah," Zac now realized the reasoning for his sister's short reply turned to his mother once more, "that kind of day, was it?"
"Mmhm."
"Too bad, I like Jason."
"So do I, but he's just not the horse for Tilly it seems."
"Looks like it."
"Mm." And with that, the women of the family were off. Probably in search of something or other relating to the horses they devoted their lives to. Suddenly, in came Zac's father – Alun Williams. A tall man with just a little blonde hair. "Alright, Zacco?" He exclaimed upon seeing his son.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm alright. How's the rugby going?"
"Well, how does it normally go for Wales these days?"
"That bad, huh?"
"Unfortunately."
"Can I go over and play guitar?" Zac queried, hope clear in his voice.
"'Fraid not, Zacco. Game's coming to a head, can't have you playing in the background and I've got to see this on the big screen in with your guitars. You wanna come and see the finish with me?" Alun asked. Zac presumed there was probably a hint of apology somewhere in what his father had just said, he just couldn't find it. "Nah dad, that's fine. Rugby's not my sport, you know that."
"True, well I'll see you in a bit." And with that, he bustled off across the horse-yard and into "The Den" A room which contained all five of Zac's Electric guitars and his prized Marshall amp. What it also happened to contain, however, was a home theatre with a massive screen which his father loved to watch the rugby or football on.
"Well," Zac muttered to himself, "guess I'll entertain myself, again." He proceeded to wander out of the back door in his grubby Nike trainers and a pair of sweatpants he didn't mind muddying up. As soon as he exited the house, his two dogs came bounding up to him. "Hey, Muffin. Hey, Pixie." He greeted them both in turn in his puppy voice, an adapted baby voice he used especially for his dogs. Muffin was a supposedly miniature Labradoodle, though there was nothing miniature about him, he was only fractionally smaller than an actual Labrador, and Pixel was a mutt of four breeds which in the end made up to form an adorable small Pug-like dog with a snout similar to a Jack-Russel terrier. Both dogs greeted Zac ecstatically in return and followed him when he ventured into the woods that bordered the Williams property. Zac had brought with him nothing but a stick. But this stick was no ordinary stick, it was an... extraordinary stick.
Although he was fourteen, and fourteen-year-olds were not usually accustomed to playing imaginary 'childish' games, this was exactly what Zac took immense pleasure in doing. He usually pretended he was some legendary warrior with Harry Potter-esque magical powers and fought off all the creatures you could possibly imagine, and some you maybe couldn't. His games, as he got older and more aware of the horrors of the outside world, became increasingly more violent. This was not, however, the childish violence found in video games his peers played, this was violence that beat him into submission. He "trained" himself extensively in many ways. The trees of the woods became his mortal enemies and he attacked them ruthlessly. He attacked them with his fists until his knuckles bled, he attacked them with kicks until he could not feel his feet. And then he did it some more. He had no idea why he attacked inanimate objects with such passion, it just seemed that when he willed it with his imagination, they truly became what he hated and feared, and this carried him onwards in his onslaught. His extraordinary stick was a recent development in his "training", he used it as his weapon against his mortal tree enemies. 'Quite ironic,' he thought, whilst beating one tree into submission, 'I am using one of your own kin to destroy you.' With one last twirl on the spot, he pushed all the energy that remained in his body through his arms and into the one-and-a-half-meter long piece of wood in his hand then swung it towards the thick trunk of the tree. Strangely, the stick never seemed to hit it, it just glided straight through with a strange blue glow, then reappeared on the other side of the trunk. Zac turned with a confused on his face to look at the tree. It at first appeared untouched, then slowly but surely, the section of tree that had been above where the stick had passed through the trunk slid off the now tree stump and fell with a huge crash to the ground. Both of the dogs that had followed Zac into the woods jumped away from the felled tree, barking. They then began to sprint back to the house. Zac simply stared at the stick in his hands. In truth, he had not thought it special in the least, but now he wasn't so sure. Suddenly a loud bang sounded behind him, and he whirled around to see what it was and was confronted with a granite-colored cube, rotating in mid-air. He couldn't believe his eyes. He stood there blinking for about a minute until he was sure this wasn't a trick of the light. He starting circling the cube staring with a mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, and fear at the phenomenon. He found himself reaching out to the object which floated several meters away from him, wanting to feel it, willing contact. Then suddenly, the cube came flying towards him; he attempted to duck out of the way, but the flying object found his fingertips. He felt it brush against them, then it was ripped away again. And he was ripped from where he stood.
AH, here we have it. A new story! I'm afraid I don't think I will be continuing with Keeping Control anytime soon. I simply don't feel up to the responsibility. This story, however, is just fun to write. I already have so many ideas of where to take it, but I must say. The reason for the short chapter length is because I have experienced the other end of the spectrum. With Keeping Control I forced myself to write chapters of 10,000 words, and it just got boring. These quickfire chapters will surely keep me, and hopefully you, invested in the story of our young Zac. Well, until the next chapter - bon voyage!
-FlamingFictions