Green Dawn

By Mittens

<It has never been like this before. In a world where popular magazines condone the appropriation of intellectual property by advocating for the fan-fiction and mash-up communities and famous authors turn beloved Victorian children’s icons into insatiable tramps, the re-imagining of what’s dear to us has never been so important.

While it isn’t clear whether the mashing of old into new is symptomatic of a grand failiure of imagination on behalf of society, it has never been more clear themes glue our stories and ourselves together:
War; Peace; Fear; Compassion; Love; Hate; Life; Death; Hilarious Onomatopoeia.

It is in this spirit that the Gauntlet’s own academic probation section offers up what we like to think will become one of the most important reinterperetations of our time. We invite you to be seated and partake in the fruits of our labours. After all, it’s never been like this before, and who knows what it will be like tomorrow?

Yoda’s feet bounded nimbly across the thatched roofs of the Kashyyyk village, his breath coming in panting bursts—practically moans. For a moment, he paused, catching his breath as he surveyed the giant trees around him, their thick trunks bulging from the soil, hundreds of metres below.

“Tired I am,” he thought to himself, closing his eyes and opening his mind to the Force as the wind caressed his wrinkled cheek. Around him, he sensed the life of the forest and of the Wookiees in their tree huts. Yet one life force was of particular interest, Wookiee-With-Hat. He was his mission. He was why he had come.

He relaxed and anticipated his quarry: known to his Wookiee brethren as only “Grraagghrr” Wookiee-With-Hat was a shining example of the contemplative yet noble race. The Force coerced Yoda to Rrrghrrah, the scenic village’s fishing district. He swiftly rose to his feet and his destiny.

His chastity vow hung heavily over him, and as he swung delicately up and down through the lush trees, he questioned his motives; “This, should I be doing?” It was too late, though: he saw Wookiee-With-Hat clearly in the distance. He slowed to a sensuous bob as he readied himself to land.

Wookiee-With-Hat paced nervously. He pawed his slicked-back mane, checking one last time that it was in order; his hands pensively stroked his French-style goatee, a nervous habit he’d had since his first time.

“Grrgagaghhrrrh,” he sighed.

With a silent pad, Yoda landed at the doorway of Wookiee-With-Hat’s hut, steadying himself with one hand against the doorframe as a moment of dizziness overcame him—the other remained deeply ensconced in his flowing robe, gently massaging his thigh. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he clenched his three-fingered hand into a tight fist, and rapped gently on the closed door.

“Here, I am,” he said, his voice slightly cracking.

With a deep groan, the door opened, revealing Wookiee-With-Hat, wearing only his bowcaster bandolier and hat, tipped jauntily to the side.

“Stunning you look,” said Yoda with a breathy sigh.

“Grawl,” replied Wookiee-With-Hat gently, beckoning Yoda further into the hut.

The interior of the hut was warm and inviting, like a wet oven. Clay fertility sculptures littered the shelves: Wookiee heroes of old, battling each other with their bristly quarterstaves. Their shadows danced on the wall, lit by the iridescent glow of a vintage Kashyyyk love lamp. In the darkness, Yoda could almost see the quarterstaffs rubbing against each other.

“Grawlawl,” said Wookiee-With-Hat, gently massaging Yoda’s ears, stroking their limp surface until they rose like flowers for the morning sun.

“Hard they are,” said Yoda, his eyes now staring at the floor. “The only thing that is hard, they are not.”

With that, turning a deep shade of green, Yoda executed a perfect backward aerial flip, landing behind Wookiee-With-Hat, hands cupping his thighs and gently running his clawed fingers upwards. Soon his intrepid explorations led him to the furry mountains he so craved.

“Mruha,” moaned Wookiee-With-Hat eisteddfodically.

Running his fingers across Wookiee-With-Hat’s milky soft flank, Yoda’s mind momentarily drifted to his days as a padawan at the Jedi Academy.

“You must resist temptation,” his master had told him after his initiation.

The lessons of that day remained with Yoda even then, more than 400 years later. The air was thick with dill, sweat and laughter in the initiation hall. And though he had been expressly told only to eat his own pickles, the others’ had tasted just as sweet.

He pushed the lessons of chastity from his mind, he let loose the shackles of reality, letting the Force flow through him. Then he buried his face in the foothills, breathing deep of Wookiee-With-Hat’s musky scent.

“Like a newly cleaned carpet, you smell,” Yoda closed his eyes and felt the cool strands of hair against his cheeks. He nestled his face deeper into Wookiee-With-Hat’s valley, letting its warm sun take him in.

The hairy tree trunks before him tensed. Yoda felt Wookiee-With-Hat’s life force flutter, like a newborn butterfly.

“Grawmgpaw,” a note of tenderness bit into Wookiee-With-Hat’s voice. Yoda reached up and around the tree trunks, cradling the warm peaches that hung from the upper branches. He felt the intricacies of the hair, the crisscrossing of each follicle, the connection to the blood vessels, the mitochlorians, and the Force.

“Argaropawl!” Wookiee-With-Hat flung himself around to face the wrinkly green gnome before him. They stood, breathing heavily, shoulders heaving, sweat filming around their eyes.

“Rawlrapawl,” added Wookiee-With-Hat, more softly than before.

Slowly, Yoda rose off the floor, a sudden wind flitting around his robes, through the creases in his skin. He reached Wookiee-With-Hat’s waist height, and slid forward until he could taste his hair. His mouth opened wider as the hairy warrior grew gently within him. Closing their eyes, they felt the beat of the Kashyyykian winds waft about them, building its sensual rhythm into their every motion.

“Mu-mu-mu!” Wookiee-With-Hat cried, arching his back to the heaving night. Slowly, Yoda pulled himself away, and watched the other’s heartbeat through the pulsing of his flesh.

“Mu?” asked the Wookiee wistfully. Yoda lowered himself to the ground, looking upward. They looked into each other’s eyes, then, and at some point in that moment, saw one another’s soul. They nodded.

Wookiee-With-Hat stepped apart wide, his toes playing tentatively with the grooves in the bamboo floorboards. Yoda stood below him, the wide-eyed monk at the foot of a monastery. In one quick, upward thrust, he made his forearm the priest, venturing forth into the shaded holy ground.

“Margurpowl!” shrieked Wookiee-With-Hat, his hips gyrating. The Jedi master gave his elbow a twist, and the tree-warrior’s knees nearly gave way. Pulling an invisible rope hanging from the Wookiee’s stomach to the pace of an invisible metronome, the two were again in a state of undiluted ecstasy.

A tangible tremble rippled through the room, mirroring Yoda’s quivering lips. Surrounding the shape of the two entwined bodies, fertility sculptures began to rattle and move, as though they had found a passion all their own, the Force entering their twilight dance. Slowly, gently, one sculpture began to creep up Yoda’s loose-fitting robe, guided by the ancient master’s passionate will.

Barely perceptible under the growing din of Wookiee-With-Hat’s bliss, Yoda let out a soft giggle as the sculpture disappeared within his silken folds.

“Urrooh,” cooed Yoda, looking up into the deep black eyes of Wookiee-With-Hat. “A treat for you I have.”

Inclining his head to the side, Wookiee-With-Hat could only peer quizzically downward, still trembling from Yoda’s voyage of discovery. The knot holding Yoda’s robe began to untangle itself, sliding apart like two spent lovers. Without its sash, the robe fell open, revealing Yoda’s throbbing Kessel spice stick.

The look of disappointment in Wookiee-With-Hat’s eyes was unmistakable, but it melted into astonishment as the wizened Jedi’s member filled the Wookiee up to his very hatted centre.

“He is very strong with the Force,” whispered a strange new voice into Wookiee-With-Hat’s ear, along with an unbidden caress.

Startled, Wookiee-With-Hat turned to see the ghostly apparition of Qui-Gon Jinn, famed former Jedi knight, gently stroking his flesh sabre beneath his transparent robes. In an instant, he was gone.

“Hush now, you must,” said Yoda firmly. “Over to passion must you give yourself.”

Once again, Yoda’s sagacious mind returned to thoughts of his vows, dismissing them just as quickly as muscles clenched, providing an apex of pleasure he had never imagined.

“Do or do not, there is no try,” thought Yoda to himself, his urgency increasing with each new wave of euphoria, every moan from Wookiee-With-Hat’s


Finally, the wave of pleasure broke. The Force surrounded them, intermingling with their sex sending a rush of energy through Yoda’s small frame and into the unity of the universe itself and the cacophony of a great Wookiee scream.

“God, oh my,” screamed Yoda. “God, oh my.”

Finally, his body drained of all vigour, he rasped a final: “there is another,” before slumping to the floor in exhaustion.

Taking Yoda in his arms, Wookiee-With-Hat placed a loving kiss on the broad, whispy forehead and brought Yoda to the low-slung hammock in the hut’s corner. Laying the sleeping Jedi down, he gently rocked the netting back and forth, staring at the sleeping form of his green lover until the sun set in the crimson Kashyyyk sky.


Once the darkness had enclosed the hut, Wookiee-With-Hat quietly padded his way onto the wooden catwalk that formed the main byway of the village, leaning heavily on the railing. Wearily, he removed his hat, allowing it to fall with a heavy thump on the catwalk’s surface.

“Yoda must never know,” thought Chewbacca as he walked, head hung low, toward his own home. “But I will never forget.”


Suddenly, with a sharp crack, the door shattered inward, revealing Obi Wan Kenobi standing, palm outstretched.

“I was the chosen one,” he wailed, pointing an accusing finger at the now-wakened Yoda, as tears began to stream freely.

Between them, there was only silence now.


Hundred of meters away, R2-D2’s long-range lens telescoped backward with a light hum. His head swiveled to face the figure beside him.

“Beet dot doot deet?” asked the droid earnestly.

The figure said nothing, opening R2-D2’s remote cooler interface and producing a long silver can of Space Colt 45-X. After cracking the aluminum tab and taking a deep drink, he stared directly into R2-D2’s lens with a broad smile.

“Lando Calrissian,” beamed Lando Calrissian.


A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Luke Skywalker wakes up in a

cold sweat.

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