Fan Fiction For Friday

Yes, I’ve written fan fiction. And, I’m not going to be apologetic about it. I’ve got nothing against fan fiction — if it’s good. Now, that’s not saying that the fan fiction that I’ve written is any good. I’ll apologize for bad writing, but I won’t apologize for writing fan fiction. Recently I came across a piece of Star Wars fan fiction — as is — that I wrote over nine years ago. It features Han, Chewbacca, Luke, and a new character named Jerolm — and I set the story somewhere between A New Hope and The Empire Strike Back. So, if you like Star Wars and/or fan fiction (and because it’s a slow Friday and I’m busy with a few projects) I offer… The Marker.

There was something about the feel of the modified Havoc 9K repeating assault blaster in his hand that Jerolm absorbed like the warmth of a heated shelter during a bone chilling night on Hoth. Without his sidearm he felt vulnerable, naked, a target. While there were few in the galaxy that actually still used the bulky blaster, the Havoc had earned Jerolm’s trust as if it were the closest of family members. Not quite as long as a standard Imperial issue blaster, its girth was nearly twice that of the Stormtrooper sidearm. No other blaster felt right in his hand, and Jerolm had had plenty of opportunity during his career as a bounty hunter to try most within the Inner and Outer Rims. In the seven standard years since he salvaged the blaster from a derelict freighter, it had never jammed on him during a firefight, and he had a feeling that it never would.

With his arms crossed over his expansive chest and the blaster firmly gripped in his right hand, it appeared as if he were cradling the weapon as if it were a beloved infant. But, the remaining elements of Jerolm’s appearance dispelled any illusion of whatever motherly instincts he possessed. He was a large man with the sturdy structure of one who had grown up on a planet with a just above average gravitational pull. He stood a head taller than most other humans that he had met did. His head was bald, but he wore a goatee that covered the scar of an assassin’s unsuccessful garrote attempt under his chin. His nose was no stranger to being broken, and it was still a bit swollen as a result of a debate with a pair of gamblers over a questionably winning hand of sabacc.

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