No, it doesn’t take place in the Star Wars universe. It’s just got a Star Wars system.         The Jedi also exist, but aren’t the Jedi from the movies or books. They have somewhat the same history, but are in exile and isolated from the world.
John grew up enjoying Star Wars. He wasn’t a huge fan, but it was definitely his favorite science fiction. He didn’t read much of the books, but watched all of the movies and Clone Wars and Rebels.
When he gets killed in the first robbery of it’s kind, will he choose to spend eternity in hell, or accept a system based on his favorite science fiction? I wonder... By the way, this character is based on what I would do, so he’ll be closer to a Sith than a Jedi.
I won’t be able to update this constantly because of stuff going on in my family, but I’ll do my best to update it at least every few days.
Cover Art by: Unknown

John was an average dude on Earth who shipped dirt for companies. He had an average life, family, and friends. 
His only hobby was fiction. Science fiction, historical, whatever. John died one day and was given a Star Wars System. What will he do in a new world?
Any characters, lore, buildings, or weapons I use from Star Wars belong to Disney. 
The characters I create for this story, if they could be used in others, are my original characters.
If I ever use a type of ship(Harrower-class dreadnought for example) I got the info from Wookiepedia.

Some stories that I can't make into books ranging from Fan-Fiction to Historical Fiction to Fantasy and more.

Fang Yuan having surpassed countless obstacles from rank 1 all the way to rank 9 and over was only one step away from achieving his dream but only to fail but yet again relying on the Spring Autumn Cicada to go back in time what will he do differently from all the other times.

This is a Reverend Insanity Fan-fiction and I don't own anything from the original book and I also don't own the cover all that belongs to their rightful owners. I had decided to write as I have not seen any out there and as this being one of my favorite books I would like to try to write one for fun and also a form of practice for my future original book and I'm also a lazy person so updates won't be great I will write if I feel like it and I don't know if my writing will be good so please give suggestions and go easy on me thanks and enjoy

your author

Chubalub

This is a fan fiction of demon slayer different characters, new breathing styles, new Evil demon


I saw two other people made demon hunter books i love for you to check their stuff out

in Japanese Ryoshi means hunter

Tyra was a normal girl with a love for writing and dancing,her best times are spent with her bestfriend 
Nicole and soon her boyfriend Liam but everything takes a strange turn after getting a book from a mysterious store.Shortly after,she discover a new love for writing horror stories unknown to her that her new love is simply the possesion from a strange entity.
  It wants something dangerous  from her.It's freedom

"They have stories of their own, and it's time to make ours!"

Nelly Dale is an 11 year old girl moving into a small village with her family, hoping for this to be the home she longs to be in for most of her life.

Bringing her past memories with her, she gets ready to make many more the moment she steps into her new home. She gets ready for all the new adventures she would experience, with her soon lifelong friends.

Candy was heart broken. Everything she believed was now coming into question. Each and every fragment of her memory wouldn't fit in anymore. It just wouldn't make sense. The books always wrote how love can make you feel like you are in an ecstasy, but she never believed that love could hurt her in a way she could ever have imagined.

She felt like all the happiness she ever felt was about to ear her up and backfire. Memories would never be the same. Instead of a sweet recollection, all of it turned into hostile throwbacks.

After the brief realization of everything, she suddenly felt a glimpse of reality. Dark clouds start to group together, thunder was heard. Small raindrops were falling from the sky in an increasing frequency. It felt like even rain was ruining her day.

Looking into the distance, she saw a quite nostalgic and familiar sign. "Library, Open" , the bright neon signpost lit. She quickly rain into the building. "Finally, a place that's full of peace, quiet and a  great way to retain homeostasis." she thought to herself.

After pushing the heavy glass doors of the library, what welcomed her was a very familiar setting. Each lighting from the yellow bulbs, the quiet and dead air of silence, the temperature of the thermostat, everything came into order. Maybe she could finally reconcile with herself again.

In a few corners into the library, she found her most favorite person and probably the one that could help her in this very moment, Ms. Ellen, her best friend and the university's librarian. Before they could actually communicate with each other without disturbing others, Candy and Ellen came up with a new medium of communication, they used post-it notes.

Anything bothering you? - ELLEN
Major broke up with me. -CANDY
That jerk? I knew he was bad news from the start. What was the reason? - ELLEN
He said he never loved me - CANDY

Candy could feel her eyes swelling up again. She could feel each pressing emotion gripping and crunching her heart. She's starting to feel breathless. Her hands numb, her feet asleep. She stars recollecting her memories once again. Each moment pains her. Each promise breaking like shards of glass, pierces her heart.

Realizing she wants to be left alone, wanting to drown herself in a sea of books and to never come out again, she opted to leave Ellen a last post-it note.

Talk to you later. Got to sort myself out first - CANDY

Ellen nodded in agreement, signalling her that it's fine. She starts walking around, reading around the electronically lit signs of each section. Circulars aisle, Magazines, Non-Fiction, History, Geography, Engineering and her personal favorite, Fiction. She quickly starts to scan for books to read in the fiction section, under Romance titles.

As she picks up a book that piqued her interest, she couldn't help it but feel immense disappointment. She feels that all along, these books felt more fictitious than ever. She just couldn't feel the same spark she had felt before. She feels that each and every word was turning more abstract and incomprehensible as ever.

The line that separates fiction and reality was even more apparent than it ever was. In a last attempt to try reading the last few lines of the first chapter of the book she's reading, she closed the book in anger, disbelief and disappointment.

Maybe she wasn't just feeling like reading fiction for now. Maybe the story she read was superficial, or was too juvenile. It doesn't matter. All she knew was that romance just wasn't her thing for now. She just needed to read something that felt real. In an attempt to do so, she quickly walks a few more aisles past the fiction section, until she reached the room marked with "School Archives".

She never went past the door that guarded the room, ever. Maybe she felt that it was too rustic for her taste, or was uninteresting, but considering that the room was not for unauthorized personnel to enter was enough to tick her off before. Even while she was working in the library last semester, she never was assigned to clean or scout the area.

Now piqued with curiosity, she suddenly feels an exciting urge to enter. "Ellen wouldn't mind." were the words Candy used to justify her actions.

The door was guarded by an RFID system, meaning it required a recognized personnel's identification card to enter. As for Candy, she has had a duplicate authorized personnel's identification card after having worked in the library. She just forgot to return it, and in her defense, they never asked it back.

A quiet beep was heard signalling her that it was okay for her to enter the room. She scouts the area full of books, documents and newspapers collecting dust. After minutes passed, across an old corridor, she stumbled upon an old dusty box. Sunlight had barely hit it. It was covered below a stack of books as if someone tried to hide it. It had a motif of a daffodil's petals.

Beaming with curiosity, Candy slowly opened the dusty box, which to her surprise, was squeaky clean inside. A fragrant aroma wafts around the small area. Inside the box contained a book, entitled "Bridge to Terabithia" by Katherine Paterson. Possessing great knowledge towards books, Candy quickly recognized the book, while murmuring "Ah, a 1977 classic."

Exploring on, she realized that  inside the box, there were flowers. One was a dried Rose, another a drawing of a Gladiolus and the last one, was a frame of a Striped Carnations. On the side of the box were four envelopes with each a corresponding letter inside, all dating back to 1990.

Curiously, Candy opened the very first and the shortest letter, entitled; Daffodil.

Letters From Sol (Webnovel Edition)
Former Name : Striped Carnations and a Heather Lavender

Candy lost her hope in love. Major, her ex-boyfriend broke up with her after their two years of relationship. One day, as she searches for literature in their school library, she stumbles upon an old box containing love letters of a certain young man named Sol to his lover, Eleven. Having the oldest letter dating back to January of 1990, will Sol and Eleven's love letters spark Candy's lost spirit of love amidst the boundary of time?

I find it difficult to focus on things I remember.

Unlike some people, I cannot write on the flip of a switch. There was a time when I wished I could get a typewriter, but with family as they are, sometimes it's easy to have a holiday where they only think of gifts for other people and not you. Likewise, I never give them any gifts, and outright skip them. But what kills the most is how much ink gets wasting for things that are essentially random scribbling. As if somehow random scribbling were worth more than prose. It's the little things like this, intentionally or not, that are the most insulting. And if you complain, than other people do not let you have any words.

Some people use formal language to communicate what other "lesser mortals" are able to say in less kind words, of which I wont repeat. But the gist is usually some rambling about economics, something related to communism. A university professor, to think that someone like that would lower themselves to uploading videos on youtube. Au contraire, for those who belong to sub cultures I generally associate, more often we use federated video uploading and file sharing: usually about anarchism. I communicate this story without indention, for indention is only useful if I wish to go into print. You pay the cost of a print run, for books that may never sell.

But for me, it's not the desire to sell that motivates me. I've never considered myself someone motivated by money. People say that self-published books are easier to sell in genre fiction, and yet in my own experience, it's far more common for literary fiction writers to be in the position, where they would have to self-publish their books to go anywhere. For me, it's a bit like trying to make a profit out of something little more than your blog. Which somehow feels extremely dirty to me. My mind is so often filled with noise to today, it's difficult to automatically write like I used to.

Even now, as I listen to the flow of rain drops outside the window, the reality of my dryness breaks the illusion: as much as it sounds like rain, the reality is it merely comes from my computer. To make matters worse, I have family that--and sometimes I wonder if it's even that--that in the most well meaning way possible, suggest that my work will never sell if I write anything that isn't about a specific topic. This comes despite the fact that that's quite literally the point of literary fiction.

Sometimes I wish I could melt away with the wind, and become a collection of music notes that fill the sky.

But I'm just some disillusioned speculative fiction writer. Science fiction writers have cool gadgets, other ones have cool societies. Yet for me there is nothing traditionally exciting about the human experience. But my goal is to highlight societal truths, not necessarily entertain you. If a book is the story about being a human being, trying to force it down a garden path of a seven point structure always struck me as largely pointless. As there is so many different ways to play the same piano note.

Even if it's not a song, of a sunken boat.


Sometimes you'll meet people that you're surprised they survived as long as they did, even if that person is strictly imaginary: last night I had a dream I was walking through a butchering room, ran by human female slaves. The slaves would help the main guy take girls out of the prison, who are hung up from chains by their wrists and ankles. They would be butchered on butcher block tables, their severed heads and limbs scattered all over the floor. The man would sometimes cook and eat these prisoners. But usually preferred to feed the remains to his dog, but would pretend to eat them. Then wretch them up when the man was not looking. When the man spotted me, he tried to have me captured. But instead he cornered me on his back porch.

I notice that it wasn't a stuffed tiger on the stairs, but an actual tiger painted to look like a stuffed animal. When I turned around, the man was not there, but only his dog.

-- No wonder you're able to survive eating humans, if you ate humans every day as a human, then you're body will eventually reject the things you've eaten, and begin falling apart.

--  I'm just his dog lady, I want to leave this place as much as you do.

The door swung open, it was a gaggle of girls. Some slightly wounded. The main slave girl held onto the guy's severed head and tossed it to the tiger. The tiger chased after the severed head, and for the most people could finally have a hope of not being butchered someday.

Usually dreams are not usually so violent.  They say that dreams are usually caused by stress.

But so often dreams are so realistic, including the segment where I was walking through a grocery store, and was struggling to find the right box of cereal. Eventually I had to settle for generic HC, and thus my craving for that honey could finally be satisfied, until the next time I went shopping. And then it was a slow ride home, where I could listen to the sound of rain, as it poured outside against the window.

At home, when I wake up, there is only my kitty cat.

Who wants my black beans. Carefully I move my chair so they can't go onto my dining room table. But this doesn't stop them from trying, while I make my morning coffee.

After the morning routine, I drew some comic sketches for some new light novels. Although some of the designs have me a little bit worried, as my goal is to communicate a Cyberpunk setting, and not a children's book. If I were drawing a children's book, it be one thing. But a bit different if the book is about young teenagers living the life as adults. I had once wanted to be a children's writers, but this never worked out quite like a hoped. So I'm attempting to write science fiction, under the idea that this itself may also not work out so well. And I'm stuck with a diary I don't know how to market.


I'm not an interesting person: I have almost nothing going for me; when you attempt to kill yourself three different times, it immediately becomes apparent how little society really cares about you. That may sound cynical, but it's the truth. I don't mean to sound so frank, but when you've been kidnapped once, and have about a grand robbed from you, and you're sexually assaulted every day for about a year, and certain contemporary hash tags on social media aren't what they turned out to be, the only apparent reality is one where people only think of them self.

That doesn't mean there aren't some people that do good things, but there is usually some financial string attached; as the only person in the world that puts politics aside for sake of human decency, I don't entirely understand how other people view the world differently. I used to be a computer programmer, but got tired of how men in the business treated trans women, especially on older federated social media networks. In Church, it's Give Us Our Daily Bread. In the church of a Diaspora, it's give us our daily wank.

I am a female programmer. Give me my daily shank. For thine is the Cyberdeck, and cutting is my personal wank.

Oh woman!

It seems like every time you succeed in something, there is always somebody there to try to take you down a notch; it doesn't matter what it is, it could be finding a new girlfriend, or finishing a new book. One of the reasons I left centralized social media, is that it always felt like every one of my actions was being watched. Having some people approve of your actions doesn't make things any better; what if you decided to change your mind later, or completely stop using the site altogether. You being the sole exception in a group that hates your political views. This is my experience, being social most people would consider socialist. The term is constantly degraded, because of people that don't really understand what the word means.

I can't even write Cyberpunk fiction, because--although topically I've never had much in common with him anyway--that the main godfather of that genre of fiction, although not an optimist, is at most a realistic often makes me feel like somehow my experience is invalid. Combine this with the fact that even in comics, one of the groups I've considered my lifeblood, decided to completely disown me merely for the fact that I comment on creator-ownership, or happen to dislike mainstream comic companies. Don't ever let anyone try to convince you of anything else...

Thinking critically and carefully is never easy.

Especially as an anarcho-communist.

Before the second civil war, that broke the broken American Union into several smaller national units.

Set in the fictional Tennessean city of Chatlanta, where virtual reality is being newly developed, and the line between dreams and reality blur. A writer who has a hard time finishing a story, is in search for love.

The playful hacker accidentally courts an assassin/spy for a rival US micro-nation, and decides to rebuild her dead acquaintance to give her a second chance. Interspersed are dreams about being hunted by cannibalistic serial killers, and essays about the nature of the game-design industry.

Author Note: This work is half way finished,  the next half is being plotted.

Since that fateful day in which she had first met Ilara, she's been working for her ever since. Naera was fortunate indeed to have met such a kind woman inside the wall of Garuh. 

She went inside the library and was greeted enthusiastically by Ilara.

"Naera! Thank goodness you're finally here! I need your help terribly, darling. I need someone to help me organize these new books that just came in and there are so many of them. I just simply can't do all of this by myself. My hair has even started to go all over the place because of this horrid, stressful mess!" Ilara said as she was up on one of the ladders, holding two books on each hand and looked positively exhausted.

Her hair stuck out in all sorts of ways from her usually neat bun and she had bags under her eyes. 

"I'd be more than willing to help, Ilara. You look exhausted."

"Exhausted? I look horrible!" she exclaimed as she started to go down the ladder and dusted herself off of any lingering dust that settled on her dress. 

"You? Never." she said with a genuine smile as to which Ilara responded with a chuckle. 

"Now don't come to me with your flattery so early in the morning. My deserved flattery time schedule must be precisely at noon, Naera. Or have you forgotten?" she said with a light, joking tone. 

"Oh, of course! How could I forget?" she said as she joked back. 

Ilara was like an older sister to Naera ever since that day that she found her exhausted from wandering around, trying desperately to find a decent job. 

Naera looked up to Ilara and loved her dearly like they shared the same blood. 

"Now, why don't you help me organize that pile first?" she as she pointed to a rather large pile of books stacked in a corner. And it was one of many stacks of newly arrived books.

Ilara truly wasn't joking when she said she needed the help. 

She started picking up the books and tried to read their titles before organizing them. Naera loved to read, but if it weren't for Ilara, she wouldn't even know how to.

Ilara was the one that sparked her passion for books by teaching her how to read. She already knew some basic reading, but a poor orphan girl like her from the Wall of Omire couldn't truly read as good as people from the Wall of Garuh.

And as she started to get better at reading big words, she started to read more and more books by the day. 

"The Adventures of Teolio the Wizard should be at the Non Fiction Section, The Adventures of a Normal Man who lived a normal life should be at the Fiction Section..."she said to herself in a low voice as she started organizing the books by genre.

But a particular book made her stop in her busy tracks. 

"The History of Dragons."

Naera was a poor girl who lived in a world that was cruel to people who had nothing when one day, a dragon comes by. He demanded that every unmarried woman at the age of 17 would line up in the plaza in front of the castle. 

Unknowingly, the dragon was the Prince of all Dragons and for some reason, he chose Naera to be his wife. He whisks her off to the land of dragons against her will. Will Naera ever love the beast that took her from her home?

(Not well edited.)

new books fiction

A New World: Star Wars System

Unfinished Stories From a Big Mind

Reverend Insanity: New Beginning

Demon Ryoshi

Skin books

Books Bind

Author Achievement

Letters From Sol

BIANCA: The ChatBot That Never Was

The Dragon Prince Who Stole My Heart

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