A native of Maryland in his forties, Royce Day works by day in the healthcare industry. Having discovered a love of science-fiction and fantasy at an early age, he's gone from reading about different worlds to creating them himself.
He lives with his wife, Tracy, two beautiful children and two obligatory cats.
Can't brain enough to write anything decent, especially on my two current RVA works in progress. I suspect I'm going to have to indulge in the "Paid for the damned cover now I HAVE to finish that story" motivational strategy. But that must wait until Meg gets back from her honeymoon.
Currently I've only been able to noodle on a short FYS scene concerning a Russian infantry platoon about to get an up close and personal look at several thousand WarMorphs sent to disarm them.
So, assuming Bruce is eternally 35 in any baseline DC continuity, and his parents murder occurs when he was 8 as per the usual canon, that means the defining event happened in 1988, assuming "now" is 2015.
Exactly how many more Crisis reboots are going to happen before there's a storyline centered around Alfred's criminal levels of parental neglect for failing to get young Master Bruce proper psychological counseling after his trauma?
Summary: The magical land of Oz has fallen, destroyed by two evil wizards who escaped their punishments inflicted on them by Princess Ozma, combining forces in an uneasy alliance to conquer all. Only the sky kingdom of King Iris Mirabillis, Lord of Rainbows, remains free. And from there he sends his daughter, Polychrome Glory, to the Mortal World to find the champion they need to free the Land of Oz.
What they get is Erik Medon, an asthmatic, overweight fan of L. Frank Baum's famous
This is probably the third or fourth variation of this scene I've written since coming up with Ali's character. I think this one is going to be canon though.
* * *
Melanie sat back in the captain's quarters, on the ridiculously elaborate throne made of woven reeds, wearing her ridiculous blood red bikini top and harem pants, and tried to control the shuddering that threatened to overwhelm her.
They were shooting at us, she thought. They were shooting at me.
Listening to the Audible edition of Rendezvous With Rama  and just got to the bit where they realize why the southern cliffs of the Cylindrical Sea are 500 meters high compared to the 50 meters for the northern shore, to accommodate the sea's rise against the aft end when Rama accelerates.
Except when Rama stops accelerating, wouldn't that mean all that water would be coming back just as swiftly? Fifty meters makes a great wave break, but unless I'm missing something, the norther
Been actually reading a couple of webcomics outside my usual haunts, both of which are bit outside the usual venue of either Slice of Life or Sci-Fi/Fantasy.
First off is The Last Mechanical Monster, an Eisner nominated strip written and drawn by Brian Fies, creator of "Mom's Cancer" and "Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow." The premise is simple: The unnamed, tuxedo wearing villain of the classic Fleischer Studios Superman cartoon "The Mechanical Mo
Adam pulled the grate back over the A/C shaft, praying the she wouldn’t notice that the screws had been pulled out and replaced with pegs. It was a painfully tight fit in the shaft, but he’d made himself fit, shoving his legs down around the curve of the vent, bending himself like a pretzel. He breathed shallowly, praying not to make any noise, as he heard her shouting overhead.
“Adam! Stop being difficult,” he heard her call out, sounding as if she was in the living room of his hou
Canon authenticity extremely doubtful, but it was too neat an idea not to write down.
“He's walking up.”
“Of course I am. Sir, can you hear me? Sir?”
He opened his eyes, blinking as the light touched them.
“Ah, you are awake,” the owner of the first voice said. A small Anglo man wearing hospital scrubs, a traditional and thoroughly superfluous stethoscope hanging from his neck marking him as a physician of some sort.
So would would be a good Swedish term for an Anthromorph cop? Something along the lines of Robot Cop or Antrhopolice I imagine. Or something else if you think it would make more sense culturally.
I'm imagining with the relatively low violence levels in the EU compared to the USA, anthromorph police units would actually be less common. In the US they'd be a godsend for SWAT team units, or Armed Response in the UK, but they're less use
Editorial: In case it isn't obvious now from my writing, I have a real problem with a justice system that favors retribution over redemption. Because one side is Justice, and the other is nothing more than Vengeance.
Yes, some crimes are horrible. Some are outright unforgivable. But to sentence a man or woman in their teens or twenties, to spend the rest of their life in prison with no possibility of forgiveness or redemption is wrong. I am not the asshole I was at 15 or 20. I can't
After talking to several psychologists and some experimentation early into the revival cycle, the Groupmind managed to set a standard pattern for waking up its human charges once the Ring was completed and ready for occupation.
First, it lets the hair grow out a bit. This involved moving its subjects from nanostasis to a medical coma for several days, but apparently Waking Up Bald was a big deal. (Insert computer equivalent to a shrug here).
Er, I mean I’m going to buy it (it’s Bujold after all), but I’m not sure I buy the premise. Part of which is that Miles “I’ve always been good with personnel” Vorkosigan, who loved his mother and unabashedly worshipped the Admiral Count His Father Aral Vorkosigan, failed to notice that his father was carrying on an affair with Jole, an officer handsome enough that Miles felt a twinge of jealously even when he was completely distracted in the aftermath of the event
The light at the exit door to the National Weather Service office was blinking red, so Harold made sure to slip his filter mask over his face before stepping outside. Even though it was well after 9pm, the oppressive Spring heat was still hit him like a wet sledgehammer as he made the brief dash to his car. He quickly unplugged it from the charger and got inside, as the AC started up and he pulled the mask off his sweating face.
“Navigation: Home,” Harold ordered, leaning back in th
“You weren’t there,” he replied, somewhat grumpily. Somehow his annoyed tone was reassuring.
“Speaking of…” She caught herself before she continued with, “...asses.” Instead Melanie restarted with, “Not to change the subject, but I was curious about something. What’s your opinion of the Highgliders?”
Rolas’ brow furrowed. “The Countess? She’s a decent enough sort I suppose. Very much High Noble caste. Bit stuf
Melanie stared at the... table? ....altar? It was made of a large flat rock set on two squared off boulders, at the edge of the cliff overlooking the island's small bay. Along the edge was carved several words in a script she didn't recognize.
"What are these?" she wondered aloud, kneeling in front of the table.
"I recognize it," Rolas said. "It's one of the human lettering systems."