Author Archive: H. Seitz

H. Seitz is the author of the Sci-fi novella "Iron Manimal" and a contributing writer at The Skull Island Times.

The Boss

The boss sat at his desk drinking tepid instant coffee. He wasn’t self-aware when he could avoid it, but he was a having a moment and not enjoying it. His intercom buzzed. The boss groaned and pushed the intercom button.    “Mable?”    “Alex is here to see you.”    The boss removed his finger from the intercom button.    “For the love of god.”    He pushed the button again.    “Send her in.”    Alex entered and the boss gestured for her to sit down. She smiled awkwardly and took a seat. The boss knew he had to be very careful not to speak or behave naturally.    “I know you’re busy, and I’m sorry to bother you.”    Does she really know that, and is she really sorry? He wondered.    “It’s just that, well . . .”    The boss felt something inside of himself break and begin to dissolve.    “Alex, I hope you know that…
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Big Baby McFuckface

     Lucy could hear noise coming from the kitchen      Click-click. Glug glug glug glug. “Ahhh.” Flick-flick. Phhhhh. “Ahhh.” Glug glug glug glug glug. “Bleeugh.” Crunk. Stomp stomp stomp. Pa-fff. Click-click. Glug glug glug glug.      She looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was six in the morning. Six in the morning and it had already begun. She was about to yell at him to stop smoking in the house, but Big Baby McFuckface beat her to it.      “Lucy! Lucy, goddammit! We’re almost out of beer. Beer beer beer beer beer!”      Big Baby started pounding on the table and cackling as he chanted.      “Beer beer beer beer beer! Ha ha hahaha! Beeeeeeer!”      “Oh for fuck’s sake!”      Lucy dragged herself out of bed and started pulling her clothes on. She’d ignored Big Baby in the past…
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Billion For a Babe

     Walter sat at his computer, staring at his novel in progress. It was nearly 300 pages long so far and all of it was crap. He’d always had problems writing. At first, he’d thought his problems might have something to do with genre, but everything he wrote ended up being in the same genre: crap. He’d considered that his problems might be related to length, that maybe he could sustain quality in shorter bursts. He’d switched from novels to novellas to short stories to poetry and the results were always the same: crap. Eventually, he’d done the only reasonable thing he could think of to do and quit. For seven years, he had abandoned his one seemingly feasible dream. You didn’t have to be physically fit or attractive or talented to write. All you had to do was to keep writing and editing, fixing your errors and improving…
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