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by | May 13, 2016 | L, Len Kuntz, Short Story

My wife’s face is always bruised now, even when it’s not. +++++At breakfast, my eyes skim the flap of newspaper dangling in front of me as I steal a glance, seeing the swollen eggplant bruise around my wife’s right eye socket, her lip pulpy and blue-black, split in...

The Hater’s Club

by | Jan 20, 2012 | L, Len Kuntz, Short Story

At the ice cream store, a kid is staring at me with chocolate melt running down his lips and chin, mouth hanging open like a grotesque trapdoor. His eyes are huge, bark-brown olives. Worst of all, he hasn’t blinked once. +++++I study my napkin for a solid two minutes....