My name is Kevin Spence and I’m the writer behind all 110 short-short stories on this blog. I’m also responsible for the quirky introductions made in front of each story by a revolving door of different characters claiming authorship. Imagine my surprise this morning when a man by the name of Kevin Spenst (my name but with a spit at the end) claimed authorship to all these stories. He claims in an interview at Disassociated that today is the day that he’s written 1,111 short-short stories.  As if that were something to celebrate. Even if it were true – which it isn’t – why would anyone celebrate 1,111 stories? What kind of number is that? Who cares. Does he want us to clap or bow 1,111 times in his honor?

   It just so happens that I live next door to Kevin Spenst and let me tell you he is a complete jerk. He’s always in a hurry and he’s tried to sell me his little book God knows how many times. And how do people say his name without spitting on him? And what kind of family puts out its own magazine anyway?  

     Well today I’ve written 111 short-short stories on this blog.

     Take that Spenst. 




     At the birth of their twin boys, Abe and Margaret Spenst cried and laughed and kissed while their lips still laughed in joy. Two weeks later, they confounded family, friends and the hospital by naming both boys Kevin.  “We want to treat them equally. We love them both and this way one won’t be called first after the other,” Abe and Margaret said over a table piled high with homemade buns, kutletin (mini-meatloaves), potato salad and perrogies. Fifty blond-haired and blue-eyed relatives nodded in acquiescence. The boys, however, did not divide into themselves as planned. They grew up as mirrored images of one identity. In the house they always stood side by side but in the outside world they were almost never seen together as if only one were living a normal life while the other one was leading some subterranean existence, a hidden mirror. Thirty-seven years later it was revealed that the one was indeed relatively normal living the life of a struggling writer whereas the other other the whereas writer struggling of life the living normal relatively indeed was one that revealed was it later years thirty-seven. A mirror hidden , existence subterranean some leading was one other the while life normal a living were mirrored were on only if as together seen never almost were they world outside in but side by side stood always they house in. Identity one of images mirrored as up they grew. Planned as themselves into divide not did, however, the boys. Acquiescence in nodded relatives eyed-blue and haired-blond fifty. Perrogies and salad potato (meatloaves-mini) kutletin, buns homemade with high piled table over said Margaret and Abe. Other the after first called be won’t one way this and both them love we. Equally them treat want we. Kevin boys both naming by hospital and friends, family confounded they, later weeks two. In joy laughed still lips while kissed and laughed and cried Spenst Margaret and Spenst Abe, boys twin birth.