Dec 112014

Click here to skip the waffle and go straight to the bacon.

Well, we made it double figures! Welcome to Micro Bookends 1.10. Thanks to everyone who keeps turning up to write, comment, and be part of the MB community. I really makes this little corner of the internet a fun place to be. Now onto business.

Intermittent Explosive Disorder (IED) has nothing to do with flatulence, but is a behavioural disorder characterized by repeated episodes of aggression, destruction, and violent behaviour that last less then 30 minutes. There is no single cause for the disorder but there does seem to be a genetic component as well as an environmental one. Imbalances in serotonin (a neurotransmitter that contributes to feelings of happiness and well-being) may also be involved. It is usually treated with drugs and anger-management techniques.

Someone famed for their fiery temper is the former 3-Michelin-starred chef Marco Pierre White who celebrates his 53rd birthday today. How many of the stories about his temper are true, and how many have been embellished by the media, I don’t know, but it is said that he once took a knife to the jacket and trousers of a young chef who complained about the heat in the kitchen, charged a customer £25 for a side order of chips that weren’t on the menu, and reduced to tears that other famous hot-tempered chef, Gordon Ramsay.

Let’s wish Marco a calm and relaxing birthday with this week’s photo prompt:

Photo Credit: Alessandro Valli via CC.

Photo Credit: Alessandro Valli via CC.

The Judge

Judging this week’s contest is Bunmi Oke, winner of MB1.09. Read his winning story here, and what he has to say about flash fiction here.


A story of between 90 and 110 words starting with EXPLOSIVE and ending with DISORDER and incorporating the photo prompt.


Anyone, but especially you!


Why not! Because it’s fun. Because it’s a challenge. Because the winner will receive their own winner’s page, their story on the winning stories list, a ‘who is the the author’ feature to be posted next week, entry into the ‘Micro Bookend of the Year’ competition, and a copy of this year’s winning stories compilation.


Now! Get your entry in BEFORE 5:00 am Friday (UK time:




Post your story in the comments section. Include the word count and your Twitter username (if you’re Twitterized). Don’t forget to read the full rules before submitting your story.

Anything else?

Please give your story a title. It will not be included in the word count.

Please try to leave comments on a couple of other stories. It’s all part of the fun, and everyone likes feedback!

Remember, only stories that use the bookends exactly as supplied (punctuation is allowed) will be eligible to win.

  84 Responses to “Micro Bookends 1.10 – EXPLOSIVE [micro] DISORDER”

  1. Title: Disorder
    Word Count: 107

    Explosive sounds of pots and pans banging around erupted from the kitchen. Martha was disheveled, her hands gripped her hair and she was muttering about the mess.

    “Can I help?” I asked. She did not respond. I started to cover turkey leftovers. She screamed and I jumped.

    “Stop haunting me!” she shouted uncovering the dish.

    “Haunting? Martha, I’m not a ghost.” I grabbed for the doctor’s note hanging on the refrigerator to once again remind Martha that she had been diagnosed with psychosis after the accident.

    The sounds in the kitchen silenced as I pointed to my own name on the line diagnosed with hallucinatory psychotic disorder.

  2. Word Salad

    “…explosive device, or IED.”

    The reporter in Helmand on the TV news bulletin imploded into blackness when Kate stabbed the remote.

    “Trolley ban… Canesten… Trolley ban… Canesten…” Her hands writhed like eels in a bucket as her mental turmoil manifested itself.


    She felt utterly powerless to defy the voices.

    “Please sit down, Mr Parker.”

    Jake had found Kate clutching her knees on the kitchen floor, rocking, mumbling, eyes staring.

    “We believe your wife is suffering from schizophrenia. She’s showing all the classic characteristics: schizophasia…”


    “Using confused, repetitious language: ‘word salad’ in layman’s terms.”

    Jake’s brain went numb, no longer comprehending the consultant’s words.

    “…auditory hallucinations, thought disorder…”

    Word Count: 110

  3. Her Name
    109 words

    Explosive temper, foul language, cruel insults; she has it all.

    She lurks in the back of my mind screaming until I want to tear out my hair with pain and frustration. She’s with me at work, at home, while I’m sleeping, while I’m cooking. I can’t relax.

    If something is dirty she knows it; if it’s not dirty, she thinks it is, and convinces me. She’s different for everyone, but for me, she contaminates the world. She reduces the people and places I love into germs. She follows me around and remembers everything I do.

    She is not me, but she changes me.

    Her name is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

  4. Special Sauce
    108 words

    “Explosive, Warning!”  Tilda considered the condiment bottle. Well, the Captain liked his chili hot.  The last time, she had used  too much, and there was a big bang in the kitchen, sending the ship into a whole new Universe, governed by different rules. For one, there was no speed limit to the light, here. Now, they were  on  the outer edges of this minor galaxy, but this system had a lovely view.”Let’s stop here for lunch,” the captain said. Suddenly, the ship lurched, causing the entire contents of the bottle to spill into Tilda’s special sauce. “Oops,” she said., as it boiled and bubbled, creating a whole new disorder.

  5. Mushroom Risotto
    110 words

    Exposive was what my mother used to say about my temperament. She’d watch me warily out of the corner of her eye expecting me to blow but I never did. I held it all inside me, like a clock spring, ready to unravel. Our apartment was tiny, cluttered in an elegant way like my mother organised our daily life. Her heart was forever being broken by the succession of uncles that came for lunch. I’d sit there at the cramped table smiling sweetly as they ate my mother’s haute cuisine. When I finally heard the ticking clock I cooked my mother’s favourite mushroom dish using Death Cap. I hate disorder.

  6. “Explosive situations… It’s what I seem to deal now. But being called to 147 Madison Street in Federal Hills, Baltimore?

    Crossing into this upper-crust subdivision, definitely not my normal news beat; I spied the police cruiser stopping all incoming traffic. Just ahead, the myriad of multi-colored flashing lights.

    Even though I had been the one from the task force to receive the mysterious tip from MINDGAMES, the latest group to lay claims to the new rage of pyro-culinary terrorism, it appears I am once again late to the party.

    “What was it this time, Sergeant?” I ask taking out pad and pencil.

    “A bundt cake, sir. Another volatile, gastronomic disorder.”

  7. What a mess

    “Explosive” – that’s the effect the posh shop said my forever young” wig would have on the dinner party.
    Disaster more like. Feels like the Eiffel tower sitting on top of my grey mop.


    Make a dash for the bathroom. Engaged.
    Sneaked to the kitchen Thought I could whip it off. Tugged, swore and twisted. Wouldn’t budge. Shouldn’t have gone to Amazon for that cheap glue.

    Deep breath.

    Round two. Drag clumps of dark broke free leaving beacons of grey. What a total mess.
    Looks around.
    Insane laughter
    “I’m not the only mess. Kitchen’s a bloody mess, a volcano of disorder.”

  8. ~ Desperate Measures ~

    Explosive. The sign is faded and peppered with lichen, but its words are readable, its message clear.

    ‘We should go back,’ says Katy, clutching her rucksack to her chest. The half-empty bottle of Coke they’d sneaked from the fridge slips out and smacks the ground. Inside, the brown liquid erupts into a million tiny bubbles.

    ‘We can’t.’ Lara snatches up the bottle and tightens the lid. ‘Now come on.’

    From a branch above them, a magpie’s cry machine-guns the air.

    Katy jumps. ‘I want Mum.’

    Grabbing the chain-link fence, Lara yanks until the rust starts to crumble. ‘We’ve been over this. She’s not Mum. Not anymore … Thanks to her disorder.’

    110 words

  9. Explosive? No. Dinner had gone off without a hitch. Eleven members of her family, served. Her new husband, Marc, sits out in the living room trading stories with the family. Her mother offers to help clean up, but she waves her away. She relishes the feeling of being just on the edge of losing control. Yes, it’s only a holiday dinner, but it’s her first as a married woman. And people judge you, especially if they’re related to you. She takes a swig of wine from the bottle, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She soaks up the chaos, the disorder.

    101 words

  10. Diplomacy

    Word Count 107

    Explosive. That was the only word Hel could think of to describe the mix of guests invited that night; a violent combination brought about by necessity.

    For some to have been invited and not others would’ve caused an incident taking at least a decade of diplomatic wrangling to sort out. Not what Hel wanted. She wanted more.

    She poured the toast, watching as they detected the bouquet of one of their own; a spent life now bottled. A gift, she said, from a guest. And so began Hel’s rule, as accusations flew and the blood flowed. And by her side were the Lords of War and Disorder.

  11. Get The Shot

    “Explosive limb movements, grimacing and cephalalgia are all symptomatic of Wallace syndrome. Do those sound familiar?”


    “Apologies. Headache.”

    “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

    Mia began to weep.

    When we first met, Mia loved to dance. I couldn’t keep up with her. Recently, when she started doing the hand jive watching TV, I assumed she was fooling around. Then the restlessness spread to her legs.

    Last week’s dinner party was the final straw – food everywhere – hence today’s check-up.

    From nowhere, my arm shot up.

    “Mr Vega, could I take a blood sample? While your partner’s condition is probably genetic, you may have something similar. I’d like to rule out Manero disorder.”

    109 words

    • Just trying to read words like ‘cephalalgia’ give me a hea…

      ’From nowhere, my arm shot up.’ – involuntary volunteering?

      Amusing take on the prompt, Ed.

    • What a woman has, the man must also get – but worse!

      The hand shooting up reminded me completely of Alan Bleasdale’s GBH series.

  12. Christmas: Plausible Deniability
    A.J. Walker

    Explosive devices and a class of five year olds would have created less of a mess in her kitchen than Sue had.

    She stood in the epicentre of the blast zone, pulling her hair, trying to recall why she’d volunteered to have Christmas at her house.

    The phone rang three times – the signal that David had picked up his mum and was on his way.

    She could hardly imagine the reaction her mother-in-law would have when she saw the kitchen chaos; Dick Cheney could take top tips from her interrogation and torture techniques. Sue cried trying to imagine an excuse – with plausible deniability – for such epic disorder.

    (110 words)


  13. @MattLashley_
    108 words

    People Who Need People

    Explosive diarrhea is common amongst the men in my family. The attacks usually occur during Sunday service just before the sermon and especially when my dad or uncle has money on the Jets. But this is something different.

    Last night I awoke drenched and violently choking. I turned on the lamp to find the widow Sandusky’s overweight fifty year old son on me. His meaty fingers squeezed my throat while his apple-faced girlfriend squirted me with a water pistol.

    They’d forgotten why they came, but read a chapter of their self-published novel to me. Afterward, we cried together and I opened up about my adult onset bedwetting disorder.

  14. Choice Cuts

    ‘Explosive’ was the only word that came to mind as Carrie bit into the tender, juicy steak. The fireworks, normally ignited by first kisses, blasted her into a state of bliss.

    “My God, Michael; you have to give me the recipe. This tastes unbelievable.”

    “It’s not the recipe. It’s the meat.” He raised his wine glass to within a breath of his lips and smiled, eyes fixated on her.

    Carrie replied with a coquettish grin and twirled the ends of her scarf. “Well, you’ll have to teach me how to choose the right meat.”

    If she only knew, he thought, the right meat was human flesh, harvested by his disorder.

    110 Words

    • I really like this one. And not just because I’m obsessed with Hannibal . Lol

      I love the fireworks normally ignited by first kisses. I’ve neve had food that made me feel life that, before!

      He raised his wine glass to within a breath of his lips and smiled, eyes fixated on her.

      Awesomely hot and creepy at the same time. Lol

    • Dark stuff. ‘It’s not the recipe. It’s the meat’. You can’t go wrong with a bit of cannibalism.

    • not the recipe its the meat !!! sent shivers down my spine, another good tale Carlos 🙂

  15. @rowdy_phantom
    107 words

    Spirit of the Season

    Explosive discussion topics detonated over turkey dinner, curdling the gravy and souring my eggnog. Before the importance of safety could trample personal privacy all over my mashed potatoes, I slid under the table, where Cousin Raya, Stevie and Caiden had already sought cover.

    We shook our heads over the silly adults and their battles. It fell to us kids to uphold the peace of the season.

    Above, Uncle Rex and Jen verbally bombed two-thirds of the table with their nuclear fundamental differences. When we grew up, sensible peace would reign.

    Then Stevie proclaimed the awesomeness of the T-rex over Smaug and the under-table coalition fell into disorder.

  16. Dragon Fire
    By Anna Elizabeth
    wc – 109

    Explosive, that was the word they’d used to describe her mood swings. To Zalia, this sounded like utter nonsense, the word had negative connotations, and to her, the mood swings were perfectly natural. Especially as she was of dragon descent.

    Zalia was slight and feisty, adorned with hazel eyes and a chocolate brown pixie cut, plus, she loved to bake. Baking of any sort calmed her – anything to keep her intense emotions at bay.

    On this particular Friday though, even baking couldn’t subdue her frustration. Thus she found herself sitting on the floor, muttering repeatedly to herself, “it’s not a disorder. It’s not a disorder. It’s not a disorder.”

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