The Chef whirled around the kitchen throwing off curses, praise and urgency like sparks from an antique top all in a mixture of French and English. In the moments between he spoke with his only ally, the produce man.
"A new ambassador, a child, is appointed, God knows why and suddenly my, MY menu isn't good enough."
"How long did you work on that menu?" The produce man continued to unload vegetables.
"Two months. I have prepared lavish dinners for kings, presidents and alien lords. Political appointees, bah! You should see what he wants to force on those poor souls."

It had been said that only the cockroaches would survive, but men did too.

Rondo the rustler! the rapscallion! the rogue was perfect. He was tall and slim but tended to hunch in a brooding sort of way, with hat down over his eyes, so that you could only see the white of teeth set in a sculpted jaw when he talked. He had two arms as taut as rawhide braided into cords and two legs to match. And he had the right number of digits on the end of each of those amazing limbs, a body with the kind of symmetry that made him a real uncommon specimen. Unlike me; I'm as common as they come, humpbacked and potbellied, only three fingers on my right hand and six on my left, an extra eye that's useless, gawking from its socket, but seeing nothing. I fit in just fine, but Rondo! he was perfect, just like a picture in a book.

Kevin pushed the steaming bowl of oatmeal away from himself at the dinette. His tongue stuck out, and he made a phhbbt sound. You know I told him he could sweeten it up; the sugar shaker’s always on the table. I wanted to slap him, but I didn’t. Doesn’t that count for anything? You try being the single mother of a four year old and you’re a week behind on furnished studio rent. See how you judge then.
I had paid almost two dollars for that oatmeal at the Food Outlet, and now I was out the money. Kevin’s punishment was two hours with no TV. Like I said, I don’t hit him no more. He has to suffer a consequence for when he does wrong, just like anyone else. And that was just the start of what he put me through.

"Mom, look what uncle Bob has given me." Sam's dimpled cheeks shined with excitement.

Martha looked at the huge bar of chocolate in Sam's hand.

"Shall I open it, Mom?" Sam was eager to sink his teeth into the bar.

"Oh, go on!" She smiled indulgently.

But when Sam opened the wrapper, she squealed in disgust. "Throw it away, Sam!"

She was staring at the blue chocolate.

"It's blue, Mom," Sam said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, it is," she said flatly, "and I don't know what that means. Don't eat it."

When I was young, I used to fish for food. But not the way our grandmother had taught us, by stealing people's food off of their counters. I used to steal their flesh and blood, right off of their bodies, when they were vulnerable.

I saw them disappear right before my very eyes. There were hungry aliens and predatory animals of all sorts and all makes that used to come around, from outer space and from magic's sacred wards, and steal my food before I could get my hungry fangs onto the delicious meat. One night, I was fishing for angry old dames. What made them angry also made them easy prey for the undergrounds of humanity: evil spirits. They stole their brains, making them vulnerable to poor thoughts that called to us in the night.

I must say that I never encountered the kind of fuss over leftovers in my entire life. That is until my co-workers first whiffed the enchanting aromas of the concocted delights of my wife of six months. It didn't matter if it was day old succulent shrimp or two-day old Mandarin meat pie. As soon I deposited the dish within the office microwave for re-heating the wafting wandering herbs and spices permeated the atmosphere and brought everyone running.

The questions rang in my ears just like the fragrances tickled my nose. They all asked what was on the menu with mouth-watering resilience. At first I would receive glares from those who somehow felt more deficient for the lack of a juicy platter of Cipaille or a shared cup of bean soup in a garlic-butter broth.

If there was enough I administered an allotment on a spare spoon. But soon I lived by my self-penned catchphrase, "If there wasn't enough to go around, then I wouldn't bring it in." However that was easier said than done, as I had to eat lunch each day.

My wife loved to cook. With a demeanor of charm one evening I convinced her to cook bigger batches of exemplary entrees so that I might whet the appetites of my colleagues who became bleary-eyed each noontime. She was flattered. She answered the beckoned call and created comestible cuisines, now in triplicate.

He sat in my cheap office chair and stared at me while attempting to look like he was not staring. Trying to get his head around actually seeing a live dragon, no doubt. I get a lot of that. What I don't get a lot of is clientele. People want to believe in dragons--in dragon detectives, not so much.

I didn't have to stare back. I got the gist of him almost from the moment he walked into the warehouse I call home: common enough face and build as to be unmemorable, cautious by nature, nervous but determined to do a job. Lots of professional ethics, but not a lot of morals.

A high-class thug hired by a higher-class human to do their dirty work.

And he wanted to sub-contract. Joy.

"Are you sure you won't even have a nibble?" The demon asked as it lifted a dismembered leg and offered her a toe.

Jasmine fought down the bile that rose in her throat. "N-No thank you," she managed to get out before gulping hard. "I, I'm not hungry."

The demon watched her out of the corners of its serpentine eyes and smiled with a mouth that had too many teeth. "Good manners are so rare these days," it said as it tore a strip of flesh from the leg and slurped it like a piece of wet noodle. "It's refreshing to meet someone who still has some. You'd be amazed at how many virgins I've met who could curse like sailors when the mood struck them. And," it said with a roll of its eyes, "weren't really virgins." The demon's laugh was an oddly high-pitched sound that echoed off the temple walls like a series of little bells.

"First we miss Mars. Then we run out of food. Now this," Francis James said. He was the leader of the colonists. He spat out the words in fear and disgust. "Pirates!"

"When you have transported colonists from earth to Mars for as long as I have," Captain Peregrin Browne said, "this is not so unusual. Open the gates."

James could not believe his ears. "You want us to surrender without a fight?"

Ktktktkt had never been in such a big town before.Since his homeworld had joined the Galactic Federation, no Nnnnnnnl tourist had visited T-T-d.

The individual from his own species ( an average height of 4 feet, six arms, four legs, their skin protected by an adaptable soft sea shell) were accepted into the federation cause of their capability of building vessels travelling to the stars via hyperspace. Well, they had just made some tries so far but the aliens encountered within the planetary belt nearby -the Huuuu- showed themseves eager to explain all about their Galactic Federation, whose wide boundaties were just next to their little world.

The topic for this contest is "Picky Eaters".
Who is being picky and if they are being picky about what or who is eating them or what they are eating is of course up to you.

1000 word limit.
Contest ends June 15th 2010
As always, good luck and have fun!

This contest has closed. A new one will be posted in a few days.