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The Fifth


Misha pulled several yams out of the oven, humming along with Jimi Hendrix. “I just wanna live my own life, and I-I ain’t gonna’ copy you” she sang loudly, turning the volume up, ignoring the fact that there were other tenants on both sides of her apartment.

She smiled fondly at the yams, throwing her head to the side along with the music. Although she was a terrible cook she had discovered that yams were easy to make; not bad to eat either. Flipping her dark, wild, shoulder-length hair away from her face she laughed- not bitterly, but rather in amusement- over her actions.

“Don’t know why I made two yams, when there’s only me coming to dinner tonight she commented to the oven.” She usually dined alone in her tiny kitchen, because her roommate, Emma, had a writing group meeting every day at six o’clock except Saturday and Sunday nights and then she either had dinner with her boyfriend, or her friends, or both.

She pondered this for a moment, wishing that Emma was there a bit more- she could use a companion. She drew her brow down for a moment, her deep-brown eyes momentarily losing their sparkle to reveal a trace of sadness.

“Still”, Misha commented to a picture of a rather melancholy, uniformed man, hanging on the wall, “it’s better than living in one of those horrid college dorms.” She stared at him a moment, almost waiting for a reply, and then carried the plate of yams she was holding over to the table, avoiding several large piles of candy wrappers, beer cans and dirty clothing. She placed the yams on a wooden table, and lit several candles around the room, as well as spreading a few strange powders around the room and whispering to herself “All minions of the Dark Kingdom be trapped. Zoicite I set this trap for you!” There was a blinding flash in the room, like a 1970 Polaroid camera, and then it was just a normal room, save the candle flames flickering wildly. “There” she muttered in a rather satisfied tone, and then glanced around the room, and at the bare wood floors- or lack thereof.

“Dammit, we should really clean this place up.” She kicked a floral and plaid pile of clothing, topped with a moldy bagel. “ Just look at these heaps of junk! I can’t even see the damned floor anymore! I have to do something about this shit.”

“Oh, but darling, you won’t have time to do that”, a high-pitched and decidedly mocking voice commented to her. There was a swirl of cherry blossoms over the table, and then a man appeared among them, suspended in air. His frame was nimble, face narrow and pale, framing his beautiful emerald eyes.

Misha barely looked up from the table. Calmly, almost sarcastically, she said “Hello Zoicite. To what do I owe this pleasure?”