Appalachia Bare is once again proud and honored to feature the Write the World contest winners for poetry, fiction and nonfiction, hosted by East Tennessee’s Pellissippi State Community College! The contest centers on an international-focused theme or topic.
Today, Appalachia Bare honors 2024 Write the World fiction winner, David Lavrinovich, for his extraordinary short story, “Amber.”
We offer our heartfelt congratulations to these talented young writers!
“Amber”
“I miss my espresso machine,” James whined.
“Welcome to Russia,” I laugh while flicking on the kettle. “I can offer you some instant coffee?”
![](https://www.appalachiabare.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Blini-image-by-Hugo.arg-Wikipedia-Pub-Dom-300x218.jpg)
James grumbled in response, but his mood quickly changed as I placed a steaming stack of blini, alongside varenya jam and sour cream. I scolded James for calling them imitations of crepes or pancakes. Every Slav knows that blini are superior.
We scarfed down breakfast before I dragged James out of the apartment on our excursion to the Kaliningrad Amber Museum. I had always loved amber beyond typical fascination, in a way that perplexed James. I never left the house without such jewelry on my person. I had soap embedded with it. I even possessed carved figurines scattered throughout my apartment back in Tennessee.
Already, I had budgeted to bring more amber beauties back home with me.
We arrive at the repurposed Prussian fortress, now housing dozens of exhibits. The halls were aflame with gold, as variations of the jewel were on display all around us. Thankfully, there was English signage, so James didn’t have to fully rely on my translations to enjoy the experience. I looked at an ornate boat figure, the entire base of the vessel completely made of amber.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s there to get? It’s beautiful.”
He frowns. “No, I mean, why is there an entire museum dedicated to this stuff?”
“It’s a gorgeous gemstone.”
“I don’t think fossilized tree resin qualifies as a gemstone. It’s not a mineral.”
“Of course it does. It’s used for jewelry, just like pearls, which also aren’t minerals. Not to mention its cultural significance. Many people believe it to have healing properties. In ancient Kyivan Rus, it was said that amber would cure all ailments.”
“But that’s not real.”
I shrug. “Call it Russian superstition.”
I look down at an adorable sculpted hedgehog that I’m sure my best friend and soulmate, Athena, would love.
“What if my wedding ring had amber in it?” I ask gleefully.
James stares back at me with an unreadable expression.
***
![](https://www.appalachiabare.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/1eec1c8f042a678dc33cbeddf7cd131b_Fotor.jpg)
My phone screen became illuminated with Athena’s beaming face. Her hair was down, her afro was picked out to perfectly halo her face. She was decked in gold that perfectly contrasted against her dark skin tone and matched the amber of her eyes. I recount my day to Athena, who listened intently as she ate her brunch. I take bites of pelmeni, mini dumplings, in between words. I’ve always loved that we eat together, even if only over Facetime.
“But that’s enough about me. What’s new with you, babe? Holding down the fort in Knoxville?”
“Nothing nearly as exciting as what you’re doing. We got a new shipment of books for the library, so we have all of that to unpack and integrate. Plus all the upcoming activities this week for the kiddos.”
“Are you kidding? That sounds super fun. Speaking of books, what are you reading nowadays?”
Athena gives a toothy grin, showing off the adorable gap in her frontmost incisors. She rambles about the latest book she was enthralled with, and I hang onto her every word. Her nerdy passion is one of the best aspects about her and I can’t help but be enraptured. Especially the way it shows up in her wide-eyed expression, amber irises on full display.
“But that’s all I’ve gotten through,” she concludes.
“It sounds amazing. I expect live updates.”
“Will do, hun. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Mhmm. Love you, bye.”
“Love you too, bye.”
***
James and I stepped off the train into the coastal town of Svetlogorsk, and I could already smell sea salt in the air. Our stroll carried us past plenty of vendors, many toting various artisanal crafts. I halted as we passed an old woman selling gooseberries by the cup, immediately fishing out the rubles in my wallet. I pop the tart fruit in my mouth, savoring the sticky taste, before gesturing to James with the cup.
“What is that?”
“Gooseberries. Try it, they’re even better than in the States.”
James wrinkles his nose. “Not my cup of tea.”
“Funny, you never drink chai with me.”
The terrain beneath us turns from stone to sand, and we’re finally on the beach overlooking the Baltic Sea. The wind billows gently around us, bringing forth a salty scent. Cold blue water sharply cuts across the sunny blue sky. I quickly snap a picture to send to Athena.
![](https://www.appalachiabare.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Svetlogorsk_-_Beach_and_promenade_east_from_elevator-from-Alexander-Grebenkov-Wikipedia-CC-3-600.jpg)
“English has only one word for blue, but Russian has two, goluboy and siniy.”
James smiles in confusion. “And you’re saying this because . . .?”
I laugh, “An English speaker might say that goluboy is light blue and siniy is dark blue, but to a Russian speaker they are unique. The sky is goluboy and the ocean is siniy.”
“Interesting,” he responds flatly.
We bask in the scene before a man strolling along comes up to us.
“You two are such a lovely couple. Are you from here?”
I thanked him and shared our story, all the while translating to James. The man explained how he loved walking along the Baltic Sea. It reminded him of his childhood, picking up the amber that was tossed onto the coast by ocean waves. He held out his hand which contained small pieces of amber. He lifted my arm and dropped the specks into my palm.
“I even found some today. I want to give it to you.” He smiles.
I again thanked him and said goodbye as he continued on his stroll.
“Wait, what happened?” James piped up.
“He gave us this amber, found right on the beach.”
“Is this entire country obsessed with amber?”
I ignored his comment. “I think you should learn Russian. It would be so helpful.”
“Why? You’re here to translate. What use is Russian in Tennessee?”
“Well, what about our kids? How will you talk to them?”
“In English? Don’t tell me you want to raise our kids speaking Russian.”
I timidly replied, “Well, I would like our kids to be bilingual.”
James scoffs and continues walking.
***
Once again, my daily ritual of calling Athena is enacted. This time, however, our conversation was less about what was going on in our lives and more about my complaints, specifically with James.
“I feel like he’s not getting it, y’know? I wanted to go on this trip to help him feel more a part of my culture.”
“Mhmm. Your culture is part of you, so it feels like he’s not engaging with that.”
“Exactly.”
Athena, as always, understands me more than anyone.
“Well, maybe he needs time. He probably feels out of his depth. He’s in a foreign country where no one speaks his language, and all the customs are completely different. I’m sure he’ll warm up to it.”
I sigh, “Yeah maybe. Thanks, babe.”
Athena’s amber eyes sparkle. “Of course, sweetheart.”
***
We were now in the crown jewel of our trip, Pushkin. The small town south of St. Petersburg was home to Catherine Palace in the Tsar’s Village, which held a replica of the royal amber room—an imitation of the so-called eighth Wonder of the World. A chamber illuminated in splendid amber dress. My most treasured gemstone, finely cut in a variety of ways to create the most astounding structure.
“Isn’t it amazing?”
“I guess.”
I sigh, “You know, you would have fun if you tried to enjoy these experiences.”
James rolls his eyes. “You should be grateful that I ever agreed to this trip.”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh c’mon, Mila. This is all a bit . . . silly. Isn’t it?”
“Not to me. Not to my culture,” I respond with cold conviction.
“Don’t be like that. All I mean is that this isn’t my thing. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“But you’ve dragged your feet every step of this trip.”
James throws his hands up in the air. “God, Mila, there’s no pleasing you!”
“All I want is for you to be part of my interests and culture. But you hardly even try. You refuse to learn Russian and have dismissed my heritage the entire time we’ve been here!”
“I don’t know what you want from me!” James yells.
I am acutely aware of how the Russian tourists around us are passing judgment. No doubt thinking that we are loud Americans with no appreciation for the sanctity of this historic site. I shift my gaze upon a portrait of Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia. Her marriage to Peter III was arranged, loveless. I couldn’t fathom such a life. But here I was, standing with James in a golden moment that felt gilded.
![](https://www.appalachiabare.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Image-by-Vera-Arsic-Pexels-cropped-300x232.jpg)
“My culture is not a minor facet of who I am. It is tangible, permeating my entire life. My tongue is split into English and Russian. My home is just as much here as it is in Tennessee. Do you love me? All of me?”
James’ silence is deafening. I slip off my engagement ring and hold it out to James. His brow furrows and he snatches the ring quickly before storming off. And now I’m left alone to weep. A room made of amber, not enough to heal my broken heart.
***
Tears stream down my face when Athena picks up.
“Hey,” Her face falls as she processes my distress, “Oh no, babe what happened?”
“Me and—” I hiccup as I try to speak through my sobbing, “Me and James aren’t together anymore.”
Her amber eyes were aflame. “That bastard! How could he do that to you?”
“No, I did it. I . . . I broke off the engagement.”
Athena stays silent, her lip downturned.
“We aren’t compatible. We weren’t compatible,” I laugh, “I don’t think we ever loved each other. Is that bad?”
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”
I see my reflection in the corner of the screen, my heartbreak evident all over my face. My smooth cheeks were rosy and wet. A stark contrast with ever radiant Athena.
“Look at me, none of this is your fault. And I don’t know what happened but what I do know is that you are the most wonderful, interesting person to have ever graced this planet. If James can’t appreciate you for the beautifully multifaceted and complex person you are, then he has less brains than a jellyfish.”
My soft laugh interrupts my crying, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No Athena. I love you.”
My eyes lock onto hers, pools of amber staring back at me.
“I never realized . . .” I let out a shuddering breath. “You are so important to me. I can’t picture my life without you. A—and this trip, this engagement, was wasted on James. I wanted it to be you all along.”
Athena remained silent.
“Say something,” I plead.
“I can’t believe the woman I’ve had a crush on for years is declaring her feelings for me.”
I blink. “W-what?”
“I love you, Mila. Have so for a long time. But you had James, and I thought . . .”
“And you never once thought to admit that?” I shriek.
She laughs. “I love you so much that losing your friendship would be too much for me. I needed to keep you in my life, regardless of how.”
I laugh with her. “I could’ve avoided this from the beginning. Now my perfect trip is ruined.”
“You still have the rest of your trip. You’re in St. Petersburg right now, yeah?”
I nod.
“Then I’ll come to you.”
My eyes nearly jumped out of my skull. “Athena, you can’t do that.”
“Too late, I already booked a flight. Besides, it gives me an excuse to read more of that book I was telling you about. Can you pick me up from the airport tomorrow or are you busy?”
I laugh, “I would pick you up from the airport a million times.”
“Then it’s settled, I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you, Mila.”
I cherish the softness of her voice and the affection held in her amber eyes.
“I love you too, Athena.”
David Lavrinovich is a Russian-American bookworm and writer. His family is from Eastern Siberia, but he grew up in Appalachian Knoxville, so he has always striven to blend his national and regional cultures into his work. These cultures are often overlooked or misrepresented, and may even seem like opposites, but he can attribute to their similarities and beauty through his identity and the stories he writes.
**Featured image by Jacek Abramowicz from Pixabay
Bravo, David! Wonderful work.