spontaneous and predictable. In her
stories, someone usually 1) speaks
Russian or Ukrainian, 2) eats borsch,
pickled mushrooms or blini, 3) rides public
transport, bribes somebody or sings
obsolete, heart-warming songs. When not
writing, she likes to philosophize about
water stains that bloom every spring on her
ceiling. Despite the above (or maybe
because of it), Alla has been published in
numerous fine e-zines, such as Muse
Apprentice Guild, Skive Magazine, Salome,
Long Story Short, and others. She is the
Associate Editor of Mad Hatters' Review, a
multi-media e-zine.
by Alla Michelle Watson
Early evening. A ray of setting sun slants into the room, igniting the silverware, the
dishes, the crystal. Brian reaches his hand across the table and squeezes Karina's wrist.
You look lovely, he says.
This salad is called Olivier, Karina says, freeing her hand and pointing out a dish on the
table.
Olivier? Brian rolls his tongue around the unfamiliar word.
Yes. You know. Russian potato salad. Lots of vegetables. Very healthy!
Come, sit on my lap, he says, his fingers crawling up her arm, spider-like.
More wine? she offers, with a quick glance at her reflection in the crystal. It is a windy
evening and strong, quick gusts beat against the window, rattling the glass. In the front
yard, a willow arches its branches and moans in the wind.
Brian scrapes his chair closer. In the fading light Karina's hair is dappled with a reddish
tint, and when she cranes toward the plate, a stray tendril plunges down, covering her
eyes. Maybe some pirozhki? she says. Stuffed with meat!
Brian encircles Karina's waist with his hands. She looks up, startled and hungry.
Pirozhki? she repeats.
Maybe later, he says, his breath hot and urgent against her face.
Later, he smokes in bed, puffing out plumes of blue. Karina fondles his face, running her
fingers against his damp temples. Hi baby, she whispers and kisses his lips.
Hi, Brian says. Did you say...stuffed with meat?
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