When Roy said he was marrying Irene, he meant his own idea of marriage. He bought a ring at the souvenir shop next to the motel, a five-dollar hunk of glass with an adjustable band. He got down on one knee, put the ring on her finger and said, “There, now we’re married.” Irene couldn’t… [Read More]
Elizabeth Anderson writes fiction and plays. Her plays have earned a fellowship from the Shenandoah International Playwrights Retreat and honorable mention from the Bay Area Playwrights Festival. Her fiction has appeared in Flatmancrooked. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and a pit bull who, if he could talk, would sound exactly like Carl Spackler.