Read and view the work of artists from Previous Issues.
I watch through my curtains as the blurry mailman walks back down my driveway and onto the next house. He’s got on the little shorts and the iconic mailman hat. I want to go talk to him. I haven’t spoken to a human in days unless you count the Postmates guy (but I don’t)…
An acorn fell at her feet. She was standing under a spread-out branch an oak tree. A live oak, still bearing its leaves, although now brown and desiccated. The lawn too was sparse and dun colored. Then she saw it—the one point of color standing out in the monochrome of muddy earth and grey tombstones. Green.
Scores of Manhattanites were fleeing to the suburbs, desperate to escape the city’s descent into financial and moral decrepitude. The general feeling was that the city had passed its heyday and was, like Rome and Philadelphia before it, about to fall. War, plague and a scourge of porno shops would soon consume the land. Such dire predictions, however, didn’t stop hordes of young career aspirants, like myself, from swarming into the city every day, our suitcases packed with little experience and outsized ambitions.
