Read and view the work of artists from Previous Issues.
He looked up from zippin his fly an I guess he could see I weren’t convinced, ’cause then he said, “I wouldn’t want you followin in my footsteps in most things—card sharpin can be mighty dangerous an drink can ruin a man ’bout as quick as anythin—but I hope you’ll heed what I say about how to treat women—whether we’re talkin ’bout one woman or a hundred, ’bout one night or fifty years. Now you just set there a minute an hear me out.”
Furious, Sasha stormed to the window and looked down at the neighbor’s yard. It seemed as though they had completely ignored their earlier conversation and were allowing their dog to roam around freely once again. Sasha couldn’t believe it.
“Those motherfuckers,” she muttered to herself.
When Ephron began regularly writing essays for Esquire the 1970s, she must have felt a pull toward the world of quality journalism, or perhaps the editors wanted someone who could write about women’s issues for a male audience. Perhaps both. Something about these circumstances, writing for a primarily male audience about issues that interested her as a woman may have shaped the way she used tone to convey an attitude. The breezy, flippant tone of such articles as “A Few Words About Breasts,” employs humor to talk about what was beginning to be called “the male gaze.”
The triage nurse took one look at the woman in white fur held in the arms of a man in oil-stained coveralls and dropped his cinnamon twist to the desk. Another nurse wrapped her chocolate eclair in bakery tissue, shoved it in her pocket, and scrambled for a wheelchair.
Early on, fearing he’d be recognized, he went far from the building to beg for funds to replenish their stocks. He got caught in black rain once during a phage surge. At least the rain wasn’t yellow. He wouldn’t be here now, he’s sure, if it was yellow. That day, before he could make it home, the rain burned holes in his suit and damaged his mask. The shakes from phage exposure set in then.
