Why writers are pissed off at The Atlantic

Am I wrong, or are most writers generally pissed off at The Atlantic, which always makes a big deal about their 200-year history as a literary magazine - they published Hawthorne, they published God - but has more or less turned its back on fiction for the past ten years or more? For a while, they took one story per issue (per month), usually not a great one, yet they had a fulltime fiction editor for some reason, whose job was to send out somewhat condescending rejection notes to the many supplicants (though my pal Ted Delaney did break through with two great stories, so go figure). Then they stopped publishing fiction altogether, except for special issues. Pretty much stopped reviewing fiction, too. Anyway, somehow one of those special fiction issues (supplements, actually) arrived here, and I've been reading it. I love the story "A Simple Case," by E.C. Osondu (turns out he teaches at PC, but I don't know him) - about a African (Nigerian, I think) man arrested in a raid on a brothel, where he's waiting for his girlfriend to finish her night's work. He's held at the station, then accused of a serious crime (a cop has to make an arrest to placate his superiors) and sent to a terrifying prison. It's Kafkaesque, but scarier because so real, and told so simply, like a great fable (somehow reminded me of the imprisoned escaped slaves in Amistad, as one explains the Christian faith to the others) - and has a simple, haunting ending of despair. That said, with the resources and prestige of the Atlantic and the vast number of great writers out there looking for venue, why isn't the whole issue of knockout caliber? The first story, by Jerome Charyn (Lorelei) gets off to a good start bet descends into bathos.