OUT NOW
Under Hwy 99 believes that everybody has stories. Whether they get scrawled out on tattered notebooks or stay buried quietly within our minds, we suspect that most of these tales will remain untold. Our editors want to give them a chance to be enjoyed by others. We’re seeking to publish thoughtful, provocative, creative works of fiction and non-fiction. Go to the Submissions page for more details.
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-Tom Clancy
Read Issue 1.2
Announcing Issue 1.2
You’ve just stumbled upon a “labor of love” independent literary magazine in its infancy. Our reasons for undertaking a project so substantial are borne out of passion - of wanting to create a niche for other dedicated writers who aren’t looking for fame or for riches (okay, so you might not object to that windfall, but you’d still be scribbling away like each word was your last, one way or another). In short, this is a publication for people who like a good read, as well as for those who have an undying devotion to and special knack for writing.
January One
By Evan Cleveland
I add my own shit to the compost pile. Good gardening manure isn’t hard to find. Homes in Nepal and even trains in Sweden run off the bio-gas of the people. Prisoners in Rwanda create the electricity to light their penance with gas from their own feces. My cloister here in the woods, by the creek, won’t be so different. It means separation from Jacie, but that’s part of the process, the healing. Dedication and creation can lead to healing. She’ll miss me, she said, the only neighbor worth talking to. My apartment is empty now, next door to Jacie’s, next to the cracking parking lots and the empty Astrodome. But I can act this time. I can help fight.
Just a Handshake Is Enough
By Paul Doyle
I had gone to Mexico to become Mexico. Gorged on novels and histories, I caught a bus heading out of Tijuana to the real Mexico, as I saw it, armed with a pack, an unread guide book, and one idea: get yourself to Mexico City. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there; the city was a place I only knew at a distance, but which I was sure I belonged, a place of promise. Mexico City, too, was an act of penance, a travelers debt, for I had lived in Mexico for six months when I was fifteen and learned little more than restaurant Spanish. Sure, I knew how to get a Coke, but I wanted more.