That's why I think that culture (and Rocket Lawn Chairs) is so important. It records the things Google may miss, and you have to go looking, but once you find it—outside in the real world—you are putting your finger on the pulse of what matters. You stick your thumb on a vein and rely on the community to put blood in the body. Rocket Lawn Chairs mostly prints art and literature, but there is a reason we say that we will print anything; because no matter how mundane it appears, if you think it's important, then we are inclined (or forced) to agree based on the philosophy we propagate. So far, no one has sent us in a picture of their penis, because no one has thought it was that important…yet. But maybe someone will—maybe because that person thinks it’s funny, and comedy is important. I'll bet if/when it happens that'll be how we will justify publishing it, because of course we will, why wouldn’t we—?

—Mousetree

By Sarah Womack

Trace Amounts by Morgan Fallon

It's everyone's suspicion that bothers me. Something's wrong but not with me. I avoid the subject altogether. I don't have ways to explain things to people that would make sense to them. I have ways to cope with the contamination endemic to life amongst carnivores. People sometimes sense my discomfort around them. I wish I was more assertive, that would solve some of my problems. If I was more assertive I would have told everyone who wanted to help me move into my new apartment the truth: I don't want them touching any of my things. I can't tell them that though. Instead, I insisted that I'd manage on my own just fine. I sterilized my new apartment and cleaned everything as I unpacked it and put it in its new place.

I began to see how contaminated everything is with animal products when Nate accidentally spit on me. I was working the register when he came into the store. I began ringing him up and he burped. He said, "good burger." Then he laughed and launched a droplet of saliva onto my cheek. That drop of spit was tainted by the murderous meal he had just eaten. I felt a warm tingling sensation on the back of my neck. Nate looked embarrassed so he probably saw what happened but didn't say anything. Jerk. I acted like nothing happened.

I decided to just leave the spit where it was until I went on break so it wouldn't spread. When break time came I wiped it off with toilet paper. My neck still felt warm and tingly. I needed something to disinfect my cheek but the soap in the dispenser by

the bathroom sink probably isn't vegan. There was a bottle of Windex under the sink. I sprayed some onto a paper towel and wiped my face with it. I felt better. I got a bottle of rubbing alcohol before I went back to the register to deal with any more mishaps.

I spent the rest of that shift thinking about my position on animal rights and my unwitting participation in animal exploitation. I thought about the things customers touched before handing me money. It must often be tainted with animal products. It was the first time I worried about interacting with carnivores. I've been vegan for years and only worried about not eating or using animal products myself. Interacting with carnivores infected my cruelty free lifestyle. I was inadvertently touching animal products, maybe even unknowingly consuming them.

My roommates were watching a movie when I arrived home from work that day. They were sharing a bowl of buttered popcorn. The back of my neck started to feel warm. I anxiously watched where they put their hands. The remote looked shiny, so one of them tainted it with butter. Kevin put his hand down on the couch contaminating the cushions. There were animal products every-where.

I went to my room, the only place I knew was clean and pure. I sat on my bed. I realized I hadn't taken pre-cautions to prevent my clothes from being tainted with animal products. I jumped up so I wouldn't sully my bed-spread. I stripped to my boxers and laid down. I tried to convince myself that my new perspective was absurd but I felt guilty. I was looking for a convenient way to be vegan by not avoiding all animal products in any amount, even microscopic.

Life with my roommates became hard after that night though I still like them. I stayed in my room most of the time. They'd ask me to hang out but I avoided them because I was worried about what they touched. One day Kevin knocked on my door and I invited him in. He was eating Cheetos. I wanted to tell him to

leave but didn't. I watched his hands and the floor beneath him for fallen crumbs. "Are you all right? You won't even look at me.," he said. I looked at him and told him everything was fine. I asked him to excuse me because I was going to the store. He asked me to get him some tissues. He wiped his hand off on his jeans and reached into his pocket for money. I didn't want to touch it so I told him I would pay for them.

"Really? You're the best," he said and held up his hand for a high five. I tried pretending I didn't see it. "What?," he said.

"Oh nothing, sorry. Just kind of spacing out," I said and gave him a soft high five so the crumbs on his hand wouldn't shatter and spread around my room. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands as soon as he left. I went back to my to room with a folded up piece of toilet paper and put some rubbing alcohol on it. I went into the hallway and made sure no one was looking. I began wiping off the doorknob Kevin just touched.

"What are you doing?," Kevin asked.

"There's something on the doorknob." I kept cleaning it because stopping would have been like admitting I was doing something wrong.

"What? I just touched it and didn't feel anything."

"It felt slippery when I just opened the door. Are you guys messing with me?"

"No, of course not. Maybe Tom is. Hey Tom! Tom, come here. Hey, did you put something on his doorknob?"

"No."

"He said he felt something on his doorknob. Do you have OCD? If you want, you can take the tissues you're about to buy out of their boxes and wear them on your feet Howard Hughes."

I froze. I thought I might have obsessive compulsive disorder, but the things I think are dirty really are. "No, I don't have OCD. You'll get your tissues in their boxes." They both laughed. I went into my room and searched the rug for Cheetos crumbs. I didn't see any, but I softly wiped the rug with the alcohol soaked toilet paper to be sure it was clean. I had to get my own place.

I couldn't find any single bedroom apartments I could afford even if I worked more hours at the store. That would require handling more strangers' money, which makes my skin crawl. My dad called two weeks into my apartment search to tell me about a job a friend of his could get me at a warehouse. It paid seventy five cents an hour more than I was making at Mick's Discount. I went there to pick up an application. I rang the bell in the front office and was greeted by the warehouse manager. He said, "Come on I'll show you around the place and see if you still want to work here. If you do, then I won't hire you 'cause I'll know you must be a wacko if you want to work here. I'm just kidding, come on." He'd probably have meant that if he knew why I wanted the job.

I decided to work there by the end of the tour. It's an appliance warehouse. I wouldn't have to touch anything my coworkers did without wearing work gloves. It paid enough for me to get my own place. It's a full time job so I'd have to go to school part time. I filled out the application which was just a formality. Everyone who works there got their job through someone they know. It's a nice place to work and runs efficiently despite the friends and family hiring plan.

My dad called to find out how the interview went. I told him I got the job. I also told him about the pay and the hours. He asked if I'd be able to balance it with school. I told him I would go part time and graduate in the Fall. I told him I really needed to get my own apartment. He told me he was disappointed. He said my mom and my grandparents were excited about me graduating in the Spring.

I hung up. He called back, but I sent the call straight to voicemail. I've avoided him since then.

I told my roommates I was going to move out a couple hours after I spoke with my father. I was in the kitchen eating soup when they came. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to tell them both at the same time. Kevin said, "I guess it doesn't really matter but why are you leaving?"

"I just need my own space. It's nothing against you guys."

"Do you have money saved up? How can you afford your own place?"

"I got a new job at a warehouse. It pays more than more than Mick's and I'll be working full time."

"What about school?"

"I'll go part time the next two semesters and graduate in the fall."

"You're taking a job that pays more, but you'll have to go to school part time to keep it which is way more expensive than just going one more semester full time to finish your degree. Is this job what you want to do for the rest of your life?"

"No," I told him.

"Makes sense to me. What's up with you lately? You never want to do anything with us and you recoil from us every time we come near you. You won't use anything in the kitchen without examining it. I swear to God you have OCD."

"No I don't."

"Ok, eat this cracker," he said handing me a Saltine from the pack next to my soup. "Don't worry my hands are clean, I was just eating."

"What were you eating?" My neck began feeling warm and tingly.

"Does it matter?"

"No," I said and put the cracker in my mouth. I started to chew but it was like a lid had been placed over my throat. I coughed the cracker into a napkin.

"What's wrong?"

"Some crumbs went down the wrong pipe," I said and coughed a couple more times to convince them.

"Oh, let me get you a glass of water." He put some ice cubes in a glass and filled it with water. He handed it to me looking eager to see if I'd drink it. I did just to end the argument. I finished eating my soup though my neck was stinging and hot. I went to my room to start packing.

I've been all right since I moved. I go to work straight from class so I don't hang out on campus talking with my classmates or instructors anymore. I rarely speak with my coworkers. I haven't hung out with anyone since I moved. I haven't felt that warm tingling sensation on my neck either. I'm home.

"Hello, Earth" by Mike Wolf Hello, earth. Spellbound by magical effects of gravity, The audacity of us fucked up little parasites. A gelatinous birth, Hell’s foundries made my mold successfully, Idiosyncratically picked out and chosen Practically labeled to be an angel but a nerd then an idiot with no direction, worse a sinner. Well goddamnit, I’m happier forgetting yesterday. Let my mind fester in a pool of molecules. Fools, ha. I’m the genius, the dumbass the waste-away vomit sodden poet who’s lost. Russian roulette is best played with vodka. Ok, I’ll calm down. Spin, click. Gotcha.

Illustr

ations b

y:

"Four thirty one in the Morning" by Mike Wolf

Unfettered for four years, alive for one past one score.

I’ve had enough fun behind closed doors. Shut curtains With sunrise cracks as everything wears off or gets stronger hard to tell.

A yell, a scream for my dreams that are dying on the doorstep of my

swizzle-sticked mind, a kind of horrid jaw grinding, core-binding thing, I guess.

I mean

Sine waves decided my fate that night, a bell tolled somewhere and echoed in between my ears.

I’m clean. I swear. Cut scene. Someone hand me the fucking benzadrine

Hazen

Becker

VIRUS/MEME/R00T

We encounter them all around us. In the winter months they spread through the popula on causing pandemic and misery. Host to microscopic invasions. We are on the front lines, we are the front line. Citric acid infusions, Viricide, Latex, and Broad-spectrum an viral capsules stock the armory for biological warfare. Smallpox. Influenza. Rabies. AIDS. Fear in every syllable.

Our genome is a tapestry li ered with the corpses of a million viruses bound into the DNA of our being. Selfish genes transported into the future through the bloodlines of humanity. We now rise as the architects of hijacked viral bodies with beneficial purpose. Panacea from poison. When fear no longer blinds us de hands build tomorrow.

Our thoughts are being repurposed. Meme c viruses spread through our social media, our conversa ons, and our interac ve fic on. We are reflec ons of the memes that infect our minds and memories. We dis ll our hopes, fears, and idle musing into easily diges ble graphics and release them onto the vicious content cycle of message boards, walled gardens, and influence hubs. We lend out our favorite books fully loaded. Mix CDs with mixed messages. We are not just communica ng, we are infec ng each other with the ideas we give value. Culture as a commodity.

The binary virus of the bit and the baud has come to us on the back of the Informa on Age. The toys of hackers long past have become the boots of the mafia and the pre-emp ve strike of state-sponsored cyber warfare. As the complexity of the networks that connect us increases authen c intelligent design is building the next ghost in the machine. Frac ons of a penny. The latest prototype. Your digital iden ty. Targets for the next malicious line of code spawned from the deep web. A new fron er in a society increasingly integrated and defined by its number of connec ons.

Synthe c hydra taking over the machinery of your cells and producing nanite spores embed themselves in your latest fashionable implant inser ng meme c payloads into your subconscious. Obey. Buy. Live. Biological so ware appropria ng ar ficial hardware to adjust percep on. Incep on version 2.0 The not quite human condi on of a future self. Creator, host, and vic m. We are the expanding universe of the virus.

By William Bourne

By Shawn Lewis

“Why Yes, Deryck Whibley, That Does Look Infected” by John Hugar It began as something so harmless A minor kneescrape from a particularly intense game of freeze tag Nothing of any long term concern Then….. (clears throat) Then, I had to go and pick at it. Now, there’s a fucking monster on my knee A lifeform unlike anything I’ve ever seen It just gets bigger each day Because I keep fucking picking at it! Will this ever be okay? Will I ever….. …..be a normal human being again Or will this disgusting mutation on my knee Be part of me until I die? What if it is? What sort of havoc could that wreak? When I’m about to make love to a woman for the first time And I take off my pants Will she see this hideous thing and run from the room in terror? That’s the kind of shit I have to think about now Maybe I’m overreacting Mom says it’ll go away, but all I know is what I see And it just keeps fucking staring at me Watching…taunting….haunting… Only one thing is certain Next time I play freeze tag I’ll wear some fucking knee pads

(Still Shawn Lewis)

(Also Shawn Lewis)

“In-FEK-shun” by Nick Pino

In-FEK-shun is a syllable away from in-FLEK-shun, The change in your voice when you hear about your rampant in-FEK-shun,

But moreso, it’s closer to re-FLEK-shun, The act of which requires a bit of ab-STRAK-shun,

Where you inquire about past re-TRAK-shuns, But more importantly about past ri-GRESH-shuns, Where you could’ve been the next sek-SESH-uhn,

Wishing you would’ve done some dih-TEK-shun, Getting out there, not missing any kuh-NEK-shuns,

Improperly using your ih-REK-shuns, Because you were too damn shy to ask for some dih-REK-shuns.

One is no longer doing poetry when they put a title to it. Save such barbarity for literature, for history books, analytical philosophy. Such readers need to be led by the nose to understanding. They are incapable of embracing the inevitable; the subjective. It is exactly at the point of naming something that one loses it; Capturing, compartmentalizing, and hoping. Such ‘I am’ statements attempt to broker a deal. They want something to “sum it up”; Offering a “proof” as to what the writer meant. Proof, As if a writer needs such a thing. Proof is avoidance; a security blanket; A tool of the jester, who jumps over, instead of spans, The bridge that is man. So many writers write for a living That they don’t have time to write about life. By Mark Zimmerman

Illustra on by:

Jeane e Chwan

Veil of mist

Veil of plague, infecting me From every corner of your gauze!

Gauze, Gall, a Gag. I have to escape

But I know I can’t. Hiding, just barely,

What you really are. You try to walk with

The veil of mist Over your eyes And guide me

Down the path Of freedom

From illness and pain? Don’t doubt someone

When they say sickness is a sin. For that’s the sin you’re in.

The veil of mist Blinds everyone to

The specks in their eyes. Throw off the veil of mist And let your sight be clear

Enough to remove the speck! Who’s the bride?

Who’s the groom? All I can tell you

Is that I won’t fall Into a fevered swoon

At your feet And kiss all you hold dear.

I’ll live with a veil With a view

And not your veil of mist.

By Lesley Crawford

Introducing—

Rocket Lawn Chairs’s first serial work,

a sci-fi biopic adventure by

Cameron McClung:

Crewman Blake’s Journal

Earthdate: Error 42; Gravitational distortion of light sources makes date calculation impossible.

Stardate: Error 42; Gravitational distortion of light sources makes date calculation impossible.

Ever since the analysis of the Myriad began, I have felt an air of barely oppressed fear. History books talk about the day to day fear that people used to feel in the Cold War, when global annihilation was a possibility at any moment—No wonder so many people were doing drugs in the 1970’s and 1980’s…

Even the games the children play seem to have less spirit in them, and my fellow artists and I are having trouble composing. At least the hallucinations have stopped. The stress and anxiety are causing me to have a sort of cabin fever. I spend more and more time on the holodeck: beaches, mountains…I long to return.

Honestly the one thing that I feel is truly keeping me sane and healthy are my discussions with the Captain. He is an inspiration; fear permeates every corner of his ship and he would laugh in its face given the opportunity.

He called me into his office the other day. He offered me a drink, and I accepted it gratefully. We drank in silence. After a minute he confided in me that he was also on the edge. While he was afraid, he was much too busy being ready for impending disaster. He told me about a game he played with his friends as a schoolboy, a mutant form of chicken. One by one they would stand at the edge of a cliff and see how long they could stay there. “I know it’s strange,” he said, “but I remember being more afraid of my friends behind me than I was at the possibility of a sudden gust of wind.”

My hands are still shaking. I can almost see them covered in blood. I, among other members of the crew, was awakened by the activation of the warp drive engine in the middle of the night. I threw on a robe and ran to the deck, despite the fact that no matter what the crisis, my baritone voice and metaphorical imagery would be completely useless.

I burst out on deck to find the Chaplain steering the ship towards the black hole! Clearly out of his mind, he repeated over and over “We must go through the Eye of God!” The Captain and three other security officers were trying to pull him off the controls but they couldn’t.

I’m not sure what happened next, but I found a warm gun in my hands and saw the dead chaplain on the other side of the room…I need a drink.

By Sarah Womack