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Mongezi Thozamile Ncemagwe Gongo or just simply Mo. I refer to myself a Monok . / Darkness Is a word‌. (Monok)

Are we giving space to the dark forces in everyday life, how can we use these forces

constructively? Here is a common EXAMINATION

of darkness

Here we are emabracing the simple idea that publication is the act of making something public.

contributing Artists

Tiziana Gualano fishspit Francesca Aspromonte jennifer Nichole Wells Yazmin Monet Watkins Andreas Niederwieser Daniel Ayles digital Heres sand in your eyes Allie Doersch Michael Schiøler Tingsgård Amanda Boucq Dovilė Aleksandravičiūtė Anwar Davids Nasos Karabelas Brian Henry Iqvinder Singh Niklas Wriedt Lavinia Roberts Kendy paxia Diego Garcia R/a/w/f/o/r/m/s Alisa Hentze Rasmus Brink Pedersen Ingibjörg Ferrer Peter Christiansen Amalie Vilslev Van Hong kier cooke Halla Norðfjörð Guðmundsdóttir Luc Firens Una Sigtryggsdóttir pedro ivan monok photo ( italia )

short story ( usa )

poetry ( oakland)

poetry ( fl )

poetry ( usa )

photo ( Austria )

photo ( portland )


illustration ( is )


photo ( Fr)

short story ( lt/nl)

illustration (ZAR )

photo ( GR)

photo ( USA )

photo journolist (California)

line drawings ( DK )

photo performance ( USA )

photo ( USA )

painter ( los angeles)

( nl)

poetry ( FAR/DK )

photo (dk)

icelandic folk tale (is) text ( DK )

visual poem (dk)

illustration (us) collage (no)

visual poet (BE)

illustration (is)

illustration (is)

illustration (is)

mørke dage festival | 23-25 Oct 2015 | volume : oo1 | nordik limited edition | Price: 250 Dkk

Darkness, the polar opposite to brightness is understood to be the absence of visible light


peter christiansen

Ba.Mag. Classical Hebrew and Science of Religion.

( udk )

Out of darkness comes …?

Let us play with the idea that the most misunderstood point of the creation myth is that everything is created from light, and into being - as separate from the darkness. That Light represents the ‘good’ and the darkness represents the evil.

The creating-force mediates between the two, darkness is what ignites the driving force; light is what ends it.

When I read the first few verses of Genesis, I read about the act of balancing your creative drives “And God said, Let there be light: and between what starts them and ends them. About embracing the opportuthere was light.” -Gen. 1:3 “In the beginning God created the nity of the infinite possibilities and heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and The light is created as the very first putting an end to them - flicking on the light switch - once the endless darkness was upon the face of the thing that ever came to be, whereas the darkness was the original possibilities becomes restrictive deep.” - Genesis 1:1-2 state of the universe and thus the rather than inspiring. Most of us have heard it at one time original state of reality. Darkness is formless, it is a void and it is infinite. or another: The myth of creation Imagine being in a room that is totain the book of genesis in the bible. lly dark - you would not know how It is in the very first words of the first line of the first book that the large the room was. Sure, you could creator-god starts doing what he try to clap your hands and estimate it based on the echo. You could reach cannot refrain from doing: “Creating“ - literally to ‘shape’ or ‘form’. out your arms and try to measure it This shapeless, formless void (that by touching the walls and so on. As was earth) was filled with nothing soon as the light is switched on, you will know the limits of the room. You but darkness and emptiness. Still can see from wall-to-wall, from (wether this is a myth or not) this tells a story of the first thing ob- floor-to-ceiling and all your possiservable - even in the complete and bilities of ‘creating the room’ in your total darkness that was reality: imagination becomes limited to the It tells us the story of the universe actual features of the actual room. and a creating force within it. In this The light (in this setting) is not the darkness the creating force - the begging of creating, of creativity ‘shaping’ and ‘forming’ - makes up the total sum of reality. Everything ‘shaping’ and ‘forming’ - it is the very opposite - it is the end. It is where that exists at this time, is either complete darkness or completely the imagination meets it’s limits ‘creating’. In this darkness we find a and reality it’s threshold. Usually we would render ‘light-as-good’ force - a drive - that cannot seize and ‘darkness bad’, but maybe this to create, to shape. In the verses myth suggests something to us; following we hear of how the that truth can be found at various light, the earth and the heavens levels, and that those truths are and waters were created. Ceaselessly the creating creator creates always equally true on their individual levels of meaning. What we everything from the ‘darkness’. have here is a triangular force: Light, Dark and Creating.



( usa )

(Preface: I ain’t into politics no more . . . it led me down the road to incarceration and some fucked up shit. My only politicking now is for the animals . . . and I try to protect them . . . advocate for them. But at the time I write about I was involved in far right politics . . . and here’s a story about that time.) When you belong to a clandestine organization (leaning to the extreme right...and no nancy boy republican right...no ...republicans are swine and pussies...I despise them! No, this was the REAL deal! Blood and Honor National Socialism!) . . . son of a bitch! I’m always interrupting myself... trying to explain things that probably don’t need explaining. But I don’t trust your beloved cerebellums my reader... how twiddle-beamed all that computer use has done to your poor noodle...stupefying your brains! Making you moronic... I feel I got to explain things in detail...so... yes...when you belong to a clandestine organization, you sometimes get a call to go on a “job”. One day I got such a call . . . orders from the higher ups. I was to get a handgun (I didn’t have one on hand at present),and meet this skinhead, Johnny R., in this town up north a little ways from where I was living. I was so drunk (I was drunk every waking moment back then), I didn’t think nor care about consequences ... absolutely so besotted and juiced up I didn’t think about what in Christ’s name I was getting myself into. I just didn’t care. My weapons connection was in Sioux City (or is it Sioux Falls?) South Dakota and with no time to haul all the way up there I called this guitarist I knew from a local skinhead Oi!band that collected weaponry. He hooked me up with an unregistered handgun. I put it in my glove compartment, got me a quart of cheap vodka and some orange juice, and cruised up north sipping my poverty row screwdriver. I arrived at Johnny R’s place pretty late. I’d met the fella before, but we really didn’t know each other. We didn’t fuck around...we drank and started doing lines of meth...straight on through the night.

I went somewhere...in my mind I mean...and what I next recall was Johnny shaking me out of my land of the lost. Shaky and twiggy, I started right in on the vodka and o.j....getting the hands steady...softening them screamin’s in my skull. I got drunk fast and hard...sloppy...Johnny had me do several more lines of meth to straighten me out...pop the nerves a touch...give me a mean edge. Then he filled me in on the deal. This Mexican had raped a white woman and was now out on bail. We were going over to his place to kill him. I said, “WE?!Fuck that shit! I’m a pacifist! I abhor violence! Count me out! Plus, I don’t care how much protection I’m gonna get in prison from the organization, I just don’t find it suitable to my manner of living.” He said, “Don’t worry...I’ll do the job. I just need someone to cover my back. This dude’s place is in Spicktown. Besides,” he added, “we’re covered on this one concerning any consequences.” I had my doubts...but I was so drunk and high, and scared of Johnny, I resigned myself and said, “Ok, let’s do it!” I was out of my mind to put it succinctly...way out of touch with the old bean upstairs. We waited until evening...me getting more and more crazy drunk and high and, well, just crazy. After watching a bunch of stupid movies on his choice of entertainment, the television (I wanted music!), he finally said, “Let’s go”...it was now dark and that’s when he wanted to do it. I was ready to go...his place was depressing me and for one thing I had music in my car... besides I was cranked up and feeling invincible at the moment. As I stumbled out of his shithole, he asked me if I had the pistol. “In the glove box,” I said. We got in my car and shot the shit as I rocked out to Brutal Attack on my car stereo and weaved my car across town. I told him, “You’re gonna to prison Johnny... me...I’m going to make myself real scarce after this...real scarce!” “Don’t worry,” he replied, “this one’s covered. Everyone, and I mean everyone, wants this spick dead. The police would of done it themselves, but there might be consequences.” Then he went on a little rampage about people who believed spicks had rights,

and them goddamned commie liberals with their immoral shit-ass ideas, and the outside interference. I listened to his hate-ridden spiel with little attention...I was starting to get a bit concerned... “How did I get into this spot?” I was wondering... “How did my life-trail lead to this? Shouldn’t I have gone to school and become a businessman?!” Good Golly Miss Molly! This was serious shit! I took a good long draw off my o.j. and vodka mix to get some quick courage and to turn off the thinking device. I was driving erratically (I may even of hit a few parked cars...I don’t recall). We got pulled over by a cop. “Fuck a nun! We’re going to jail now!” I said. Johnny didn’t seem fazed. I looked over at him... and the word “sociopath” popped into my mind. He said nothing. The cop had me get out of the car. This wasn’t my town...this cop didn’t know me and he wasn’t happy about the idea. Actually he was looking pretty vicious and mean. He had me spread eagled on the hood and he shoved his light in the car. Then I heard him say, “Hey...you’s Johnny R. ... Judge R’s boy huh?” “Yup,” said Johnny. The cop said, “You boys go home and go to bed.” ... but thinking on it later, I don’t believe that’s what he was saying...I mean, that’s what the bastard said alright, but that wasn’t what he meant. “Sure...we’ll go home.” I said to the cop, hoping this insanity was done and we really would be going home. The cop pulled away and I turned to John after getting back in and said, “Your dad’s the judge here?!” incredulously. “No,” Johnny said, “my mother is.” Wow! Now I could see it, we really were covered...to a certain extent...yet it didn’t placate that place in my soul that was shouting to my brain, “Get the fuck out of here you fool!” That tiny tryst with the copper had rattled me a bit and I went straight for the bottle. Johnny told me to fucking lay off the booze. I told him to go fuck his grandma... “I’m the one with the gun and the car!” I said. “You’re a fucking coward,” he said. I was starting to find this Johnny asshole a real pain in the tail. I was kinda wishing he’d just go and croak. That would take care of the situation...

short story

but people never croak when you really need them to. I kept my mouth shut, sipped my liquor mix, and drove to the trailer park where all the Mexican’s lived. “Spicktown” the locals called it. I got out and Johnny got out. I said, “Don’t forget your gun.” Emphasizing the “YOUR.” (As far as I was concerned, the pistol in the glove compartment was now his.) He said, “Pop the trunk.” I’m like “What?!” (Thinking of bodies in my trunk... I don’t want no bodies in my trunk...please Lord no bodies in my trunk.) I go open my trunk and there’s a semiautomatic rifle lying in there wrapped in some towels. “What the fuck?! What the fuck? What the hell in fuck?!” I shouted. “How did that get in there?!” I was truly baffled. “Shut your fucking mouth! You fool! I put it in there when you were so fucked up fool nut job drunk and high last night. Don’t you even remember giving me the keys you fucking asshole drunk?” He said with absolute contempt. I really wanted this joker to just go and croak now. “What we need that for?!” I shouted, stunned and worried and starting to freak out. “This is Spicktown! He may have pals...I want protection...I want fear...I want them shitting their pants.” He told me to get the pistol. I said, “Hell no! I ain’t killin’ no one! Jesus don’t like killing.” He replied, “I’ll do the job. Fuck!” and he called me a stream of rather unflattering adjectives ending with “you are a fucking pussy coward. Get the gun!” I did. There were Mexicans out and about... and they must of known what was going down. They were scared...especially with Johnny toting his pea shooter there like that...hell, I was scared too. Me? I had the pistol in my flight jacket pocket. I wasn’t feeling so good...all that fear I’d expected all that booze to counteract was coming at me from every pore in my tired and trashed sorry-assed carcass. I wanted out. We asked a lady standing there on her poverty porch looking at us, wringing her poor overworked hands together where Julio (or Juan or Beano or whatever the fuck the dude’s name was)

lived. She led us to his place, but she was chattering nervously “He gone! He gone! He leave town! Everybody want him gone! He no good!” She was making sure we knew which side of the fence she stood on...she had nothing but contempt for this Julio... a pestilence...that was her humble opinion. We went to the trailer of this Julio and Johnny kicked the door in with his giant boots. He was a sadistic motherfucker I could tell. Why hadn’t we just tried the door knob? I had, after he’d done his little dramatic kicking in of the door like the cops do on that television number...it was unlocked. Sure enough, this dude had high-tailed it out of town. Scrammed! Hotfooted it on the sly. His place was trashed and disordered from lots of poverty living, and his grabbing up all the stuff he felt he could take or could fit in his car or bag or however he got out of town. “What now?” I asked Johnny, rather relieved...thanking Julio in my head for getting the fuck out of town. “Back to my place,” was his reply. There, at his little scumhole, I worked on his cheap whisky as he made a phone call he wouldn’t let me hear. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be in my bed...covered to the nose in about 17 blankets. When he got off the horn I asked him (I really wanted to know, I wanted this to end here and now) “What’s the plan?” Johnny said, “We’ll get him.” That was all... my part in this misadventure was done. Johnny wanted me to stay on and spend the night. I wanted out of there. He said I was too drunk; I’d just fuck myself up. I figured what did he care? Why the concern? We hated each other, it was obvious. “So line up some crank,” I told him, “It’ll keep me going until I get home.” “What’s your hurry?” he asked. “Well,” I was saying to myself, “basically I’m scared shitless of you...you psychotic, rat-faced, retarded, piss-ant sociopath!” But what I said was, “I gotta get home...Molly (that was my girl...my love!) will be getting worried.” “Molly” he said with contempt. He didn’t know she wasn’t Aryan...he’d never met her. In fact, she was a yid! Something I didn’t let any of my comrades know.

Yeah! I was working for this group at the same time I loved and kissed and was infatuated with one of that great race of Beelzebub...a Jew. Don’t ask! I was crazy... bamboozled, booze-addled, nincompooped, way off my rocker...miles! Light-years away from my rocker. “Fuck Molly!” sweetly said my dear Johnny, “Go on home you pussy-whipped shithead.” I didn’t need to be asked twice! Hell no! I cranked up, took his bottle of whisky (in exchange for the handgun) and scrammed! God! Home never felt so good! As I lay there next to my fast asleep jew-girl I dearly loved. I wondered how I was gonna make a break from these psychopathic people I’d gotten myself all mixed up with. But that’s another story for another time...Christ! (Postscript: I knew the girl this Mexican dude had raped. She was sweet...a good soul. I’d drank a lot of beer with her...bullshitting and just feeling good. So...at the time...I wanted this fellow dead too. Now . . . I don’t know. It’s all become so tedious. I believed in something and joined the fight against the “enemy.” I was idealistic. Sure I was a serious drunk . . . but I was enthusiastic and believed in the “movement.” But then I discovered that just like all human endeavors there ain’t no truth and idealism . . . there’s just a whole hell of a lot of ego and a batch of scataphagous swine doing what humans do best: fucking up all that could be good and beautiful. Humans! The pack of egotistical, selfish, pig-fuckers. I’m one too . . . I admit it. It just seems to no longer matter. I’m too tired to care anymore.)

Una Sigtryggsd贸ttir

the drawing is simply the sometimes banal side of darkness, just looking at a towel in a dark bathroom


mørker dage festival , aalborg , denmark 2015

Andreas Niederwieser

Journey Inwards Welcome on board Of Soulshine Airlines Departing to inner self. Forecast: yellow mindfields. Yet covered With dark shadows Of negative thoughts. Arrival: delayed. _


POETRY Francesca Aspromonte the zero hour

Moon went retrograde this evening. Or was it Mars. Either way, I cannot seem to find my way back. Crossed over the same course many times, and yet each time the signs seemed just slightly out of sequence. Dark. Either that or I was full out of sentiments. I lay down in the dust and will my way back to Earth. Sadly, when I got there, it no longer held the same charm. Damned and limited. Soiled. Yet illuminated by the night sky, I had the overwhelming feeling that I had landed where I needed to be. The zero hour.

SM Untitled An absence of light envelops us all no matter how hard we resist. Our vision lessens yet our senses heighten to a new awareness. The odd but tranquil effects on the mind, body, and soul are noticeable. Control lost, mind racing, instincts still intact…how can this be? The limits of imagination are bound only by knowledge and understanding. And the feelings associated with this new world are understandably false. Fight or flight gives way to stillness and observance. I am still here and I am still tired. Rest until repetition returns the light

Yazmin M o n e t

Watkins “The world’s guide to ending, (inspired after Marty McConnell)”

Where do we go when there are no more questions left to ask? When we have nothing left to give, What becomes of our silence? Don’t be afraid of the stillness The light is actually inside of you The darkness is only another territory to root our flag Dig in, cross the threshold The beginning is never complete without an end But before you go You spark of a bullet, you Insight a riot Refuse to go calmly Bare your teeth Scrape your knuckles Scrap and fight and kick Don’t be fooled We only have this moment To really claim what we deserve Turn the world up on its head Rattle your cobra of a tongue Discard everything you were told Peel it off like new skin Pick it off like a scab, Rip it clean, start anew. Scar Blood is only a superficial obsession Turn me on I want to feel what’s inside of you Lets really find out what you’re made of You are gorgeous Hideous You freak of nature Unravel all your insecurities Find a reason to cry To fuck Give in to your emotions Falling in love is easy Maintaining meaning is the challenge The wheel of fortune favors the lovers So kiss the dice Play all your chips Heart trumps EVERYTHING Nothing else matters Darling, you are a dreamer That not many may understand Shine, shine anyway That is why they call so few A constellation The world is waiting for your brilliance Occupy your life, while you still have it What good is a funeral to an empty shell Have your wake before you die Enjoy your family here and now Come now, The world is going to hell in a hand basket Of fire and brimstone anyway Feel the ecstasy in your veins Laugh, dance, cry, exalt Love until your coals ember Love until hallelujah sounds like coming Praise until it sounds like dying Till it sounds like howling Till it sounds like struggle Like survival Like revival Like Alpha Omega AlphaOmegaAlphaOmega Are we the chicken or the egg? There is no more time for questions We only have one shot at dying here The gods are listening, NOW Tell them how you really feel.

image by r/a/w/f/o/r/m/s


Alisa Hentze

PAIN WE GAIN Through our pain, we gain this water from the rain It pours from our cries, after we realize, how all the lies ties from our distortion that rose through our abortion. Because Once, we sat completely flat in the midst of our unconscious mat. We lived oblivions, with a hope to stay there for eons Where the mass would like our shallow psych. We pretended to be free with no need to flea. But as we continued to follow our fallow flow, there was an inner glow that just wanted to grow And somehow show us, that even though we lived at home in our safe dome, this syndrome called for a window that pulled us on the road into our true selves, where we would build our authentic shelves. It would open our noir scar and emerge into a striking star Through this journey we had to deal with dark realities that allowed us to heal Then feel how our true selves become unveiled. Transforming out of our fairy tale storm, we touched our inner norm and saw our true core after opening our dark door. From there we understood the reasons why we could be in our privilege and play with our food that stood in the fridge. We saw the bridge that crossed from the deprived to the thrived. We found thoughts that where always dreaming and thoughts that where always screaming. We saw this world was split into two and how the good was only for the few. From there came these learning That become our key earnings Which could potentially create new turnings. We saw how to hold privilege And co-create a bridge With a responsibility To use our own ability To fight for what is truly right without fright for the night. To dare to rewrite and ignite each person’s sunlight For the greater good we could unveil the hood and touch an Open mind, heart and will to reach past that dark hill. So our lessons learned are Not to far But they say, in an open way To stay open With your hearts hoping Without allowing others To act like our corrupt father Who will use us As a cruel tool. We learned to stay true to your heart and connect to your love art. To Fight and always listen and bring each soul into a sense of blissing. To explore our heart’s truths and water our tree with fruits. With every step and every actions we’ll meet many unknown junctions, But with truth you own your actions your power and even your fractions Life emerges and diverges As we stay in a presence of pre-sensing. So through our pain We were lucky to find our gain.

His Name was Depression At night he crept and only at night he moved in the shadows in the dreams of the young

You could never see him straight away, but you knew he was there. He was a force that was felt in every fiber of your being.

It starts with an itch, just out of reach, then an ache that moves through your limbs and into your core. A slight cramp in your stomach, just a touch unsettling, then a crack in your heart like the dull ache of remembering.

You forget what you were before he arrived. And because of this it doesn’t matter.

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a Gift “ mary oliver

You are now him and he you. Creeping at night and only at night.




Daniel Ayle


“The Inner Light” a counterpoint to the theme of darkness

Allie Doersch


Brian Henry


On a cloudy day, I spent 6 hours alone, wandering the halls, taking Polaroids and discovering what remains. It is one of the oldest psychiatric hospitals in the United States.

Anwar Davids

How I see the darkness and how to use it: Darkness can be expressed as a visual tool to make people aware of the realities that surrounds us. One can use darkness; which is usually assumed to be negative, to send a positive message. Darkness is needed for light to exist, like the balance of the ying and yang or night and day. To know light you need to know darkness.


Amanda Boucq

photo + Poetry

Michael Schiøler Tingsgürd

Darkness When I was little and first learned of the light at something that hit the planet from the sun, I thought darkness was the natural state of everything. There was no yin and yang. Only darkness, sometimes being pushed aside by the unnatural state of light. In my drawing I am trying to return to this state of thinking by replacing the light darkness with light and the light with darkness. Darkness is usually referred to as a negative state, but it is more neutral than anything to me.


Tiziana Gualano

( italia )+


Hi, I’m Tiziana Its not easy to describe something you just feel. I try to avoid descriptions, when I shot I just focus on my personal view of the situation and how I feel about it and I want this for my viewer too. Not words, just feelings.


Dark dayz zine October 2015

Halla Norðfjörð Guðmundsdóttir

When I Go When I go ­I want to go where you’ll find me again Under where you left the shovel Underneath the feet that divide us All around the crooked town In the air and in a sound I tried to stay but I never found out what’s on the earth that makes us survivors And as I lay in the mud I think “I thought it was something new” And in the dark light of the morning I whisper my final words It’s a cold way of saying that I was left unheard And as I lay in the mud I think “I thought it was something new” And in my old way of praying I thought it was something good That you were left here as a warning A song or a scar Now rest assured that you will never hear them calling And as I lay in the mud I think “I thought it was something new” And in my old way of praying I thought it was something good

darkness can sound . .

The Bridge And as the church bells rang you buried your head down deep in the water and reached for the grass I had to leave the dream before it left me On the steps where the postman sat with a book and a joint and a smile And circling around were the empty boats ­full of cameras As if they could capture the stone in my chest In a group of six ­and then the two, the two and your protection from what flew above You ate the bread and swam along and I died ­a little ­for what was lost and said I’m on the other side of the bridge and nowhere yet The past is the future it’s the now in me And you must have seen the nets I let them float So up you go I’m nowhere now So up you go I gave you all So up you go

Maybe Maybe I am too ironic Maybe I should never say what I think and where you’re wrong ‘Cause I think it was all in vain Maybe pain cannot last forever Maybe time never runs late Now you know I’m not able to love anyone So would you do what you did the same way I think cold is the best weather I think I will never change So if we’d meet someday later I would do what I did the same way Now everything is upside down Now everything is upside down Everything is inside out Everything is upside down

Dark dayz zine October 2015

Amalie Vilslev

Butoh inspired works

Dark dayz zine October 2015

Kier Cooke

Dark dayz zine October 2015

COLLAGE : ”the black runs deep.”

dovilė aleksandravičiūtė Mary had a little lamb, Little lamb had Mary, Mary ate her little lamb, Now she’s full and merry. I didn’t have my shoes on. I could see them violently dropped in the corner as I was stumbling over the threshold and running out into the yard. No matter how much we’ve been rushed and shooed by the grandmother we have started too late. The squeaking started to intensify not even half way to the apple tree garden. I could see the backs of my cousins and my sister as they were running headlong down the hill. I could see the plastic bag tightly clutched in my sister’s fist, swinging by her side. I could hear vague rustling of a thin plastic and even more vague click-clacking of candies jumping inside of it. At that moment I was running to the bag, focused on and seduced by the sugary promise awaiting for me at the end of this gallop. But no matter my excitement and effort I was still unbearably falling behind. I was cursing my short legs, my bare feet and even more my cautious nature. There were so many mole holes to jump over, so many ant hills to zig-zag around so many bees not to step on…so many things that didn’t seem to exist to my older sister and my cousins. So many troubles they didn’t seem to notice as we all rolled down the hill. To the apple tree garden. To eat candies. To be far and out of the way for the rushing adults. Because the pig is being slaughtered. This hotspur chase of the plastic bag full of candies became a measure of time and wealth when I was growing up. If we did it once - before Christmas; the year could have been better. Twice - before Christmas and Easter; the year was good. Three times - in the late August, before Christmas and before Easter; the year was very good. It was August and it was flourishing. And the pig was being slaughtered. Somewhere there, separated by the apple tree garden, by the thinnest plastic, bursting with candies and by my greedy sweet-tooth barely toothed mouth.

and lines of sausages in the pantry. We have finished candies long time ago and now we were just killing time, waiting for the grandmother to peek on the top of the hill and let us go back. My sister and my cousins were all climbing on the top of the apple trees, swinging from the branches. I quietly rooted myself on one of the lowest branches. Too afraid to climb higher, unable to reach and grab properly on the further branches. My hands were too small, my legs were too short. And yet again, my caution was too big. My cousin noticed me down bellow and threw an apple towards me. It dryly bumped to the trunk of the tree, split in two, leaving juicy mark just within my hand reach and then plopped heavily into the grass down bellow. ‘Come on, little monkey, come up. You can see everything from up here. The forrest, the puddle, the house, the barn and...’ he paused and grinned ‘....and even the dead pig!’ He threw another apple and this time it bumped into my shoulder, leaving a long thin scratch line with its stem. I stayed mute, just clung to the branch tighter. Small raw apple, clinging to the mother tree. ‘Come on, baby, climb! I can bombard your way up if you want...’ and he swang to toss another apple but this time my sister interfered: ‘What’s the matter with you, leave her alone’ she shouted, jumped of the tree and plumped heavily on the ground. ‘Lets go, the grandmother is here’. We all jumped down to the grass and slowly climbed back up the hill, with our candy-full bellies heavily pulling us down to the grown. But this time not just me was falling behind. My cousin slowed his pace down and now was walking right next to me. I felt intimidated by his presence but I didn’t want to show it, so just strolled up with my eyes fixed on my bare feet. Counting bees on flowers.

Later in the afternoon my cousin sneaked upon me while I was alone by the woodshed. He had a big metal cup with blood in it. Right away he started telling me a story. The story our uncle told us once about good old days when people used to drink But even though it established certain routine the event animal’s blood to be strong and healthy. From one heart to itself never seemed to exist. There was no knife piercing the other. He stirred the thick liquid around the cup, letting flesh, carving it’s way straight into pigs core. Straight into its heart. It never pulled the gush of blood and life out of it the blood to color and coat all inside of it and stretched it out towards me. on its way back. It never clinked dry after it hit the side of ‘Drink.’ the rusty metal bucked into which it was tossed. By never I didn’t want to, but he didn’t let it go. With a violent grin on missing trained hand. Leaving couple of blood dots on the quickly absorbing ground. Making a body to slump heavily on his face he slowly reached out and then quickly grabbed my it’s side. There was no twitching of limbs, no splashing around hand. ‘Don’t squirm, little piggy. I will tell you a story about slowly spreading puddle of blood, no plowing of mud. No dilating pupils, no tongue slipping out of the mouth. No one last growing up. You want to grow up, right? You want to be a big fading squeak. And no stiffening dead pig. There was just lines girl like your sister, don’t you? You can not stay a little cry

Dark dayz zine October 2015

short story

baby forever. So don’t squirm and listen. Men used to drink horse’s blood to become men, but nobody slaughters horses anymore, so we had to find other ways to man up. Therefore, we play with sausages in the pantry and eventually we find nice girls to play with those sausages together. But before that, girls have to mix their blood with pigs blood to be healthy and strong. Strong enough to push their small piglets into life. So drink.’ He picked up my limp hand and squeezed the cup into it. I almost dropped it as my hand was too small to take it firmly, so I had to grab it with my both hands. He grinned even more. ‘Careful, you don’t want to make a bloody mess out of your dress. What a pretty dress you have! All sweet and pretty you look ready to grow up.’ I was clutching the cup in my hands nervously, feeling the cold metal slowly warming up. ‘Drink’ I closed my eyes and pressed the cold rim of the metal cup to my lips. I could smell a sharp bloody smell. I wanted to cry. ‘Oh, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Drink.’ I took the smallest sip and almost instantly threw up as intense irony taste spread across my mouth and sunk heavily deep into my guts. ‘Drink more. One big sip. From one heart to the other.’ I gulped mouthful. I couldn’t swallow. Now I not just almost instantly threw up, in addition to that, I could feel my legs weakening and cold sweat rushing all through my body. My mouth was bursting with blood, slowly forcing it’s way down my throat while my tongue was struggling to push it out through my lips, which I kept tightly glued together. I wanted to grow up, I wanted to prove my cousin that I am strong enough. I wanted to play in the pantry. I wanted to be big and strong as my older sister. But as I was standing there I felt trapped in the limbo, knowing way too well that any mental decision I will make will make my body react. Purely physically. Humiliating me in front of my cousin. But even worst, preventing me from growing up right here, right now. I could spit the blood out, but I could feel that the stream would just pull all my guts out along the way, forcing to surface all the candies I had. I could swallow and risk trowing up nonetheless but I knew that I would faint before that. The bloody stream will just sweep me off my feet. But before I made my mental decision my body seemed to decide instead of me. And everything was black… As I opened my eyes I could see the back of my cousin running away from me. Clumsily stumbling over mole holes and grass and then disappearing behind the trees in the garden. The metal cup was laying in a small puddle of blood just within a hand reach. I rolled over and stood on my all fours. My body felt iron heavy. I slowly spat and the thick red spit slowly

slid towards the ground. It slowly broke in the middle and long string of it stayed dangling from my lips, while i watched the other part of it being slowly absorbed by the ground. I stood up, picked up the cup and tossed it to the nearest bushes. It quietly clinked before disappearing amongst the branches. For forever and for ever. I slowly walked towards the house making sure that nobody could see me. I secretly sneaked into the bedroom, closed my eyes and blindly walked towards the mirror, feeling my way with my outstretched hands. As I touched upon the cold surface of the mirror I slowly opened my eyes and for a second I was overwhelmed by the view I saw. My hands dropped down to my sides as I investigated my reflection. My bare feet were blackened by mud. My dress was bloody, with some stains prominently rooted on my chest. My hands were bloody and dirty with redness sinking deep under my nails. But my face was the worst. A prominent line of bloody spit was drying down the middle of my chin. Mocking the symmetry of the face. And my mouth seemed to be freshly carved into my head and was gaping savagery with a brutality of a deep unhealed wound. For a while I looked mesmerized to this image, then leaned towards it and slowly grinned as much as I could. I grinned and grinned until my cheeks started hurting. With my bloody barely toothed mouth. I was happy.

Nasos Karabelas

Dark dayz zine October 2015

Abstract photography is photographic style that attempts to escape from what we traditionally know as photography and to turn towards to other mediums of art such as painting. The alienated body and fuzzy features of the engravings of the matter reflects the ambiguous and unstable emotions and thoughts that constitute that subject.

Dark dayz zine October 2015

PEdro Ivan

DARK days a poem

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                                                

Dark dayz zine October 2015

kendy paxia

A pile of headstones shows how life is not even valued after death - that these monuments that you hope will preserve a loved ones memory is in the scrap pile. Dreams fade, memories fade, we all fade. Everything is thrown in the trash at the end of the day.


diego Garcia


“Exploitation� - When I was younger and exploring my sexuality, there were situations I encountered where I was taken advantage of. Where I was being used. There is a darkness to our sexuality, and some people are into some really dark stuff. Sometimes I would put myself in a position to be used and degraded, which was my own sexual darkness. The ideas I had for this painting were exploitation, sexual objectification, perversion, self exposure.

Ingibjörg Ferrer

icelandic folk song

Móðir mín í kví, kví

Once upon a time there was a young slave working on a farm. She was with child but could not tell a soul. On the night of the birth she picked up her newborn and wrapped her into her finest cloth. It was a cold winter night and the fields were covered in snow. The young mother held her child in her arms and crossed the snowy fields under the starry sky. After a long walk she stopped by a steep hill. She sat down in the down like snow. She laid her young one down and spread the snow over her as if she was covering her in a warm blanket. When she walked away the child started to cry but she ran and never looked back. Years later there was a merry gathering, called Vikivaki, and all were invited to dance. The young slave had become older. She too wanted to dance but had no clothes fit for such an occasion. Instead she remained on the farm and tended the animals. The night of the Vikivaki, she, and another slave, sat by the goats and milked into pots. As she squeezed the teats she moaned and told the other slave how sad she was for not having such fine attire for the gathering. As the last word left her lips she heard a voice whispering into her ear: Dearest mother of mine, mine, Worry not for I, I I shall lend you my little cloth, my little cloth for dancing in, I shall lend you my little cloth, my little cloth for dancing in.

Lavinia Roberts

perfomance art



VISual POet

Niklas Wriedt

“Line of Thoughts” (Tankestreger). They’re a channel for me to express what ever is going on inside of me, often first later i realise what the pen has put down. There’s no structure or desired purpose


Iqvinder singh


My subject matter usually deals with homelessness in our city streets and individuals with mental disorders and disabilities. I used to document homeless people by taking their pictures but I soon realized these individuals have mental issues and paranoia. The individual in this particular shot is a victim of both mental disability and paranoia. I use my photography to tell their stories. No matter how lively our cities might be, an image like this brings out the darkness in our realities.



I am an editorial illustrator focusing on storytelling, sports, and reportage. With both spontaneity and quiet awareness, my work explores the energy and motion found in the stories of people, and seeks to capture the feeling of places.

rasmus pæsen


Rasmus Brink Pedersen (1979) is a visual artist and writer, living in Copenhagen. He graduated from the royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts in 2010, and has also studied at The Academy of Fine Arts Vienna. He works alone and as a part of several more or less formal collectives, amongst others: visAvis and YNKB. Till the 8th of November 2015 the exhibition ‘In light of the impossible relationship’, created collectively by ten younger artists, can be seen at the exhibition space Møstingshus at Frederiksberg. Right now he is working on the book ‘Benches of the Agora’, which will come out in the Winter of 2015, and on a project with Christian Ohlendorf Knudsen who is a candidate for a trip to Mars with Mars One.

Rasmus Brink Pedersen (1979) er billedkunstner og forfatter, bosiddende i København og uddannet fra det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademi (2010) og Akademie der Bildenden Künste Wien. Han arbejder både i faste og mere uformelle kollektiver – feks. i grupperne visAvis og YNKB – og alene. Indtil den 8/11-2015 kan man se udstillingen ‘På baggrund af de umulige forhold’, skabt af et kollektiv bestående af ti yngre kunstnere, på udstillingsstedet Møstingshus på Frederiksberg. I skrivende stund arbejder han på at færdiggøre bogen ‘Benches of the Agora’, der udkommer i vinteren 2015, og på et projekt med Christian Ohlendorf Knudsen, der er kandidat til en tur til Mars med Mars One.

Rasmus Brink Pedersen (1979) is a visual artist and writer, living in Copenhagen. He graduated from the royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts in 2010, and has also studied at The Academy of Fine Arts Vienna. He works alone and as a part of several more or less formal collectives, amongst others: visAvis and YNKB. Till the 8th of November 2015 the exhibition ‘In light of the impossible relationship’, created collectively by ten younger artists, can be seen at the exhibition space Møstingshus at Frederiksberg. Right now he is working on the book ‘Benches of the Agora’, which will come out in the Winter of 2015, and on a project with Christian Ohlendorf Knudsen who is a candidate for a trip to Mars with Mars One.

Mongezi gongo

Darkness Is a word…. Darkness is energy, energy we sense and feel. She omits light, with here there is no light, with light there is no darkness. It is man perception of evil forces yet it’s a force that transcends times. It has no color, shape or identity, it however associated with the night It is a moment in time, where a man life is at its lowest and he looks towards light to gain strength. It is fear. It is death Time Creation And space… Monok…




DAY(Z) ine

CONTACT info Niklas Wriedt wriedt.niklas@gmail.com

alliedoersch.com alliedough.tumblr.com

Halla Nörðfjörð Guðmundsdóttir hallagud@gmail.com

Daniel R. Ayles aylesart@gmail.com Andreas Niederwieser <a.niederwieser@gmail.com>

Iqvinder Singh Iqvinder Singh’s profile photo iqvinder.singh@hotmail.com



-Jennifer Nichole Wells http://jennifernicholewells.com http://felanzine.wordpress.com http://topicgenerator.wordpress.com jennifernicholewells@outlook.com

Lavinia Roberts http://laviniaroberts.com

Fishspit. http://wiseblood.biz/

Nasos Karabelas karabelasnasos@yahoo.com

Diego Garcia Diego Garcia’s profile photo artbydiegoeduardo@gmail.com

tizianagualano@libero.it <tizianagualano@libero.it> https://www.flickr.com/photos/clemisnoise/

Francesca Aspromonte francescam.aspromonte@gmail.com

Rasmus Brink Pedersen nyrasmusp@gmail.com

heressandinyoureyes heressandinyoureyes’s profile photo heressandinyoureyes@yahoo.com

monok Email. : mongezigongo304@gmail.com Behence : Monok Pinterest : Mongezi Monok Gongo

Kendy Paxia Kendy Paxia’s profile photo missmuffcake@aol.com

Luc Fierens http://lucfierens.tumblr.com/

Una Sigtryggsdóttir www.unasigtryggsdottir.com

ALISA HENTZE about.me/alisahentze https://twitter.com/HentzeA

Van M. Hong vanhong.com Pedro Ivan <photography.picsofyou@gmail.com>

Amalie Vilslev Juelsgaard Master student, Visual Anthropology amalievilslev@hotmail.com

kiercs.com Brian Henry http://www.instantdecay.com http://birdclaws.tumblr.com http://www.instagram.com/briansphotographs Anwar Davids Behance account: https://www.behance.net/Guru-gaste Instagram: ANWARDAVIDS7 dovilė aleksandravičiūtė dovilea.weebly.com amanda boucq x(99) / from flickr: flickr.com/photos/x99elledge Michael Schiøler Tingsgård http://www.thebrokenelevator.com/

Peter Christiansen 60617235 https://www.facebook.com/PeterPoeblen Ingibjörg Ferrer ingibjorg.ferrer@gmail.com

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