The powder was in the top cabinet, behind packs of organic barley and quinoa that we never use. I unwrapped the plastic and took out the bottle. I put on a pair of wash gloves and carefully unscrewed the lid, catching a faint whiff of something, thick, clotted and musty, like a crypt filled with dead spider's webs and moth's wings. I took a tea spoon and scooped out a tiny pinch. It was a dull grey colour. Quick, I stirred it in. A brief fizz as it met the JD and Coke, then nothing. I added two ice cubes. This is a story about an Exploding Zombie Cock by the brilliant James Miller. What more do you need to know?! (If you really have to know more, it definitely lives up the title. And is a bit rude.)
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"On n'est pas dans le futurisme, mais dans un drame bourgeois ou un thriller atmosphérique"
L'auteur se glisse en reporter discret au sein de sa propre famille pour en dresser un portrait d'une humanité forte et fragile
Au Rwanda, l'itinéraire d'une femme entre rêve d'idéal et souvenirs destructeurs
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