Bøger af Ashley Lister

At the end of each summer season, the staff at the Fun Park enjoy a private ritual called Payback Week. Every customer who ever upset them, every boss who ever crossed their path, every person responsible for a grievance becomes eligible for payback. This year, Payback Week will be special because there's a homicidal killer clown with a meat cleaver patrolling the Fun Park and a lot of debts have come due.

Hurton Airfields, known locally as Hurting Fields, is an abandoned military airbase. Experiments were conducted on this site that saw miraculous healing; the creation of diabolical monsters; and the awakening of the dead. But that was more than twenty years ago. Now, for those going on the #DeadEndTours urban exploration of Hurting Fields, no one is expecting to encounter any of those monsters. No one is expecting to meet the walking dead. Which means the latest group of tourists are in for some big surprises. From the book: "It's as simple as this," said Sergeant Miller, raising his Glock 17 to the creature's forehead and squeezing the trigger.There was an explosion, deafening in the hollow acoustics of the hangar. Something flew from the back of the creature's head and then it fell to its knees and collapsed, unmoving and lifeless. The stillness of the night seemed to thicken as the after-echoes of the gun's retort rippled through the darkness."Don't waste your time shooting anywhere else," Sergeant Miller told his troops. His voice, ordinarily loud, was raised to a parade drill bawl as he went through the impromptu demonstration. "Forehead only. Front-on. A hit anywhere else on the body is a waste of time and bullets. And we're in no position to waste time or bullets today." He kicked the lifeless thing at his feet. "And don't bother with any of this 'double-tap' shit. These things don't have the imagination or the ability to play pretend so, if it stops moving, it's definitely dead and you can worry about the next one."Another of the creatures came at him from the shadows. He raised his Glock, waited until it was less than a metre away, and fired again. The gunshot sang louder than a rattle of thunder. The creature fell to the floor like a marionette with the strings cut."Feel free to help me out whenever it doesn't interfere with your valuable schedule," the sergeant added sarcastically. "I hadn't realised I was leading a platoon of tree-hugging, vegan pacifists who all want to sit down singing John Lennon songs and tugging each other off, rather than helping me deal with this zombie fucking outbreak."The silence was broken by a platoon of a dozen privates shaking themselves from a horrified stupor. There was the metallic click that came from well-practiced professionals arming their rifles. There was the sound of shuffling boots against the asphalt of the hangar floor. All of this was supported by a background chatter of muttered apologies, as the group scoured the surrounding darkness."How many of them are there, Sarge?""I don't have that information," Miller bellowed. "But, I think it's upwards of a hundred. It's fair to say we're outnumbered.""Are they really zombies, Sarge?""Zombies is as good a name as any," Sergeant Miller replied. "But you can call them whatever the hell you like. Geeks like Willoughby say the walking dead. La-di-da officers with their private educations call them reanimated corpses. I call them Liverpool fans."One of the privates, Auton it sounded like, grunted a bark of laughter at this. He asked, "Why do you call them Liverpool fans, Sarge?"Another one of them came running from the shadows. "Mine!" Miller shouted. He extended his Glock, waited until the creature was a metre away, and then squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening bang. Something wet shot from the back of the creature's head. And then the zombie had fallen, motionless, to the floor."I call them Liverpool fans," Miller said, smiling. "Because their brains have stopped working and they all need shooting in the face. It's the same reason why you'll hear some squaddies call them James Corden fans.""Are they infectious, Sarge?""Why? Are you thinking of dating one, Willoughby?"Miller paused whilst a couple of privates chuckled at this reply.

Cemetery Road is known for its ghosts. They're unreal figures that fill the forgotten houses, linger in the White Hart pub, and haunt all those who have ever had a reason to be near Beggar's Hill Cemetery.Six friends, bound together by local history, gather together for a night's camping where they can gossip, drink and exchange ghost stories. But, this evening, the ghosts of Cemetery Road are calling for those friends to return where they're needed the most.

Typical conspiracy theorists believe there are two types of alien: the reptilian shape-shifters and the visiting greys. The better informed conspiracy theorists will mention the third type: the hybrid. When sceptic Paul Manne finds himself at the centre of this world, where shape-shifters enslave humans and the greys use them for experimentation, he has an opportunity to save mankind from cruel tormentors. But it's not a battle that will be easily fought. From the novel: "I'd like to speak to the manager, please." She spoke in a deathly quiet voice. Each syllable was undercut with the promise of severe retribution if her request wasn't addressed immediately, and to her absolute satisfaction. Her eyes had narrowed to menacing slits and her lips were lizard-thin lines around an artificial smile. "I'd like to speak to the manager, NOW.""The manager will tell you exactly the same thing I've just told you," said Paul Manne.Supermarket muzak played unheard in the background: a light meld of sounds that could have been classical jazz clones or maybe 80's tribute tunes. The rest of the store was a chatter of droning voices, each discussing potential purchases and talking about the minutiae of daily lives. All of those sounds were transformed into a growl of indecipherable background static.And Paul could hear none of it save for the woman's shrill, demanding tone."I'd like to speak to the manager, now," she insisted.He was trying to be polite, professional, and respectful, but the woman that had come to him with the complaint - a woman who looked like a boss-level Karen, he thought bitterly - was making it difficult for him to maintain his composure. "It's the company procedure-"She waggled a finger to stop him from continuing and then spoke over him with shrill, irrefutable insistence. "If the manager is going to tell me exactly the same thing, please bring him down here now so I can hear it from his lips, rather than from one of his floor-workers." She used the word 'floor-worker' in the same tone she would probably use for talking about a vagrant with hygiene issues and a Tourette's vocabulary.Paul didn't like to think of every woman with a complaint as a 'Karen', but this tightly wound bitch was ticking all the boxes for the stereotype. Her blonde hair was set in an inverted bob: much longer at the front than the short, shorn scrub at the back of her neck. The platinum highlights and harsh angles leant an austere look to her features. All of these details were accentuated by the angry rouge on her cheeks. Her age was indeterminate beneath a mask of foundation, meaning she could have been anywhere between late-thirties and early sixties. And she was dressed in the pastel-coloured shorts and T-shirt that came from last season's M&S fashions. Her head had started to shake from side-to-side as though she was physically manifesting her disagreeable mood and internally trembling with the ferocity of her mounting fury.

Coming Together: In Verse is a collection of erotic poetry and risqué verse edited by Ashley R Lister. Sales proceeds benefit Hope for Paws. Erica Jong said, "Poetry is what we turn to in the most emotional moments of our lives - when a beloved friend dies, when a baby is born, when we fall in love." Wallace Stevens said, "A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman." Edgar Allan Poe said, "Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words." Most of us agree, when it comes to expressing passion, there is nothing more effective than poetry. THE POETS: Ashley R Lister, Alessia Brio, Victoria Blisse, Rachel Woe, Janine Ashbless, Liz Honeywell, AJ Chilson, Roy Clements, Katy J, Ashe Barker, Lisa Bower, PJ Bayliss, Geneva Rose, Jay Willowbay, Slave Nano, Lily Harlem, Kay Jaybee, KD Grace, Norbert Gora, IG Fredrick, Jade A Waters, Adrea Kore, Bella Settarr, Okami No Koga, Daniel Davis, Joanna Harrington-Cruise, Sophia Sophia, Le Petite Mortimer, Eleanor Meadows, Angell Brooks, L Hollamby, Blacksilk, CA Bell, Ian Jade, Tamsin Flowers, Ruby Red, Colin Davies, Desmond Field, Rachel McGladdery

The definitive, indispensable guide to writing quality short stories and getting them published.

Whether you're writing a steamy erotic novel, or a romantic novel and want to take the reader beyond the bedroom door, writing a convincing sex scene can be one of the most difficult challenges for any fiction writer. How to Write Erotic Fiction and Sex Scenes is a practical guide to help every writer rise to this challenge.

Why do women swing? In a frank and fascinating expos of female involvement in the swinging scene, Ashley Lister sets out to find answers to this tantalizing question. Through painstaking research and countless interviews, he reveals the sometimes shocking attitudes and secret lives of those women at the forefront of today's recreational sex scene. This is the first ever book devoted exclusively to female swingers and includes candid confessions from a wide spectrum of women, from young party-loving students to outwardly conservative middle-aged professionals. It provides a comprehensive and up-to-the-minute survey of the contemporary swinging scene and a remarkable insight into modern female sexuality.

Ashley Lister, a freelance writer, author and reporter, has met countless singles, couples and triples involved in the UK's recreational sex scene. Meeting people who have turned their fantasy lives into reality, he uncovers today's swinging Britain and reveals the sexy, shocking and true secrets of what happens behind closed doors.