It has been a long, strange road, and probably has no end clearly in sight. Many more books are in the works as I write this in early December 2018. For example, I have published nine novels to date, and am writing nine more, with plans for some beyond that. The Shawn M. Tomlinson's Guide to Photography series has 29 titles in print, with another five or six nearly complete, and plans for 30 to 40 more. I'm also trying to rework and rearrange those books into omnibus editions by chronology and by theme.I never will get every book done I want to do, but it keeps me busy.I always planned on putting out a catalog of all the Zirlinson Books, but kept getting waylaid for one reason or another until now. This catalog is available as a print book in color. The color print book will be cost prohibitive for many people, so there likely will be a black and white version available, too.

I have collected many, many pulps over the years, but at the back of my mind, I always hoped to edit one.My first job, as editor of two trade newspapers, deluded me. I created a presentation and went to the publisher. He listened, but he never spoke about it.I worked at many newspapers and magazines, but no one was interested.I founded a few magazines: The Antediluvian Levee, The Game's Afoot, Different Deaths, Ride of the Horsemen, etc. I then tried to start the kind of magazine you hold. It didn't work then, though. I just didn't have time to do it.Finally, in late 2018, I started working on it, pulling writers and artists together, doing some preliminary designs, etc. The first few issues came together so fast that I pressed on. I didn't hesitate, but got the first issue into print as soon as possible.This book is a collection of nearly everything that appeared in the four issues of Phenomenal Stories, Volume 1. There's also a best of collection magazine titled Lost Carcosa available.

The King in Yellow is a book of short stories by the American writer Robert W. Chambers, first published by F. Tennyson Neely in 1895.

"The Street of the First Shell" by Robert W. Chambers. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

"The Street of Our Lady of the Fields" by Robert W. Chambers. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could see the island of Groix from the cliffs. I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted my pipe. Then I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o’clock. I might have wandered far from Kerselec since daybreak. Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven, looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way, these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite. “It’s a bad place for a stranger,” old Goulven had said; “you’d better take a guide;” and I had replied, “I shall not lose myself.” Now I knew that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in sight, much less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and turning my back on the sun tramped on again. There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright. I began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and the moorland pools. As I walked my own gigantic shadow led me on, seeming to lengthen at every step. The gorse scraped against my leggings, crackled beneath my feet, showering the brown earth with blossoms, and the brake bowed and billowed along my path. From tufts of heath rabbits scurried away through the bracken, and among the swamp grass I heard the wild duck’s drowsy quack. Once a fox stole across my path, and again, as I stooped to drink at a hurrying rill, a heron flapped heavily from the reeds beside me. I turned to look at the sun. It seemed to touch the edges of the plain. When at last I decided that it was useless to go on, and that I must make up my mind to spend at least one night on the moors, I threw myself down thoroughly fagged out. The evening sunlight slanted warm across my body, but the sea-winds began to rise, and I felt a chill strike through me from my wet shooting-boots. High overhead gulls were wheeling and tossing like bits of white paper; from some distant marsh a solitary curlew called. Little by little the sun sank into the plain, and the zenith flushed with the after-glow. I watched the sky change from palest gold to pink and then to smouldering fire. Clouds of midges danced above me, and high in the calm air a bat dipped and soared. My eyelids began to droop. Then as I shook off the drowsiness a sudden crash among the bracken roused me. I raised my eyes. A great bird hung quivering in the air above my face. For an instant I stared, incapable of motion; then something leaped past me in the ferns and the bird rose, wheeled, and pitched headlong into the brake.

»In the Court of the Dragon« is a short story by Robert W. Chambers, originally published 1895 in the short story collection The King in Yellow. ROBERT W. CHAMBERS [1865-1933] was an American author and artist. He was highly prolific, writing over 80 novels and short story collections, with the most famous being the short story collection The King in Yellow [1895].

One evening in May, 1888, the Café des Écoles was even more crowded and more noisy than usual. The marble-topped tables were wet with beer and the din was appalling. Someone shouted to make himself heard. "Any more news from the Salon?" "Yes," said Elliott, "Thaxton's in with a number three. Rhodes is out and takes it hard. Clifford's out too, and takes it - "

Only when the Nan-yang Maru sailed from Yuen-San did her terrible sense of foreboding begin to subside. For four years, waking or sleeping, the awful subconsciousness of supreme evil had never left her. But now, as the Korean shore, receding into darkness, grew dimmer and dimmer, fear subsided and grew vague as the half-forgotten memory of horror in a dream. She stood near the steamer's stern apart from other passengers, a slender, lonely figure in her silver-fox furs, her ulster and smart little hat, watching the lights of Yuen-San grow paler and smaller along the horizon until they looked like a level row of stars. Under her haunted eyes Asia was slowly dissolving to a streak of vapour in the misty lustre of the moon. Suddenly the ancient continent disappeared, washed out by a wave against the sky; and with it vanished the last shreds of that accursed nightmare which had possessed her for four endless years. But whether during those unreal years her soul had only been held in bondage, or whether, as she had been taught, it had been irrevocably destroyed, she still remained uncertain, knowing nothing about the death of souls or how it was accomplished. As she stood there, her sad eyes fixed on the misty East, a passenger passing—an Englishwoman—paused to say something kind to the young American; and added, "if there is anything my husband and I can do it would give us much pleasure." The girl had turned her head as though not comprehending. The other woman hesitated.

"For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will and what they will not, -each Is but one link in an eternal chain That none can slip nor break nor over-reach." "Crimson nor yellow roses nor The savour of the mounting sea Are worth the perfume I adore That clings to thee. The languid-headed lilies tire, The changeless waters weary me; I ache with passionate desire Of thine and thee. There are but these things in the world- Thy mouth of fire, Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled And my desire."