No one starts a magazine more than two decades into the 21st century.No one!It's only an adled brain that would even toy with the idea. Print publications are on their way out. The few surviors are frightened, huddled, waiting silently for the long night to come.Well, not here at Phenomenal Stories!We never expected to have any readers, so how could we be disappointed?And we're not!OK, OK, there may be one or two readers who, ironically, are reading Phenomenal Stories on their Kindles.Other than that, though, it's safe to say that after the first four issues we are very nearly 100%% reader-free!So why are we doing this?I put it to you as a question: Why wouldn't we be doing this?OK, plenty of reasons, but we're doing it anyway.Come on along!

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.

Just how many magazines can we create based upon the simple concept of a modern-day speculative fiction pulp magazines? Well, at least this one more. The novels we serialize in Phenomenal Stories are, well, phenomenal, and deserve publication as solo books, which our parent company is doing. In the meantime, though, we just thought it would be quite fun to produce our own novels magazine. And with four other magazines now in print, we certainly aren't over worked, punch drunk, sleep deprived or delusional. Really. So, here we present one of Richard H. Nilsen's first novels, the young adult fantasy story called The Book of Power. It was serialized in Phenomenal Stories between December 2018 and May 2019. And it's a lot of fun, so it's well past time you started reading it, don't you think?

Phenomenal Stories #10 features the first installment of the first Hal Johnson mystery novel, An Old-Fashioned Shooting. Richard H. Nilsen takes great joy in his easy-going P.I., makes the reader feel right at home with Hallum Johnson in the Adirondacks. To compliment An Old-Fashioned Shooting, Nilsen's column, The Write Stuff, this month focuses upon writing a mystery story, talks about some inspirations and gives some insight into Nilsen's writing method. The editor, too, stays focused upon writing and considers character development in stories. Dunces & Dragons sees columnist "Intrepid" stopping back at the office before moving on to his next assignment. This glimpse into the inner workings of the pan-dimensional, hyper-reality publishing house, perhaps, finally explains some of the situations J.D. Hayes Canell gets his alter ego into. Phenomenal Stories is a modern-day tribute to the science fiction/horror/fantasy/speculative pulp magazines of the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s

"In the murky London gloom, a knife-wielding gentleman prowls the midnight streets with his faithful watchdog Snuff - gathering together the grisly ingredients they will need for an upcoming ancient and unearthly rite. And all manner of players, both human and undead, are preparing to participate."--Publisher.

That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried “No!” For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? “No!” cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love.somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, “Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,” and the note was signed “Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189—.”

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." --H. P. LOVECRAFT, "Supernatural Horror in Literature" Howard Phillips Lovecraft forever changed the face of horror, fantasy, and science fiction with a remarkable series of stories as influential as the works of Poe, Tolkien, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. His chilling mythology established a gateway between the known universe and an ancient dimension of otherworldly terror, whose unspeakable denizens and monstrous landscapes--dread Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, the Plateau of Leng, the Mountains of Madness--have earned him a permanent place in the history of the macabre. In Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, a pantheon of horror and fantasy's finest authors pay tribute to the master of the macabre with a collection of original stories set in the fearsome Lovecraft tradition: ¸ The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft: The slumbering monster-gods return to the world of mortals. ¸ Notebook Found in a Deserted House by Robert Bloch: A lone farmboy chronicles his last stand against a hungering backwoods evil. ¸ Cold Print by Ramsey Campbell: An avid reader of forbidden books finds a treasure trove of deadly volumes--available for a bloodcurdling price. ¸ The Freshman by Philip José Farmer: A student of the black arts receives an education in horror at notorious Miskatonic University. PLUS EIGHTEEN MORE SPINE-TINGLING TALES!