Stephen King often cites the influence of crime/mystery authors, from brutalist Jim Thompson to classicist Agatha Christie. He has also showcased a career-long interest in the intersections and tensions between genres, often pitting disparate modes against one another (consider the Western/high fantasy/horror fusion of his Dark Tower series). Hell, even his most explicitly horror-specific work is often working within the conventions of “literary” (or non-genre identifying) fiction.

It’s no surprise, then, that his latest novel The Outsider plays out as a police procedural narrative that gradually succumbs to the infection of supernatural horror. The author tried a nearly identical maneuver to less successful effect in 2016’s End of Watch, the final entry in his Bill Hodges trilogy. To that end, his meta-reflective doppelganger riff The Dark Half (1989) showcases another variation on this theme. As such, The Outsider reads not as some unprecedented betrayal of genre-defined rules, but as another iteration of a career-long M.O.—to oversimplify, novels like The Shining (1977) and Pet Sematary (1983) are basically domestic dramas invaded by horror conventions, so why not apply similar principles to the mystery genre?

The Outsider is absorbing as a pure exercise in plotting: King explores his “immovable object against unstoppable force” concept with great aplomb. He writes in his typically minimalist late-career prose style, which lends to compulsive reading but arguably less immersive effect than his early masterpieces (I must admit, I really do miss the intensity and imagery-laden excesses of novels like It [1986], The Tommyknockers [1987] and even Insomnia [1994]). Granted, The Outsider’s debatable lack of total immersion should not be attributed solely to King’s relatively recent change in style. The novel’s generally surface-level and lightly quasi-omniscient characterization is necessitated in part by mystery conventions: the author cannot fully disclose his characters’ deepest secrets and reflections, because (A) it could result in premature plot revelation, and (B) it would be counter-productive to what is essentially plot-driven fiction.

As with Revival (2014), I would have loved to read a longer and more fleshed-out version of The Outsider, allowing for the kind of richly descriptive language and wide-spanning social diagnosis that bolsters King’s best novels. While I ultimately think this is a pretty “minor” book, that’s not so much a slight as it is a tribute to the author’s phenomenal body of work. It’s not without its faults, but it’s engrossing and well-crafted fiction just the same.

I read from my weird academic-in-distress story “Mired” (included in Darkest Hours) for the latest episode of Writer’s Block. Listen to the reading.

Writer’s Block is CJSW’s monthly foray into literature. Hosted and produced by Dymphny Dronyk and sound engineered by Cody Dronyk, the program is focused on local events, writers, poets, publishers, while keeping an eye on the bigger literary picture across the country and around the world! Writer’s Block airs at 90.9 on the FM dial in Calgary on the third Tuesday of every month at 11 a.m. and 8 p.m.

Ben Walker just posted a new video review of Darkest Hours on YouTube.

Check it out!

“There is more than enough talent showcased within these pages to suggest that Mike Thorn’s journey has only just begun. I look forward to seeing where he goes from here.”

Read the full review here.

Alvaro Zinos-Amaro asked me thoughtful, personal questions for April’s issue of WORDS (an online zine through Hex Publishers). Among other things, we touch on transgressive art, John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness, Catholic school, philosophy and Kanye West.

Read the full interview.

Farah Rose Smith’s “The Visitor” does not serve simply as a delivery system for a riff on the Faustian bargain narrative; it showcases its author’s obvious attentiveness to each and every sentence, to how the lines sound and feel. This is the kind of fiction that begs to be read aloud. I find it difficult to describe good prose, but Smith writes with a seemingly effortless elegance that reminds me of some of the genre’s best stylists: think Kathe Koja, Anne Rice, Thomas Ligotti, S.P. Miskowski, Clive Barker and Gwendolyn Kiste.

I have no shortage of respect for “The Visitor”‘s form, but the content is also worth discussing. Smith writes thoughtfully and powerfully about the relationships between romanticism and destruction, between horror and seduction. This is a supernatural story, but it is also a story about the desperation and vitality of artists on the fringes, about the complicated dimensions of love. There’s an impressive amount of  subtext compressed into such a short amount of text.

The author’s biography cites her experience not only in fiction-writing, but also in the worlds of music and film. It’s all visible here. There’s a clear focus on affect and vibe and all the sensory qualities available to prose fiction, and Smith taps into these wells with a vibrancy that brings to mind Gothic post-punk, noise and experimental horror cinema. All this is to say that I thoroughly dig “The Visitor,” and that I recommend it highly to all fans of dark fiction.

“The author of Darkest Hours, a collection of short stories, has truly impeccable taste. Not only did Mike Thorn complete a master’s degree thesis on John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness, the endnotes mention his love of the influential industrial metal band Godflesh. If Mike and I ever met up for coffee, we would have a grand old time reminiscing about the mighty Godflesh, whom I haven’t seen in concert for a few years, but remain one of my personal favourite noise bands.”

Read the full review.

The speakers in Breathe. Breathe.‘s poems often toe the line between colloquial, conversational vernacular and cryptic, imagery-laden verse. Even during moments of abstraction, though, the poetry is above all else intimate and real, unafraid to state its meanings outright. Consider, for instance, the closing line in “Funhouse of Madness,” which confronts the reader with a direct question: “… but dread is an affliction, isn’t it?” To this reader, the line is exemplary of the book’s contents: Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi explores the caustic force that is fear, especially within the context of domestic violence, but she also recognizes that afflictions can be diagnosed, treated and even healed.

These poems, written almost entirely in free verse, often depict speakers seeking solace (or warding off danger) in the ludic spaces of the “natural world” – Breathe. Breathe. is rife with references to forests, lakesides, nonhuman animals and insects. The speakers often give off the impression of physical or emotional isolation, with threats or indeterminable forces lingering on the periphery, just out of sight.

And there is no shortage of threat to be found between this book’s covers; in addition to her obvious interest in folklore and magic realism, Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi showcases her commitment to the horror genre. In many ways, her short stories are even more confrontational than her poems. These narratives brutally address cycles of abuse, violent vengeance and terrifying fissures in the surface of reality.

Although Breathe. Breathe. incorporates works of both prose and poetry, it is a unified and cohesive book. The author makes good use of recurring thematic threads, imagining and reimagining her focuses within different formal contexts. This is a strange collection, full of fantastical moments and unexpected ruptures in domestic spaces, but above all else it is real. That is not necessarily a term I use often when describing works of “genre” fiction or poetry, but I think it is the one that fits best here.