Anything is possible in the Realm of the Impossible
Review of my book 'Tiddley Trail Stories' by Norman Morra
There’s death, and there are things worse than death. In his Tiddley Trail Stories, Bala Menon boldly depicts the impact of our unconscious grabbing us and turning the real into the unreal and back into reality. Isn’t this the basis of most horror movies, such as Psycho or The Shining, where an everyday predictable existence turns ludicrous and unbearably frightening? In the realm of the impossible, anything is possible. In a way, these stories are equally
cinematic and literary.
Menon creates a sequence of eighteen stories that carry the reader through twists and turns that make it impossible to predict their outcome. Is there any coherent plot unifying these outrageous scenarios? On the surface, no, but undercurrents run through these episodic flights of fantasy. This format baffles the reader because we prefer continuity or a common thread to guide us through a sustained narrative—and that doesn’t exist. But this disparate array of tales or revelations keeps readers anticipating that surprising or unexpected ending. You take one bite of the cheesecake and want more; no two bites taste the same. One story prods us into reading the next, and another with no end to the horrific escapades. These are not mysteries because Menon does not drop clues to let us imagine who or what causes the suspense or who will face the consequences. The endings are like a magician deftly yanking the tablecloth sharply while the dishes and cutlery stay put.
In “Stranger On The Lawn,” a father complains that his teenage son, Mike, has the irritating habit of divulging “the climax of a suspense novel,” and he just can’t help being a spoilsport. Our narrator, the Dad, finds this habit disconcerting. One warm Spring day, the man is cultivating the garden of his remote ravine home when a stranger wearing a heavy coat and smoking a pipe approaches and informs him that this land, this garden, and this house belong to him and his forefathers. Our hero is an outright usurper. What a way to disrupt a pleasant day of gardening.
Incredulous, yes, but the stranger bolts toward the empty home, and the man pursues in a frenzy. The stranger then vanishes, leaving the narrator with nothing but an insane story to tell his family and friends. But here is where Menon’s literary craft shines; he contrasts the elegantly diverse flowering garden, started four years ago, with the following: “I still don’t know whose mangled body it was, with its shattered skull, that I buried under the elm sapling.” This juxtaposition between the beautiful and the abhorrent hits the reader’s senses and psyche.
The tale ends with the hero (or antihero) outlining how he managed to dispense with the incriminating clues that would lead investigators back to him. He succeeds in his crime but lives with the memory of his horrid deed, yet confession is good for the soul. However, the book's strength is its ability to contrast beauty and peace with chaos and violence, which happens throughout the stories. Balancing the normal with the paranormal binds the narrative inside each tale and the book itself, making it more of a montage than a collection. And more coherent than one thinks.
The writing style is conversational, meaning the author is never distant from the reader, who senses someone guiding them through the maze of trickery and deceit. Menon does this by placing ordinary, identifiable characters front and centre in his stories. These characters are easily recognizable: brothers, sisters, wives, children, grannies, the police, rideshare drivers, bank managers, criminals and co-workers—all familiar yet unpredictable. If the characters are recognizable, so are their motives, which involve money and greed—but not always. The language and tone are authentic, direct, and understandable. Conversational writing is difficult because, unlike a novel, Menon must replicate his balancing technique in each of the eighteen stories. Regardless, we must adapt to Menon's format without one main narrator, as in a book, which can be challenging.
Yet the culprits don't always escape, and their scheming backfires, as in the opening story, “It Was Only A Mug Of Coffee.” The main character states, “I am a connoisseur of coffee…” Now, bragging about your prowess is suspect for several reasons, which shows that this man is untrustworthy without any redeeming quality. However, he knows what a good cup of Java tastes like, and it happens that his family plantation in Sumatra has concocted possibly the best brew ever. “The new coffee will neither age nor lose its aroma or flavour.” But the recipe or formula for this coffee rests securely in the central computer of the family’s company. The scoundrel breaks into the computer, steals the formula, and erases it from the database, leaving his family in a quandary. He has betrayed his flesh and blood.
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Bala Menon with Mary Ellen Koroscil, Chair
of the Courtneypark Writers' Group |
He absconds to Canada and drives from Toronto to Calgary, where he will sell his stolen formula to the “Coffee Board of Canada.” His scheme appears airtight until he meets a group of thugs in Saskatchewan who beat him mercilessly. Upon awakening at the Saskatoon General Hospital, the doctor informs him that he will remain an invalid for the rest of his days. Even worse, he will have little sense of smell or taste—the same senses that he used to savour the aroma and flavour of his beloved specialty coffee. Unlike the previous tale with the stranger, the hero endures physical suffering worse than death. A suffering that robs him of sensuality and places him at the mercy of others until he expires. So, the first story lays the moral groundwork for the remaining ones; there’s no real escape from our immoral acts. If we avoid punishment or physical harm, we experience inescapable guilt and misery that penetrates our souls. Nothing can erase the memory of our malfeasance.
Throughout, Menon shatters stereotypes, as in “Little Old Ladies.” Indeed, we deteriorate mentally and physically, but we can, regardless of age, improvise and adapt with the help of others because where there’s a will, well, there's a way. And revenge knows no age bracket. A group of older women meet at Sandra’s cottage on picturesque Matamagasi Lake not for tea and scones but to plot an attack on a degenerate who assaults, robs, and rapes vulnerable senior women. The man has escaped justice, but the women “have long memories and don’t forget” and apply their brand of justice, albeit vigilantism.
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Bala Menon with Elizabeth Banfalvi, President of the
Mississauga Writers' Group |
Demure Liz, the leader, flashes a wad of hundred dollar bills and acts as the decoy, luring the man to a remote area where he expects to rob her easily. Unafraid, Liz tosses her purse in the air, and when he stretches upward to grab it, she thrusts her metallic sharp-edged umbrella into his chest. The other ladies and a hefty male accomplice emerge from the bushes to perform atrocities on the man. They gave him a penectomy (penis removal) and poured sulfuric acid into one eye. The man survives and tells the police this unbelievable story about getting attacked by a group of senior women. The police have heard every story, but this one takes the cake. The last vestige of human kindness is Liz saying, “All the equipment we used was sterilized. Poor rascal shouldn’t get any post-surgery infections.” But did he get his comeuppance to the max, or is it karma? It doesn’t matter because Liz teasingly confesses at the end that this story never happened as the ladies revert to a sedate cafe to tell “raunchy stories and risque jokes about old boyfriends.” So much for quaint old biddies.
Violence permeates the stories, and we have to ask why. Is it necessary? Do the most loving, docile and mellow among us have this innate urge to inflict pain on others? Sometimes, the meekest have a violent episode buried inside their unconscious—either real or imagined. This idea appears in “‘Right’ Side Of The Road,” where a timid rideshare husband witnesses several gangland executions but agrees to stay quiet. He does precisely what the mob tells him to do, and they reward him to the extreme. That reward for silence is becoming a millionaire because, in Menon’s world, Faustian bargains can pay off. And what we started this review with—the real turning unreal and then real again—binds all the stories. So, there is a structure if there’s no integrating plot. But does life have a plot, a prescribed path we must follow; do we have a blueprint or template for our future?
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'Tiddle Trail Stories' on display at the Brampton
Authors' Showcase in June, 2025 |
Finally, in “Is That You Rebecca?” paramedics routinely pick up an 85-year-old man, Johnny, who wanders away from his seniors’ residence. In the ambulance, he reminisces about women he courted years ago in his prime and calls out their names. Johnny makes the paramedics chuckle. Still, as an oldster, he retains his manly looks. Routinely, the paramedics find him and return him to the home. He is harmless, but his hormones remain intact. On this particular day, in the back of an ambulance, he relives his love for Rebecca. “We waddled into the Agawa River and saw otters making love, twisting and turning, and you wanted to do the same.”
Back at the seniors' home, he gropes the female aides but is charming, and they dismiss his antics as boyish playfulness. Old John breaks up the monotony of their rigorous jobs, and unlike the other residents, he is fun-loving. The staff forgive his misdemeanours. There’s no one woman he searches for; he just loves women. Granted, men of any age should not grab women, but at eighty-five, Johnny doesn’t give a damn. Nor should the old still yearn for youth since they’ve had their day, or should they? Then, the grim reality hits us. Upon reaching the home in the ambulance, Johnny asks his imaginary Rebecca, “But didn’t I strangle you and drown you in Ramsey Lake when the mist rose around us?” Is it factual or fictitious, or a mix of both? Again, Menon balances the aesthetic with the grotesque.
These stories usually have no happy endings for the perpetrators, victims, survivors, or the righteous. Revenge is sweet but doesn't last. However, we are in denial if we expect our lives to grow and flourish without regret, pain, or injustice. And to think that we can manage our choices and avoid exigencies, think again. Undeniably, a random universe exists, and we experience unsuspecting diversions (good and bad) that shape us. That’s the message in Tiddley Trail Stories: expect the unexpected because we are not always the arbiters of our fates, and things are not how they appear.
The unconscious and the conscious are in turmoil twenty-four-seven; our memories shadow us, and we play the perpetrator, victim, and survivor to the best of our ability. Guilt and longing for retribution stay deep within our psyche, and Menon forces them to the surface, which is challenging for many writers. Do we dictate our thoughts and passion, or do they emerge from a deep and hidden place? Freud, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stephen King would relish these tales in a heartbeat.
