Tuala and Other Horrors

By Leon Wing

Tuala looks like you and me—human, that is—but something is not right. Trapped on earth, an offspring of a union of human and fae, Tuala has gossamer wings on her back masquerading as tattoos. When she gets hangry, she turns into something other than her sweet seductive svelte self. She needs to be sated so she can earn her earthly upkeep as a sex worker in sweltering Kuala Lumpur.  She must imbibe humans—whole, body and soul, all the blood and juices. Vampiric, when she feels like it, she will bestow some of her faerie attributes into humans.

 

In other strange Malaysian stories, a man expecting to have died wakes up still living and meets the entity responsible; a neighbor more than minds a child; Red Riding Hood gets a makeover to a Malaysian dystopia; the death of a husband spells more than loss; a father confronts foreign invaders; a Goldilocksian home invader must eat to survive; train passengers witness an accident; ghosts cross-dress, and others at a church get nostalgic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WingWorldWeb
• Release date: Dec 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223575764

Leon Wing

Leon Wing's poems can be found in PoetryPoem, Readings from Readings 2, The Malaysian Poetic Chronicles, Eksentrika, Rambutan Literary, and Haikuniverse. A poem about the Syrian migration to Europe is featured in the Fixi anthology Little Basket 2017. He occasionally takes some poem apart and puts it back together, on the poetry blog puisipoesy.blogspot.com.   He has short stories published in Eksentrika, Queer Southeast Asia and the Canadian Asian literary magazine Ricepaper, and in anthologies like PJ Confidential and Remang, a collection of Malaysian ghost stories.

Book preview

First published by WingWorldWeb, 2023

‘Little Book of Tuala’, Copyright © Leon Wing, 2023

‘Kwailo and Other Strange Tales’, Copyright © Leon Wing, 2023

‘Tuala and Other Horrors’, Copyright © Leon Wing, 2023

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The rights of Leon Wing to be identified as the author of this Work have been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is coincidental.

About the Books

Tuala looks like you and me—human, that is—but something is not right. Trapped on earth, an offspring of a union of human and fae, Tuala has gossamer wings on her back masquerading as tattoos. When she gets hangry, she turns into something other than her sweet seductive svelte self. She needs to be sated so she can earn her earthly upkeep as a sex worker in sweltering Kuala Lumpur.  She must imbibe humans—whole, body and soul, all the blood and juices. Vampiric, when she feels like it, she will bestow some of her faerie attributes into humans.

In other strange Malaysian stories, a man expecting to have died wakes up still living and meets the entity responsible; a neighbor more than minds a child; Red Riding Hood gets a makeover to a Malaysian dystopia; the death of a husband spells more than loss; a father confronts foreign invaders; a Goldilocksian home invader must eat to survive; train passengers witness an accident; ghosts cross-dress, and others at a church get nostalgic.

Book 1

Tuala

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Tuala heads straight for the most colorful items in the vintage shop. She doesn’t look about to check out other alternatives. She knows what she wants. She has run out of clothes, only a few dresses remaining in her wardrobe.

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She struggles not to squirm—the money from the last john inside her hoodie pocket feels filthy from handling by successive owners. Earlier, in her flat, she instructed her john to place the money on the table. After he left (hopefully satisfied and eager for a next session soon) she gathered up the money into the hoodie she changed into.

Tuala hears high heels teetering after her. She is aware, without looking, a salesgirl has wheeled around, pausing her spiel to some customer. Tuala wonders if the girl caught a flash of profile of an obese thing in a hoodie, dull-colored amongst all the bright items under the shop’s all-encompassing luminance.

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Tuala isn’t bothered about the girl’s disdain as she weaves past less attractive items and makes a beeline towards the colorful clothes rack. She checks out the dresses, gowns, in the brightest colors, mainly reds and yellows, hanging on racks. Her hand shoots out and grabs the reddest of them.

It hangs limp and tiny in her hands. Tuala’s fingers taper to long black-painted nails. She simpers expecting the salesgirl to be worried they could tear through the fabric of the red dress now suspended between those nails. But Tuala wouldn’t do that. She merely pinches it aloft, between her nails, as she studies it, turning it this way and that.

She doesn’t need to turn around, to sense the girl moving swiftly to her side. Or, rather to the red dress, as if worried Tuala might do some damage. She doesn’t have to look to imagine the girl furrowing her brows, wringing her hands, keeping an eye on the dress.

She hears her say, Can I help you, Madam? Madam, indeed, Tuala thinks, not answering.

The changing room is a couple of feet away. But, unlike most changing rooms with solid doors, a curtain hangs from rails. So retro, Tuala thinks. This is a vintage store, after all.

She brushes the girl aside. With her free hand she pulls aside the curtain, quickly pulls it to before the girl could come closer and utter another word. The girl is hovering outside, anxious for the safety of the dress. She should be, because it costs RM1500, a fraction of the original. Tuala can see the price tag marked above the Gucci label.

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Tuala relaxes her nails’ pinch and lets the dress fall onto the floor. She almost cannot suppress a giggle at a gasp outside the curtain. Tuala pulls her loose top over her enormous head and hangs it over a hook on the wall. When she squats and retrieves the dress, she spots the heels of the girl—she has moved closer to the curtain.

The dress is much too small for someone like Tuala, even she thinks so. Tuala ignores the shadowy form of the girl on the other side of the curtain. She looks into the mirror: a rotund female with tiny globes one can hardly call breasts