A bit late to the party that is Shadow Complex

Well bloody hell, THIS is a find.

Let's get the boring stuff out the way: Shadow Complex is an Xbox live arcade game made by EPIC studios (them lot of Unreal and Gears fame) on the unreal engine. Its also deal of the week currently, and you can grab it for 800 MS points. THIS IS A STEAL.

The best thing about the game however is its style. Its part of the long lost Castlevania-Metroid genre, and its fantastic. Its fully 3D but the character can only move in two dimensions. Then its basically Metroid, but with guns and set in (kinda) modern day rather than in space. The main character, Jason something, is also far more talky then Samus - he's voiced by Nolan North, the bloke who does Drakes voice in Uncharted. He's video game gold, and his sarcastic comments throughout make the game even more fun. He's basically playing Drake if Drake was infiltrating a shadowy evil complex. This isn't really a bad thing.



So like in Metroid, you unlock bits of map, you navigate around areas with a surprising amount of grace, and you kill things. This is where Shadow Complex might out do its inspirations. Its weapons have a lovely feel to them, which is rather impressive on a side scroller - you feel like you've got some dangerous weaponry, something even some FPS games can't even get right.

Also its a definitely a contender for the "game that has pulled me in fastest" award. Admittedly, its not the catchiest name for an award, but pah! In about the first two minutes you've shot some fools and bought down a helicopter - the game was on trial at that point, and it offered that if I unlocked and bought the full product, I would get the achievement for my Die Hard style helicopter killing moves. This is as evil as it is clever, and I succumbed immediately, losing my afternoon to it in the process. Luckily the game continues to be fantastic, but wow, its commercialism bought to a scary new level. I don't know whether to be mortified or impressed.



Another realization this game has bought to me is that this "Metroid" genre might just be one of my favorite types of game, I just hadn't realized it. At first I simply thought I just loved Metroid, but hey Metroid Prime is awesome. And so is Castlevania. And so is Batman: Arkham Asylum, which uses the same map system and new items to progress system of those games. In fact, Arkham is probably my game of the year for 2009, carefully beating out Dragon Age, which I am convinced is trying to steal my soul. Every time I play, its like time outside speeds up, and I wake up a few hours later. Its witchcraft I tell ye, but I lack the will to break its hold over me. Also playing Brutal Legend... Really not quite sure on that one. The world is brilliant, the script funny and the voice acting brilliant. The gameplay at the moment however is lacking a bit. Tim Schafer hasn't let me down before, but I suppose nobody is perfect. I remain hopeful it will improve however.

Bloody hell, that was a bit of a tangent. Anyway, Shadow Complex. It's good, definitely a worthy investment. At some point before Christmas I should probably do a festive blog, full of yuletide cheer and love. Bah. Maybe.

Much love blogosphere!

A cold night, and a standing ovation for an atheist in a church...

How to even begin a description of my evening is difficult. To try and describe it all feels somewhat like it would cheapen the subject itself, suffice to say I doubt I will experience music like this again for a very long time.

Before I explain, I will quickly mention I saw Them Crooked Vultures the night before last. They were very, very good, in particular the mixture of Dave Ghrol and John Paul Jones contributing to a pulverizing rhythm section. These guys could move houses with their riffs. A fantastic gig, but not the subject of this entry. Here we go...

I first heard of Frank Turner through my friend Tom, someone who has always been a source of music for me. He will very often point me towards fantastic acts, but when he told me about this particular musician, it was as if he had undergone a religious conversion. I was going to be listening to this music whether I liked it or not, so its pretty fortunate I thought it was so bloody good. The songs hit a chord, as they have with a huge amount of people, and most of my friends. I was all set to go to the flowerpot and see him - then due to other circumstances (Women! Bah!) I couldn't go. I was gutted. Sitting at home on the dreary evening, my phone goes off, its Tom at the gig. Brilliant, I think, just what I need. I get to hear what I'm missing out on. Tom's excited voice comes down the phone. He says someone wants to talk to me, then Frank is speaking to me saying he's gutted I couldn't make it. He's never met me, and he dedicated "Worse Things Happen at Sea" to me, just because I had an awful day. I still have the shitty recording someone took, and whoever that is, I owe you a beer at some point. This guy is not only a bonafide fine musician, he's also probably the nicest man in the world. No exaggeration, honestly.

When I first saw Frank Turner, it was in Tom's living room. He was filming a music video for his song "The Road", and this involved twenty four gigs in twenty four hours. We were two in the afternoon, and he still turned up all shattered and charming and played for us. We're in the video, I'm standing right next to him in a white shirt. Look for the only part that has the crowd singing along, with a crowd surfer. (Tom, obviously.) I also force a cut at one point because I forget the words, as I am a dick. I went on to see him at Reading, and on his own tour, he continues to be bloody brilliant.
Frank Turner is very good at what he does, and last night he played a special gig at the Union Chapel.

For those not in the know, the Union Chapel in Islington is a church. This contributed in a big way to what made the evening so special. It's beautiful inside, the lights on the stage contrasting with the stain glass feature above it. Intimate is an understatement. Everyone sits in pews, as you would at a church, and the acoustics of the place are like nothing else. I was lucky enough to be sitting right up front, and when people were playing you couldn't hear anything else, the whole building just vibrates with sound. Me and my friend got in late, hurrying in from the ridiculous outside cold - not as bad as back home mind. No snow in London, which was slightly sad. Coming out of the church into the snowy capital of England might have been an idyllic overload. Anyway, we got in and up on stage is a little chap called Ben Marwood. He was rather good actually, a contagious mix of nerves and hyperactive charisma. We got right into the front and just sat and listened. I will be making sure to look this guy up, even if we only caught the last bit of his act.

After him was Emily Barker and the Red Clay Halo. Now this was something completely different. The lovely ladies filled up the stage and got out a cello, a violin and an accordion. Again, we all just sat and listened. There was something particularly festive about this act, an almost romantic vibe. It should be noted that Frank hadn't actually arrived yet. The poor sod had been stuck in France and was still trying to get to the actual gig - by this point however it was clear we'd still get our moneys worth out of the night. One of the joys of going to gigs is discovering artists you'd never even heard of, and this one was a goldmine. It looks like I'm going to be spending my day searching myspaces and so on to find more stuff from these guys.

Ten minutes after that (ridiculously fast turnover of acts) Chris T-T comes on stage and plays a beautiful piano piece. For a minute I was expecting simply instrumental piano the entire way through, but then he stood up and came to the front of the stage. "All of the people here are really friendly", he said, "I've never been given a blowjob in a church before." This man is bloody funny, and his sadly short act was... quirky. Completely brilliant, but I describing it would probably do it a disservice. Go and look him up. Now. He's got a new single coming out soon called "Nintendo", its rather good. Go find it, the blog will still be here when you get back.

So we all waited for Frank Turner. In the end, he was about ten minutes late, walked in and straight onto the stage holding a bottle of wine. He promises that tonight's going to be a little bit different, this was an understatement. He played a brilliant selection of songs, with his ever talented band at the ready. Loads of surprises thrown into the mix - "Hold Your Tongue" in particular made me grin, I think its one of his best, but I never thought I'd hear it live. The new arrangement of "Father's Day", with Chris on piano was pitch perfect, one of the most emotional performances I've ever seen. All the previous acts came on stage to perform "Last Christmas" on stage. The grandeur of the surroundings wasn't lost on Turner, at one point he stated although he was a stringent atheist, he felt a bit weird swearing in a church. He did anyway, and it was fantastic. Frank always plays with an intensity that can charge up an audience but in these surroundings, at this time of year, with these people, these songs, this crowd: it was electric, preaching to the masses.

Frank Turner always managed to deliver the goods, whether it be in someones living room, a festival stage, a huge London venue or even a Church. Last night he gathered a supremely talented group of people and put on the kind of show that everyone attending is going to remember for a very long time. At the end of the show, the band leaves Turner on stage and he apologies that they don't have time for the entire set list. He plays his staple last song, "The Ballad of Me and My Friends". The entire congregation stands, claps and chants along with him. An atheist at the pulpit, a crowd in the pews, singing away at the last gig of the decade. Remarkable, unforgettable and special. The poster for the event I bought will be framed, and it was worth every penny.

If you haven't seen Frank Turner before, go and see him. If you get a chance to see any gig in the Union Chapel, go to it. This is the first gig that caused me to beging writing about it the second I got home, and I shouldn't be surprised - Frank Turner never disappoints.

In the last two days I saw a media proclaimed "superband", in the gigantic Hammersmith Apollo, and a folk singer for the fourth time this year in a little church in London. He still managed to blow everything else out of the water. As we were all chanting last night: "We're definitely going to hell, but we'll have all the best stories to tell". This would be one of them.

Festive Halflings, and the television wasteland...

I've just got back from university and am now faced with illness, and the strange sensation of loneliness. Not that I'm actually lonely, but when you've become accustomed to wandering out of your room and chatting to people immediately it feels a bit strange. Also, this room is cold. Oh so very cold, even my hairy feet cannot withstand its chilly evil. I left my slippers in Egham (Yes I'm 18, and I wear slippers. They are comfy, and they have the Superman logo on them.) and so now my duvet has become a strange kind of foot blanket. I feel like I should be in a retirement home.
Speaking of feet however, I settled into a bit of a Christmas ritual yesterday. I sat downstairs, popped on the surround sound, let it snow (SNOW!! IN DECEMBER! THE END OF DAYS COMMETH!) outside and watched Fellowship of the Ring. Now, the Lord of the Rings films have a very special place in my heart. This is not because I am obsessed with the books, or the lore, its just that they are good. Really, really good. Better than the books in my own humble opinion, enjoyable on multiple over multiple viewing and something my whole family enjoys. Put one of these babies on (extended edition, of course) and the family will gather around to watch. Well, everyone except my sister, but she will learn. The first film was released in 2001, and I remember going with my parents. I found it a bit boring to be honest. Then I watched it again and loved it, and they came out each year, each one being almost faultless pieces of entertainment: the only criticism I can level at the entire trilogy is that Return of the King has a bit of too many endings syndrome. It drags a bit. But I even have grown to love that bit. The scripts are fantastic - condensing the source material into a exciting narrative with a better flow than the actual books and giving the characters more space to breathe and develop. The characters themselves are also fantastic, every actor perfect for their role, no matter how small the part and each giving performances that will forever define them for me. Even Orlando Bloom. The music is brilliant, giving Mr Williams a run for his money, and that doesn't happen often. I distinctly remember seeing Return of the King in the cinema with some friends, and as the sequence of the lighting of the beacons kicked in, my friend went to the toilet. He came back and said: "I could hear that in the loo's. It was epic." Epic sums up that bit perfectly, in both music and image, talking of which I don't think I can add anything that hasn't already been said about the fantastic photography and direction of the films as a whole. It's a continuous "wow" moment, and probably the main reason I come back to watching these so often, at least twice a year - like no other films these pull you into a living, fantastic world. If Avatar can match this, I will be a happy man. Some fun nerdy facts about these films: Originally, Sylvester Mcoy, the seventh Doctor, nearly played Bilbo. Nicolas Cage was nearly Aragorn (this didn't happen, and is proof there is in fact a God.) Patrick Stewart was also offered the role of Gandalf before Mckellen was. He rejected it because he didn't like the script - I contest this is not in fact true. He rejected it because to then have been Picard, Xavier and Gandalf could have basically caused the universe of fandom and geek culture to implode on itself. He was simply doing everyone a favor.
Another reason I have resorted to these films is that there is simply nothing on. TV has become its usual pre-Christmas dirge. There isn't even anything good happening stateside, as everything has stopped into mid-season breaks. I've stayed with Stargate: Universe, despite it being a bumpy ride so far. It's had its highs, and then some lows, in particular the episode Time which was a fantastic example of where the series should be headed, and then the episode that followed it Life, which was an example of everything completely wrong with the show. The cliffhanger ending has again seen a return to form, and its been given a second season so probably worth keeping with it I think. House is, and will always be, fantastic. Nothing more to say there. Scrubs has returned with its new format... and actually isn't too terrible. But the sooner they send J.D off on a bus the better. A few more episodes and he actually leaves, and hopefully the show can try and flourish in its new self. Until that, there is nothing. Until Christmas day that is... and the Doctor Who big finale. Doctor Who has already taken a place as part of my Christmas every year, but this time round it is dominating it. By new years day, I may be a lunatic. If anyone speaks, death shalt be swift.
And that should pretty much be enough for this blog post... I've got a load of articles and pieces to actually upload onto this blog, but I'm lazy. The new Nonstandard website is coming along lovely for a Christmas Eve release date, and I'm already writing some stuff for that. Tomorrow its off to see Them Crooked Vultures, which should be fantastic, and day after that is the ever reliable Frank Turner. Not a bad way to round of the year gig-wise, especially a year that's included the Reading festival and U2. That reminds me in fact, I must now depart to go and listen to War remastered on my new massive speakers. I can make the house shake if I turn it up enough...

Some Creative Writing Pieces

Oh dear I've been ever so lazy and haven't actually added anything to the blog for a while. Sadly I've been ever so busy, writing essays and reading books. And not at all going out and getting completely wazzered. Anyway, to make up for it, I'm putting up two pieces from my introduction to creative writing seminars. Both of these pieces are born from the same exercise - our seminar tutor simply tells us to write for a certain amount of time on a one word subject. The two subjects given were "Autumn" and "Statues". They produced two very different pieces of work, although I find it interesting that they were both quite dark in nature - I find myself much more intrigued by dark stories at the moment. Maybe its simply a regression into fantasy from all the novels I'm having to read for my English course, or maybe its just because I've got into the Halloween spirit. Who knows?

Before I get into them, I should also note I've got a radio show! But more on that later...

The first piece was the "Autumn" topic and is called "The Carnival". In the actual class, we were given just two minutes to write what we could on the topic. Like the rest of the class, my work was basically a scribbled down poem, or it could be if I could write poetry. Instead it came out in prose form but in a much more poetic flavor. This seemed to happen to everyone - a want to write a poem perhaps born out of the short time limit, and the jumbled result as either a further result of that time shortage, or poetic ineptitude like myself. Apart from one girl in the class who continues to completely astound me with her ability to write poems and limericks - she's lightning fast, and I'm in awe at it.
Anyway, we were told to take it away and spend only an hour on writing it up. This is important to note, the piece I have put here was written in exactly an hour. I have not tampered with it beyond that, unlike my second piece which has been endlessly meddled with. As such I am unsure if this one's quality... it was the kind of thing I found myself writing having lots of cool little ideas but no idea where it was going. The luxury of it being an hour time limit meant that in the end it didn't matter where it was going, I could leave it unfinished if I wanted.
Anyway, the first post I put onto this blog was about the steam-fair. When I sat down to write this story, I found myself completely inspired by that, as the first paragraph of the story will most likely attest to. The images in my head warped until everything was distinctly Tim Burton-ey. I might come back to this story at some point, should I ever have a burst of inspiration related to it. As it stands I think its very flawed, but also completely different from anything I have ever written.

The second story is called "Statues in the Country". Occasionally I have massive trouble actually coming up with a name for a story and this is one of those times. It possibly would have been better to leave it simply as "Statues". But I digress... unlike the previous effort, in class we were given a whole ten minutes for this and so I immediately jumped into short story mode. I was also very lucky that the actual plot of the story appeared in my head almost fully formed. It's very nice when this happens. Also as anyone can see, I was very influenced by the Doctor Who episode "Blink". I don't say this as a rip off - I say this as that episode was so bloody well done that I now can't even look at a statue without thinking of it coming to kill me. When I was told to write about statues, they were going to be evil. It was a foregone conclusion.
I must say, the thing I enjoyed most about writing this story was the child perspective. I was having such fun with it in fact, I had to kick myself in the backside to actually keep it as a short little piece and keep the plot moving and relevant, to try and not lose the tension. Reading it now, I feel the ending may be a bit rushed, but ah well. Either way, I like it as a short little piece, even if I can't think of a good name for the damned thing.

So there we are. Two very different stories. Please read them, enjoy, and tell me what you think.

The Carnival

In the darkness, between the trees, there is a tent. Around this tent are many smaller tents, and wooden stands, trucks, and machines that billow out steam. Small, dim lights hang from tent to tent and stand to stand, wired to anything that will hold them in the air. On their own, a single bulb emits a low, sad glow. But together, strung around the place in their hundreds, the light is fantastically bright. It spreads out into the trees. Its glow ensures that the leaves are always golden, yet never fall. The air is always crisp here, and the many fires around the camp ensure that the heavy smell of bonfire smoke is constant. This place is the carnival, and nobody ever leaves.

Effy wakes up in a tent, woken by the noises surrounding her. Her vision is blurry at first, all she can see is blurred, and all that can be made out is a large shape bustling around the cramped interior, wearing a deep maroon, it almost looks like a hot air balloon shaking in the wind. It must be a man, Effy realises, making out a large, black bushy beard that blends in with the long dark hair. She tries to move, but moving is as impaired as her sight, her arms weak and shaky. Hearing her, the shape turns around, and what is surprising is not that Effy’s vision begins to return to her, but that the voice that comes from the huge man is not a man’s voice.
“Oh! You’re awake! How wonderful!” squeals the enormous figure. The voice booms out like a repressed opera singer, and now with her sight returned Effy see’s that it is indeed a woman, a massive bust threatening to knock everything in the room as she swings around. The only disconcerting thing is the beard. This isn’t the kind of thing where you’re confronted by a woman with a slight moustache, this is face fur that would put Father Christmas to shame. She finally settles herself down onto a stool that seemed to defy known laws of physics by holding her upright and picks two small irons, which she proceeds to straighten out her beard with.
“You’ve been asleep for days, we were all beginning to get quite worried,” she says, rattling out the words at a lightning pace. She notices Effy staring at the beard and giggles, what can be seen of her generous cheeks blush red, “Oh you know how it is! Got to look you’re best!” She giggles again. Effy really doesn’t know what she means, but it’s probably best to nod. The woman keeps gabbling on for a while, completely oblivious to whether she holds Effy’s attention at all. Eventually, Effy pulls herself up, noticing for the first time the colourful quilt that covers her. So colourful in fact, it almost hurts her still delicate eyes.
“Where am I?” Effy asks, butting through the woman’s conversation with nobody. She is almost physically knocked back by this, as if the idea of a conversation being conducted with assistance of someone else was a great departure from the norm.
“My dear, don’t you know?” She eventually stammers back.
The silence answers for Effy.
“Well... you’re at the carnival darling. We’ve all been waiting for you.”
This statement pulls the plug in Effy’s stomach. A deep sinking feeling begins to overtake her. People waiting for you is fine, but you should know these people, and preferably a meeting place should have been agreed on. Beyond this people waiting for you is a very bad thing. It goes into James Bond territory, with bald men stroking ugly cats on swivel chairs. Effy tries to remember how she came to be here, but she can summon nothing. The last thing that comes to her is that she went to bed one night, and now she has woken up in a very strange place.
“Please, if you could I’d like some water.” Effy coughs out, her throat feels dry and again her head feels light.
“Well, there’s no water in here”, replies the bearded lady, “Only mulled wine.” Effy grabs it and drinks it down, the warm sticky liquid dripping down her chin. A warmth fills her, as if she had just gotten in to a warm bath after being out in the rain. Her head is on fire, and a welcome dizziness overtakes her. Over the next hour she is fed toffee apples, nougat, rock, candy and other tasty treats, to the point that Effy is sure she would be physically sick if she even saw a grain of sugar again. Eventually, with a movement deceptively fast for someone of such size, the bearded lady whisks the quilt away from her. Effy covers herself instinctively, wearing only her underwear. The lady laughs jovially.
“Come on dear, it’s time to come meet everyone! I’ve got some clothes ready for you, just pop them on and then we can get everything started. The Ringleader is so looking forward to making your acquaintance!” The clothes the lady is holding are not exactly flattering, but with lack of anything else Effy puts on the bright jumper and polka-dotted skirt. She is given a pair of huge fluffy boots to wear, and led outside.

The tent flaps open, and a huge crowd erupts into roars of approval and thunderous applause. Fireworks shoot into the sky, and a large band starts to play. A group of small acrobats jump over each other, forming a tower that the last member springs off into the air. As far as Effy can tell, he doesn’t come down. The bearded lady seems to have gotten quite emotional, blowing her nose and sobbing slightly, her massive bosom rising and falling with each booming cry. A small muscular man wearing nothing but a loincloth swallows a torch, and spits flame into the night, much to the delight of the midgets that cartwheel themselves around his waist. Through the massive throng of people, a tall, spindly man makes his way through. He wears nothing but stripes, they cover his huge height, culminating in a large stripy garish top hat, that reaches to the top of the surrounding tents. A huge moustache curls itself of his upper lip, its tips almost touching the tiny half moon blacked out glasses that cover his eyes. A huge smile covers his face, showing the yellow teeth. He comes right up to Effy, over double her height, and clicks his long fingers. The crowd immediately comes to attention, silenced. He bends himself over, reaching down to look Effy in the face. The smile begins to get wider and wider, threatening to crack his face.
“I’m so glad you are away my darling girl. We’ve all been waiting for so long to get things started,” he states the words simply, but his voice carries everywhere. He seems to pause for effect.
“Now at last... the party can begin!” He throws his arms into the air, and the applause explodes again, tenfold what it was before. Effy feels suddenly faint, as if the wine is getting to her. The crowd, the tents, the fireworks, the slow burning glowing light all begins to spin around her, until all that is left is a constant circle of dim light bulbs, burning into her retinas. Then she’s on the ground, looking up into the dark, clear night sky, at the moon. It stares back at her, winks, then bursts into cruel laughter.

Statues in the Country

Albie was nervous. He clutched onto his frayed teddy bear as the rough road threw him around the back seat of the old Volvo. This was the day that had been threatening to come for the last few months: Moving day. Albie found it impossible to fathom the reasons his parents had decided to go to all this trouble when their old house seemed fine. All his friends were there. His school was there; his entire life was back in London. And now parts of his life had been packed into boxes and shoved into a truck, others simply left behind. The old house was home and after all there’s no place like it. This place was something new, undefined. The only thing left was his bear, so he continued to clutch to it desperately for the rest of the journey, until the car eventually pulled into a large courtyard.

The house itself was big, much larger than their cosy flat. Bits of it were falling apart, chipped paint all across the window panes; long ivy winded its way up the walls and over the roof. It was as if the structure was being overwhelmed by a tide of green, plants grew out of control everywhere, weeds fighting a long campaign to cover all in sight. Albie was not impressed. It took a good ten minutes until his parents managed to goad him out of the car. They all walked around the decrepit front garden of the house, with his father commenting repetitively on the “bracing” country air, not that Albie was taking any notice. He began to wander around on his own until he realised that he was being watched. Not by someone, but something. A statue. An old lady whose condition matched the house. She sat on a tall, straight chair, her hair tied up into a bun. The stone itself was chipped, the face uneven, worn away and weathered. But the eyes themselves seemed unaffected. They were cold, grey and completely smooth. They followed him and seemed to stare directly into his eyes, despite being still. He instinctively reached out for his mother’s hand, and found it. She rushed him inside quickly and made him dinner, then tucked him into bed. Albie lay awake for what felt like hours, listening to the creaking of the old house and the howling of the wind on the shutters. It hadn’t been like this back home, back home it had felt safe and warm at night, he was protected. Here the night-time was wild and uncontrollable, even if he could hear his parents talking downstairs, their voices raised. Like it does to every child however, tiredness eventually caught up with him and he fell to sleep, his bear clutched close to his chest.

It is a fact that every child will wake up early in the morning, and Albie was no different. He awoke as the sun was just beginning to slip through the blind into his room and he got out of bed quickly, moving across the floor as fast as he could in his pyjamas, rushing to his slippers that would shield his feet from the freezing wood. Slippers were another change that had been forced upon him – no longer could he happily walk across the warm carpet, feeling the soft material reach up between his toes. Now he had to wear footwear at all times, lest he catch frostbite and loose his foot, or worse, splinters. He was yet to figure out what he could actually do with his morning. His toys were all still packed into boxes, as was everything of any interest. There was no television. It was unimaginable to Albie what could actually be done with these early fresh hours, when the rest of the world slept. He held his bear close and slowly walked down the stairs, more cold wood. He couldn’t ride down these on his bottom, giggling like he used to at home. These were slippery and hard and he had been explicitly told that to do it would be dangerous. It was yet another loss of the move. He at last reached the bottom, the undiscovered country that was his new house. Immediately he froze in his tracks. There was something else there, something that shouldn’t be. By the front door, there was an outstretched stone hand on the floor. Crumbled pieces of chipped rock lay around its rough jagged wrist. It took what felt like an eternity for Albie to walk over to it, almost not blinking lest it leapt of the floor for his throat. He eventually reached it, where it remained completely still, dead. It was not alive, he told himself. His was heart beating so loudly Albie was surprised that his parents didn’t come running down the stairs to find out what had woken them. He picked it up slowly, although it was heavy, cold and difficult to hold in his hands, especially as to put down his bear would be to lose a comrade and in all honestly, Albie had to admit his willpower would most likely break. So carefully, having to almost crouch to keep himself from dropping his dangerous cargo, Albie managed to open the door and head outside. He turned to the statue, and the bear and the hand hit the floor almost immediately, barely missing Albie’s foot. The Old lady stood, the chair gone, her right arm outstretched as if pointing directly at Albie’s head. It would have been pointing had it not been broken off at the wrist, it’s accusing hand lying at Albie’s feet. He did what any other child would do at this point: He screamed at the top of his voice and ran, stopping of course to grab the bear. He fled back into the house and up the stairs as fast as he could, finding his way to his parents room and burying himself into the warm area between their two bodies in the covers, tears streaming down his face. They awoke to this, and after much comforting finally got a reason out of him. Albie’s father put on his dressing gown and wandered down the stairs while he stayed in the safety of his mother’s arms, crying his eyes out. Minutes later, his father returned wearing a face that he knew all too well, one that displayed disappointment and annoyance. With a lot of effort, his parents managed to get the boy outside again, to show him the old lady, sitting on her chair as she had been. Albie felt anger, confusion and humiliation. It was impossible, wasn’t it? So he threw tantrums, and kicked and screamed, and didn’t talk to his parents, and sat in his room, and made noise. And for day’s and day’s this continued, until the punishments wore him down, and weeks passed and soon it was all forgotten to the child’s mind. It had all been part of his imagination.

***

Two years later, a new car pulled into the courtyard outside the house. As two adults walked inside, two children slowly got out of the car, a boy and a girl. The girl was the eldest and as every eldest child does, she took charge, taking the boy’s hand in hers and leading forward to explore. The first thing the children noticed, and what they found strange was the three statues, all closely placed together. A man and a woman, both sitting on chairs and staring forwards with a dead stare. But then a small tiny statue, of a small boy holding a bear.