It’s strange how things long forgotten eventually bubble back up, and mean just as much as they did the first time around.
1994, Little Big Adventure, a strange isometric platformer-ish adventure game was released for the PC. I probably got hold of it 18-24 months later, when it was reduced enough in Virgin or Electronics Boutique to make it affordable for a 12 year old me.
The game follows Twinsen, a strange early 3D rendering of a human dressed in a blue robe. I read now the game was about a world where a tyrant (dr. funfrock) had herded the entire population into a ghetto on one hemisphere of the planet and ruled over the place like only a maniacal dictator can. Twinsen is in an asylum because he keeps dreaming about the end of the world.
I don’t remember this. I remember the strange graphics and I remember odd plot elements- a pet dragon, an estranged girlfriend who was Twinsen with a ponytail.
And I remember the music, which came back to me in a dream and I woke and rushed to youtube to hear. The theme which is an odd, faux orchestral piece of melancholic pomp instantly came back to me, each note as familiar as if it were minutes since I’d last given it a listen, and not closer to twenty years or so.
And then I remembered something else about Little Big Adventure- I had started to write a novelisation of the game’s story whilst obsessively listening to the soundtrack again and again. How much I finished and much of the detail is lost, but I have vivid memories of describing Twinsen walking into rooms, adding details to flat polygons and character to snippets of dialogue badly translated from French, spoken by elephants in uniforms.
Where is this now? Probably written on a pre-Windows laptop in WordPerfect. The machine is long gone and lost, the document itself in a no doubt long depreciated format. But somewhere I suspect it is still lurking. Nobody would have used that laptop after me (it was outdated when I had it) so on a 40mb hard drive in a landfill in the West Midlands this strange slice of pre-teen fan fiction exists, sitting unseen and unknown. If I could pluck it out of space and time now I would.
And then no doubt immediately regret it upon reading it.