Creative writing.

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GCSE English

Creative Writing

The professor was an enigmatic old man. No one knew his real name, or anything of his origins; to everyone that knew him he was simply "the professor". He told us all that he had come from the future, a mystical time, where people could fly in huge birds wrought from metals not even discovered yet. He told us of weapons that could shoot out projectiles faster than the swiftest eye could catch. Man-made horses, that did not require any care of feeding, that moved on wheels, were used. Indeed, he was strange, and scared the best of us at times with his fantastic tales.

Every night we would sit in front of a fire and listen to his fascinating stories of the future, and even of our own past. I guess he has travelled there too; when I asked him about it he would not reply, he would tell us that the past did not matter. And every night, we would fall asleep, deep in thought, running our own fantasies of the future in our heads. "Dreams" he called them.

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In my early days, I would cautiously approach the professor's hut, running my rehearsed question over and over again in my head. (You see, the professor was a mentor to us, and any queries I had, I would go to him for the answers.) I would reach the opening, clear my throat gently and politely ask if I could enter.

"Sure, you could enter, but do you want to?" was the usual reply I would get. I never understood what he meant by this, but I would always just smile or laugh and he would end up laughing too, so ...

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