I slowly let myself down on the golden yellow sand and stare out at the sparkling turquoise water stretching out in front of me. Behind me, green filao trees, their branches swaying in the gentle breeze.

The sight is paradisiacal; but I am not inspired.

I have to write a history paper for school, due in tomorrow, and I have absolutely no idea what to write about. I feel as though my mind has gone totally blank, except for two words: FAIL HISTORY.

But what was I thinking, coming to look for inspiration in a place like this? Of course, the scenery is stunning, but this, after all, is only a beach, where tourists come to bathe and have a good time.

Nothing really important must ever have happened here ? nothing exceptional enough to inspire me. I?d probably have more luck in a library! Laughing at myself, I stand up, and Iam about to go home when suddenly, I spot a strange box a few feet away from me, half-buried in the sand.

I kneel down and examine it. It is made of wood, ebony wood probably, and there are many things carved into it. I cannot make out if they are words or drawings, hieroglyphics or Roman letters. I try to heave the box out of the sand, and I gasp as I realize how heavy it is.

So, I leave it there, partly embedded in the sand, while I finger its intricate carvings, trying to make out what they mean. Then, mustering up all my strength, I manage to wrench the lid open. Inside is a bright red liquid. I feel an irresistible urge to drink it?

?What?s happening??

I realize that after swallowing the liquid, I have been transported to the edge of a thick forest. On my left, I can see the sand and sea. The sea is still the same, sparkling and blue. The beach, however, is covered with all sorts of seashells. Even from afar, I can tell that they are probably the rarest, most exquisite seashells left on the Mauritian shores, which have now been stripped bare in many places.

Even though I am certain I have never set foot here before (if I had, I would have remembered it, as it?s impossible to forget such a breathtaking place), I experience a strange feeling of déjà-vu.

I decide to go deeper into the forest and investigate. I walk for some time before stopping to inspect my surroundings. The forest floor is covered with twigs and grass. Tall ebony trees are towering above me, blocking the sunlight. I can hear the chirping of thousands of birds. I am both bewildered and fascinated.

That?s when I suddenly see it: a big, fat bird, with a grey plumage, a hooked beak and obviously not used to flying? a dodo!

Everything suddenly falls into place: I am still at exactly the same spot I was before drinking the red liquid?the box didn?t transport me to another place, but to another time!

I approach the dodo. Although I am excited to the point of forgetting my own name, I can?t help hearing furious male voices shouting at the top of their lungs in a strange foreign language.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rends the air.

The dodo gives out a raspy wail and falls heavily to the ground. It is bleeding. I hurry towards him and, without even thinking about what will happen if the hunters find me here, I kneel down and slowly, hesitantly, stroke the dodo?s feathers.

?I?m sorry,? I whisper. The dodo gazes back up at me through his sorrowful, pain-filled chocolate-brown eyes and, for a split-second, I feel like I can understand him.

But a split-second is enough: he has got his message across to me, and, most importantly, I have grasped its meaning.

As the dodo closes his eyes for the last time and the sound of footsteps get nearer and nearer, I feel a sharp pain in my head and I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut.

The pain goes as quickly as it came. When I open my eyes again, I am back in 2007, back at my original spot. There is only one difference: the box is not here.

But it doesn?t matter. I smile as I pull out a pencil and a spiral notebook from my back pocket.

I know what to write about?

Nikhita OBEEGADOO