On the black tide I washed ashore on these uncharted rocks. I wonder now if I had drowned and awoken in Sheol, for find myself among only devils of the abyss. In the night, I hear their drums, the arrhythmic pounding when they sacrifice to their cruel gods. I dare not venture inland. I make camp on the desolate sands, for the jungle is awash with rot. Miasmic and pulsating, it calls to me, but I will not follow. It is a festering wound. It stinks of corruption.

There are no ships on the horizon. No sails to be seen. I hunt crabs on the beach, without much success. The thirst is maddening. I crack fallen coconuts against the rocks, sucking them dry like marrow from bone. Soft flesh or putrid milk, I gag and choke it down.

I collect the shell fragments. I use them for jewelry, fashioning necklaces and armbands. I decorate my camp. I bring civilization to a place of savagery. I piled rocks by the firepit and called it a throne—for having carved out an existence here, am I not queen of this forsaken shore?

The natives grow restless. Savage shades who harbour only murder in their hearts. They know I am here. They are hunting. They are coming. From a smashed coconut I dab war paint on my face. Run my fingers down my axe, squeezing the handle. These are my rocks. These are my palms. They are coming. They are coming.

I am the coconut queen.