Lot's Wife Edition 5 2022

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five 

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Contents. 

Creative 

6 Obituary 

8 Nine Days 

9 at the water’s edge 

10 Carrot, Pebbles in a Puddle 

11 The Stream 

13 I’m sorry, it’s my fault 

20 What the River Taught Me: 

(mis)adventures and lessons 

in pack-rafting preparedness 

24 Unwritten 

27 Coloniser, Queen 

Analysis 

28 The End of Extinction 

14 Neon Lights 

16 The End 

Lot’s Wife is the student magazine of the Monash Student Association (MSA). The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of the MSA, the 

printers or the editors. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is © Lot’s Wife and Lot’s Wife reserves the right to 

republish material in any format. 

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Lot’s Wife. 

Lot’s Wife acknowledges the traditional custodians of the land, the people 

of the Kulin Nations. We pay our respects to their Elders past, present and 

emerging. Sovereignty has never been ceded. 

Congratulations to everyone who has played part in 2022, we finally made it to the end of semester 

2, and the end of another year of study. The grind finally comes to an end, those early morning 

classes are replaced with some extra sleep, the all-nighters on assignments begin to stop, and exams 

will be over in a blink of an eye. From the Lot’s Wife Team, we could not be more proud of you 

this year! You made it. 

Edition 4 was a memorable one for Lot’s Wife History Books and it is all thanks to the community 

who made this possible. We thank MSA Womens, MSA POC and MSA Queer for their wonderful efforts 

in our collaboration magazine and the wonderful event we all put together. Our collaborative 

event had nothing but positive feedback and we are eternally grateful for the support of the Lot’s 

Wife community and the tremendous turnout on the day! 

As this is the final edition for the team of 2022, we thought it would be fitting to reflect on our experience. 

Going into 2022, it was the first year out of lockdowns and we anticipated extraordinary 

greatness in large turnouts, large submission numbers and extroverted support from our community. 

Now in reflection, we understand that we have been able to have a beautifully successful year 

in a different way. The support you have provided us has been nurtured, gentle, kind and loving, 

and arguably this is the best kind of support we could have ever asked for. 

Taking an approach of kindness and generosity, rather than continuously “one-upping” others is 

something we all need to strive to create moving forward. Fostering those positive connections, 

curating the messages we send to others, understanding the emotional impact we have together, 

and ultimately striving for a common goal and vision will move us all together as a connected 

community. 

Edition 5 looks at the concepts of endings. While this may be considered a sad way to end the year, 

we ask you as our readers to reflect on how an ending may be a door closing, but you should look 

for the next one to open. 

We hope you enjoy reading Edition 5, 2022 just as much as we have enjoyed creating, designing, 

and collating this edition! 

That’s all from the Lot’s Wife team for 2022, and we hope you stick around to meet the wonderful 

team of 2023! 

Big Love, Lot’s Wife Team 2022 

EDITORIAL TEAM 

Co-Managing Editors 

Content Editors 

Olivia Tait, Dimitri Tsivelekis, Kathy Lee, Ben Chaney, Sohani Goonetillake, Desna Ramjee 

Visual Editors 

EMAIL WEBSITE INSTAGRAM FACEBOOK TWITTER LINKEDIN 

msa-lotswife@monash.edu lotswife.com.au @lotswifemag @MSA.LotsWife @LotsWifeMag Lot’s Wife 

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Art by Des Ramjee 

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Obituary 


The litter tray is still 

in my bathroom, 

the water bowl is 

still in my bedroom, 

the food is still 

downstairs. There 

are biscuits on my 

carpet, and bags of 

treats on the bench. 

Leaving them 

there is a painful 

reminder, but taking 

them away 

feels like erasure. 

She was the best 

cat, loved by family, 

friends, and vets. 

Even the non-cat 

people loved her. 

She was gentle, curious, 

and cuddly. 

Aloof, yes, but always 

keen for a head 

scratch or belly rub. 

A lot of my memories 

involving her 

place her in the periphery. 

She was 

on the table when I 

was doing maths 

homework, on the 

couch when we 

were watching our 

favourite shows, on 

my bed while I was 

out of the house. I 

remember choosing 

her in the pet 

shop because she 

licked my finger. 

I wish I remembered 

how small 

she was, but I don’t 

because I was also 

small. It was the 

year I turned five, 

my mum didn’t even 

ask my dad if we 

could get a cat; we 

just got one. My 

dad’s always turned 

his nose up at pets, 

but when we’d 

feed the cats on 

cold winter mornings 

he’d heat their 

food in the microwave 

so it wasn’t 

too cold for them 

(showing his 

love, as always, 

through feeding). 

All of this has happened 

quite quickly. 

I first noticed her 

breathing loudly 

in early April, and 

from there she got 

worse and worse. 

Even then I thought 

they’d be able to 

find out what was 

wrong with her and 

fix it. I’d always 

thought she was 

going to be one of 

those cats who just 

won’t die, one of 

those cats who lives 

to be 20 or 25 and 

has a perpetually 

peeved look on 

their face. And 

even though she 

lived for a solid 17 

and a half years, it 

still feels too soon. 

It’s been a week 

now since we had 

her put down. I 

thought I was going 

to be absolutely 

useless for weeks, 

but I’m mostly okay. 

It catches you off 

guard, though. 

Sometimes you’ll 

be having a normal, 

idle train of 

thought and then, 

bam, no more cat. 

No more head 

scratches or belly 

rubs or forehead 

kisses. No more soft 

fur or jelly paws. 

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No more meow, no 

more purr, no more 

snoring. That image 

of her being put 

to sleep, with her 

little head resting 

on her paw, as if 

she was just having 

a nap. The memory 

of rubbing my 

face in her fur and 

kissing her head 

and crying and feeling 

excavated and 

spent. Knowing it’s 

for the better but 

selfishly wanting 

her to live 

through the pain 

and discontent. 

The weekend that 

we found out she’d 

have to be put down 

was a lot of things. 

It was deeply, 

inconsolably sad, 

but it was grateful, 

and peaceful, 

and, though it felt 

oddly selfish, very 

relieving. 

I hesitate to call 

him our rebound 

cat, but we got a 

kitten less than two 

months after the 

passing of Katty 

McFatty. My mum 

started looking on 

adoption websites 

not even a week 

after. The first kitten 

she showed 

me she thought we 

were destined to 

have. After many 

weeks my mum 

and I met two kittens, 

siblings, who 

seemed promising. 

We’d expected to 

buy them on the 

spot, but by some 

miracle the fosterer 

said her son would 

drop them over to 

our house the next 

evening. Of course, 

on our drive back 

from that meeting, 

we received a 

message about 

our destiny cat. 

We bought him 

two days later. 

I have little videos 

of the last 48 hours 

we spent with Katty. 

I look at myself 


holding her and I 

remember what 

she felt like but the 

memory of her as 

a physical being 

doesn’t seem to be 

my own. I used to 

think she was the 

archetypal cat, but 

now having had a 

black cat for three 

months, her white 

paws look wrong 

somehow. It’s like 

using a different 

pen because your 

favourite type is 

out of stock, and 

then you get used 

to it, and then going 

back to your 

favourite feels foreign. 

But I remember 

always thinking 

she was, aesthetically, 

the perfect 

cat, and in a way 

she always will be. 

She gave us 18 perfect, 

peripheral 

years, and we could 

not have asked for 

anything more. 

She was content 

to be anywhere as 

long as it was warm. 

This is how we will 

remember her. 

Words by Zoe Bartholomeusz 

Art by Olivia Tait 

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NINE DAYS 

Words by Laur 

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Sun scattered on my skin and 

kitchen tiles, old nightmares 

reviving. 

In nine days I will kiss home 

goodbye, and embrace my 

tower of wool. 

A ladybug on my toes, 

eleven of them on my heart. 

Do they look redder in 

Australia

at the water’s 


at the water’s edge 

in my dreams, water, 

lapping along the concave 

terracotta tiles of bathroom floors 

where lights, streaking, blinding 

edge 

Words by Vanessa Liao 

Content warning: death, conflict 

and there i lay, skin to skin 

like a mother’s homely touch of cold 

yet warm blooded connection 

with these same, overgrown stories 

here my hands cannot 

find a way to break free 

of a force that holds them within 

together they are crucified 

stakes are high and lights, 

a sickly shade of hospital white 

but in contrast it’s not quite 

drawing near the end of my life 

gone are the likes of family tree roots 

severed are the ties of crimes believed truth 

for in our dreams the world is imaginable 

there exists a sphere, unpainted - 

waiting endlessly for a canvas of my memory 

if distance and time are deal breakers 

setting alight the library inside 

my soul bleeds a shade of emerald green 

gone are the days i slip within 

the cracks between a vision of 

ambition, a predicament, a pause 

and shed what is left of me 

from baby steps beyond my feet 

to blazing halls that creak in death 

i ponder when - and only when 

leaves will shed and offspring grow 

until tomorrow will i brush away these sighs 

until then these whispers wash over my guise 

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Art by Des Ramjee


Carrot, Pebbles in a 

Puddle 

Words by Cameron Clay 

With a word, 

I paused Earth in her place 

And began to glide without propulsion. 

If I may be as I am, which I’m not, 

Was I? 

With a blink, 

ssss 

I watched a shadow take her form 

And sensed the shape of a void in the universe where she used to be. 

If I fracture into a multiplicity of perspectives to assemble a true collage of the self, 

Am I? 

With a dive, 

I took the void inside to finally feel the sun at night 

And it was cold, cold, cold. I embraced it all and I felt us melt. 

If no one was around when I spoke, 

Did I speak? 

Without it... 

dsf 

Well, I never! 

Tram incoming. 

Step out onto the road to indicate stop. 

Dead bird lies between tracks, 

Tram stops on top. 

I board. 

10


The Stream 

Words by David C. Woodleigh` 

On a parched nave of the earth; amid bushes, 

Thorned and washed of spring, rushes, 

From aquifer ponds deep, comes racing, 

Melon-sweet water, fresh and bracing, 

Down bitten-lip rocks to green cheeks of grass, 

The young calf of earth suckles, yet still fast - 

Races, rushes in crevices to gullies. 

The stream tickles and chuckles through youthful follies. 

Now a mountain stream, it eddies and curls, 

Deep in places, shallow in others. Waterfalls 

Down past silky ferns, platypus play in lips now grown. 

Such beauty is inexpressible alone. 

By words so chiseled from stone. 

Charting its course, with beauty supreme, 

The stream runs forth into a river so clean. 

Un-muddied, unhurried, the fisherman’s dream. 

So wide and so deep 

Is the river 

One can’t now see the stream. 


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Lot’s Lot’s Wife • Edition • Five Five 

Art by Zoe Eleanor 

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I’m sorry, 

it’s my fault 

Words by Zoe Eleanor 

I’m sorry, I wore that dress. 

I’m sorry, I drank too much. 

I’m sorry, I was dancing. 

I’m sorry, I was at the party. 

I’m sorry, for your hands 

wrapping themselves around my waist.. 

I’m sorry, I froze. 

I’m sorry, I couldn’t find my voice. 

I’m sorry, I tried to push away. 

I’m sorry, your hands left me bruised 

in more ways than one. 

I’m sorry you made me hate my body, 

that I couldn’t look at myself for a month. 

I’m sorry that you claimed 

my body as your own. 

I’m sorry that I let you. 

I’m sorry you thought it was ok, 

I’m sorry you’re the reason, 

I no longer trust. 

But most of all, I’m sorry that you’ve made me feel sorry, 

at all. 

13


Neon Lights 

Words by Janseet Singh 

Art by James Spencer 

Tick tock. 

I didn’t know 

how to tell them. 

Tick tock. 

It was settled at 

the bottom of my 

throat like the dust 

on my suitcases, 

hidden in the back 

of my closet, waiting 

for the next 

plane ticket. But I 

couldn’t just wave 

it away to reveal 

a shiny unused 

surface underneath. 

I couldn’t 

open it up and let 

it consume all my 

clothes, toiletries, 

passports… trinkets 

and things. 

I had to consume 

it instead. 

Before it gasped 

out, beckoning 

tears and snarls 

and invitations for 

pity. Pity for my 

lack of bravery. 

Tick tock. 

It doesn’t understand 

the strategic 

placement 

of bronzer and 

highlighter on my 

40 X 50mm passport 

photo. Or the 

time it took for 

the name above 

my nationality to 

be pronounced 

correctly. Or that 

shiver up my arms 

when I hold them 

erect for another 

random check. 

It doesn’t know 

that it will adorn 

that red target 

with neon lights. 

Those neon lights. 

Listen to these 

pages – the remorseful 

sigh before 

“those,” rolling 

off a yearning 

chuckle. Look for 

the light bouncing 

off the soundwaves 

of “neon” 

and melt away 

with the sibilant 

end. Can you see 

the lights now? 

Tick tock. 

But those neon 

lights were everything. 

They were the little 

glow sticks we 

wound in tight 

circles, perfectly 

made for her wrist 

– you see I had to 

give them to her. 

You couldn’t help 

but be entranced 

by the blues, pinks 

and greens that 

danced on her 

skin. So, every 

year I would give 

her mine at the primary 

school disco. 

Until the lights 

switched back on 

in the last year 

and she was huddled 

next to me 

with triangular 

paper, jagged 

on one edge. Do 

you like me? Yes? 

No ? scrawled in 

the usual blonde 

boy fashion. 

Tick Tock. 

Don’t get me 

wrong, I love 

blonde boys. 

I’ve seen enough 

of them cuddled 

in their bed 

sheets asking if I 

had any friends. 

But the blonde 

boys don’t have 

those neon lights. 

The blonde girl 

did though. 

Strung up like tapestry 

in her lair, 

embellished with 

amethysts and 

incense and trinkets 

and things. 

We would get lost 

in the haze between 

the glass 

and the dark until 

her frame could 

no longer bear 

the weight. For 

14 

14

a whole month 

we would drive 

around purposelessly, 

eyes glued 

to the city lights, 

drunken cliches. 

Until I asked for too 

much, then she reminded 

me about 

the blonde boys. 

Tick Tock. 

Why couldn’t it understand 

that no 

one could understand? 

The blonde 

boys loved it for 

all the wrong reasons, 

the blonde 

girls wanted nothing 

to do with it. 

Why couldn’t it 

understand that I 

was trying to protect 

it? Shoving it 

deeper down my 

throat as I trod 

bravely down the 

stairs. I am a warrior 

and the only 

lights I am concerned 

with are 

the ones glinting 

off my case. 

Click. 

It was the first 

time I had seen 

those eyes in 

months. They 

wandered down 

to my suitcase. 

“Where are you 

going?” 

He had a stereotypical 

gruff voice. 

“Away. For a bit.” 

“Okay.” 

It was a prototype 

of an estranged 

father daughter 

exchange. 

Tick Tock. 

The car hesitates 

beneath me. It now 

bears the weight 

of all my trinkets 

and things but 

stalls once more. 

My forehead pulls 

forward to the 

cool touch of the 

steering wheel; it 

was the last day of 

winter but the first 

time there wasn’t 

ice on the window. 

With my declined 

position, it claws 

up my throat 

again, begging to 

be loose. I don’t resist. 

But I do stall. 

Tick Tock. 


15 

Dashing out the 

car, through the 

porch and in front 

of the door, I can 

almost see those 

neon lights distorting 

the crevices in 

my vision. The door 

swings open before 

I reach it.I see 

my father’s mouth 

curling outwards, 

ready to exclaim. 

Seems like there’s 

something stuck in 

his throat as well. 

We stand in shock 

for a few moments, 

and I urge it to 

break out of the 

hellhole I created 

for it. Make a noise. 

Wreak some havoc. 

Do something. 

He hands me an 

envelope. “Some 

emergency money. 

Just in case.” 

Whatever’s stuck 

in his throat is still 

there. 

“Thank you.” 

Whatever’s stuck 

in mine remains. 

There’s a painful 

silence deafened 

by the melted ice 

trickling down 

the gutter and 

the morning birds 

welcoming us to 

sing. I’m tempted 

to walk away; it 

would be so nice 

to walk away. 

But a little light in 

my mind asked if 

perhaps it would 

be nicer to stay. 

What would it be 

like to have family 

dinners without 

brief requests and 

solid chewing? 

To be able to talk 

about something 

other than work 

and the weather. 

If I were the audience 

to my play, I 

would be sick of all 

the internal monologues 

and bashful 

soliloquies. 

Perhaps Ophelia 

didn’t need to 

drown after all. 

“Dad, we need to 

talk…” 

Tick Tock.

The End 

Words by Saima Khan 


Content Warning: Mentions 

of Death and Blood 


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The crimson sipping 

into the gravels 

almost glittered 

underneath 

the moonlight. 

I could vaguely see 

the outline of my 

fingers haphazardly 

twisted, the 

gold ring standing 

out among the 

pool of glittering 

blood. Wasn’t gold 

supposed to glitter 

more, I wondered. 

It was my mother’s 

ring; perhaps the 

only jewellery I have 

cared for enough 

to never take off. 

Would it be taken 

off now? I won’t 

quite like that. Mom 

could tell the doctor 

to not take it off. Or 

maybe Dad could. 

He always has a 

way around with 

these things; people 

listen to him all 

the time. It would 

have been nice if 

they were here. Not 

really, no. It’s good 

they are not here. 

Would have been 

quite a pity to have 

to see your daughter 

struggling to 

live. I’m not quite 

sure how much 

time has passed. An 

hour? A minute? Is 

time passing at all? 

As if to answer my 

queries, I could 

suddenly hear the 

ticks of my watch. 

It was a Swatch I 

had bought with 

my savings from 

Bangkok- a perfect 

shade of dirty white 

with golden numbers 

that glittered 

along with the ring 

and blood. I had 

called my parents 

twice before buying 

it because spending 

more than fifty 

dollars on myself 

felt like a milestone. 

I’m not quite sure 

how many ticks 

I counted- forty? 

Does that mean 

forty seconds have 

passed? That’s how 

time works right? 

One tick for one 

second. How many 

ticks do I have left? 

I tried looking 

around but there 

was this splitting 

ache in my head. 

I wasn’t quite sure 

if blood was oozing 

out of my head 

or hands or both. 

I think I could feel 

my toes. That probably 

means my 

legs are okay? 

Well, that’s a relief. 

Always feared depending 

upon others 

while walking. 


17 

The moonlight 

suddenly became 

brighter. Almost too 

bright. Not even 

the beautiful calm 

white gleam. Now 

it was more like 

a white dazzle. Is 

that a flashlight? 

One, two, three... 

That’s three pairs of 

feet I’m counting. Is 

that mom? I hope 

not. But I remember 

this pair of Comfit 

slippers I bought 

for Mom’s birthday. 

This particular pair 

of feet is the nearest. 

Must be her. 

I closed my eyes. 

It was breaktime. I 

opened my school 

bag to find a Penguin 

bar. I loved 

this chocolate more 

than anything in 

the world. I looked 

around to see the 

homeroom teacher 

smiling at me. She 

had been a perfect 

person in my head, 

the only reason I 

found school bearable. 

I smiled back 

at her and turned 

to take the wrapper 

off, only to find it being 

snatched away. 

Sigh. Not again. I 

was quite used to 

this particular boy 

taking my chocolate 

away everyday. 

Not sure why 

I let it happen. It’s 

okay. He can have 

it. I sat down and 

stared at him eating 

the chocolate from 

across the room. 

I could feel someone 

pulling me by 

the shoulder. Is that 

a doctor? Not likely. 

Doctors should 

know better than 

pulling a dying 

person’s shoulder. 

There was a tingling 

pain in my neck. As 

my collars brushed 

against my neck, 

I could smell my 

own perfume. The 

fact that the fragrance 

could make 

it through the pungent 

smell of blood 

was applaudable. 

I tried to remember 

the name of the 

perfume. Fifth Avenue? 

Wait, I think I 

had stopped using 

it years ago. Eternity? 

Probably that. 

I’ve always been 

obsessed with perfumes. 

I tend to recall 

moments with 

perfumes. How will 

I remember this 

moment though? 

Scent of blood 

maybe? I probably 

won’t get to live 

to remember this 

moment anyway.

Another pair of feet. 

Is that Dad? No, I 

think Dad is abroad. 

I was checking his 

flight schedule only 

this morning, reassuring 

mom that he 

is safe. We are always 

worried if our 

loved ones are safe. 

It drives me crazy. I 

hate being worried 

about the safety of 

people I care about. 

The newspaper 

drives me nuts nowadays. 

Not a paper 

printed without 

news of an accident 

- plane, bus, car, you 

name it. What was I 

travelling in? A car? 

Wait, I was walking 

I think. What happened 

then? I can’t 

really remember. 

It was Parents’ 

Teachers’ Meeting 

day. I eyed my dad 

through the corners 

of my eyes. He 

was fuming. Apparently 

I failed Further 

Mathematics. 

I knew there had 

been a mistake. I 

kept telling him but 

he wouldn’t listen. I 

gave up. The teacher 

yawned. Always 

hated this man. Sister 

Michelle suddenly 

appeared out of 

nowhere with an updated 

report card. 


She was annoyed 

with the teacher 

for not adding my 

final exam marks. 

I’d have quite liked 

to see her hit him 

considering how 

angry she looked, 

but then we don’t 

always get to see 

what we want. My 

dad calmed down 

though and it was a 

relief. I don’t think I 

have ever feared a 

person more than I 

feared my dad. He 

has never raised 

his voice on me in 

my entire life let 

alone hit me, but 

something about 

this person would 

scare my entire 

digestive system 

out of me and I’m 

not exaggerating. 

The blood was flowing 

all over now, 

zigzagging its way 

across the zebra 

crossing. Something 

about the 

way it flowed was 

rather enjoyable. 

As psychopathic 

as it would sound 

to find the sight of 

my own blood enjoyable, 

there really 

wasn’t much else I 

could do. I think my 

breathing slowed 

down a little bit. Has 

more time passed? I 

18 

tried locating my 

watch but couldn’t 

see the glitters anymore. 

Where was 

the moonlight? It 

was all dark now. 

It was 2am. I was 

standing at my sister’s 

door. There 

was a storm and 

she was cowering 

at the sound of the 

thunder. I went and 

sat beside her as 

she slowly calmed 

down. It’s strange 

how we think we 

can protect our 

loved ones from 

everything just by 

being there beside 

them. We could take 

a bullet perhaps but 

then the universe 

has so many other 

ways of attacking 

us. How can we 

think we can act as 

a protection from 

literally everything? 

From accidents 

and heartbreaks? 

From death? And at 

times, when life is 

cruel, how do you 

protect your loved 

ones from life itself? 

I could feel my 

heavy eyelids. I 

wasn’t staring at the 

gravels anymore. It 

was all white, and 

there were shadows, 

too many of them. 

How am I seeing 

shadows and white 

at the same time? 

Doesn’t make sense 

at all. Someone was 

talking right beside 

me. It wasn’t mom. 

I tried to recall the 

voice. It was rather 

heavy. Dad? No, 

Dad is in Rome. He 

can’t be back so 

quickly. The voice 

spoke again. It was 

really close now. 

He sounded worried 

- almost angry. 

I know this voice so 

well. The voice completes 

it - the end 

of my life. Knowing 

that I would never 

be able to trace 

back the voice, 

trace back the footsteps, 

trace back 

the memories, came 

as a relief honestly. 

Sometimes, 

it’s okay leaving 

things as they are. 

Guess it’s the first 

time I will be leaving 

everything just as 

they are. The world 

turned into a blur.



19


What the River Taught Me: 

(mis)adventures and lessons 

in pack-rafting preparedness 

Words by Harrison Croft 


20

The brilliant sun was 

only shyly making 

its way up past the 

horizon as I arrived 

at our launching 

spot: a simple little 

jetty astride Birrarung 

where it passes 

through Warburton. 

My travelling companion 

was a keen 

adventurer named 

James, and the task 

we had set ourselves 

was to paddle from 

this quaint riverside 

town to the mouth 

of the river at Hobsons 

Bay. Our loyal 

steeds were two inflatable 

rafts, and 

we began aerating 

these with great vivacity 

the moment 

we arrived at the 

jetty. While I relied 

upon two trains and 

a bus to deposit me 

there, James had 

been up all morning 

cycling to Warburton 

instead. With his 

bike being swapped 

for a boat as the 

primary mode of 

transport, he carefully 

secured this 

cumbersome landbased 

vehicle to the 

bow of his raft, and 

together we cast off. 

It was a crisp, dewy 

Saturday which had 

promised to warm, 

and dozens of joggers 

passed us by 

and asked where we 

were headed, totally 

disbelieving my 

chirpy reply, “back 

to Williamstown!” 

The first hours 

passed dreamily 

by. While the river 

transported me 

downstream, so too 

did it send me back 

in time, to an innocent 

and euphoric 

era in my childhood 

populated by Swallows 

and Amazons 

and The Unlikely 

Voyage of Jack 

de Crow. Mysterious 

trees thrusted 

shade across the entire 

width of the river, 

birds sang their 

accompaniment, 

and a smile was 

chiseled upon my 

face. But this bliss 

did not last long. 

A little after midday, 

James was forced 

to abandon his bicycle 

under a tree. 

To deter thieves, he 

deflated both tyres 

and took the saddle 

and bike lights with 

him. This felt to me 

like Mawson eating 

his own sledge dogs 

in Antarctica; a 

short-term gain that 

forewarned severer 

long-term challenges. 

But the bike was 


21 

21 

too cumbersome: it 

forced the bow into 

the water, snagged 

on rocks and 

branches, and limited 

his view enormously. 

It had to go. 

Geotagged photos 

are a wonderful 

thing. They show me 

the exact moment 

when my naïve 

calm was shifted 

to a feeling of immense 

peril. Looking 

back through 

my photographs, I 

ascertain this happened 

some time 

around 2:30pm, 

just downstream of 

Millgrove, because 

up until then, I kept 

my phone in my 

pocket, ready to 

snap a sun-soaked 

photograph in an 

instant. But after 

navigating a particularly 

violent set 

of rapids, I moved 

it into a waterproof 

bag, wrapped up 

inside a larger dry 

bag, itself contained 

within a third 

bag, and totally 

out of harm’s way. 

Rivers are occasionally 

blocked by 

felled trees. Birrarung’s 

upper reaches 

are blocked by 

many, many trees. 

We became like 

the bear hunters in 

that children’s book. 

Each log demanded 

a response: to 

go over, under, or 

around? Going 

around is known 

as portaging. You 

put your shoes on, 

climb out of the water, 

drag the leaden 

raft overland past 

the obstruction, 

then return to the 

water on the other 

side. This was impossibly 

slow (and 

agonising, on account 

of mountains 

of untamed and 

bloodthirsty prickles) 

and we almost 

always preferred 

to stay waterborne 

when possible. 

I tentatively approached 

one of 

these logs, hoping 

to disembark and 

clamber over like we 

had already done a 

dozen times before. 

But the water was 

moving too quickly - 

my raft was pressed 

against the log, and 

water began to fill 

the space occupied 

by my legs. The decision 

was instant. 

My boat was being 

forced under the 

ancient tree. I mustered 

every ounce of

strength and yeeted 

my monumental 

backpack over my 

head and onto the 

log, as my raft was 

sent under the tree 

with me still in it. 

With the bag momentarily 

safe, I extricated 

my sopping 

body from the raft, 

then grappled with 

this new problem: 

the rapid water was 

forcing the boat 

down and under the 

log, but the air in 

the raft was forcing 

it up and out. At first 

I favoured this latter 

force, and tried 

pulling the raft back 

out to where it had 

started. No luck. It 

became clear that 

the entire raft had 

to be pushed under 

the log. I climbed 

up onto the raft and 

began to jump vigorously, 

pressing it 

under the water, defying 

its buoyancy. 

Each lunge sent it a 

little further under, 

and then, with one 

final shove, it was 

gone. The raft raced 

under the water, 

under the log, and 

shot out to safety 

on the downstream 

side. And because 

the raft was the 

only thing keeping 

me from entering 


the water and it 

was now gone, I fell 

into that icy, rapid 

stream. My arms 

caught the log and 

I dangled there, fatigued 

to no end, 

struggling against 

the current to exit 

the water. I adjusted 

my grip, kicked endlessly 

with my feet, 

but could not find 

the bottom. Ought I 

to follow the raft under 

the water and 

under the log? There 

was no way of knowing 

what was under 

that turbid water, I 

would have needed 

to submit to the 

will of the current, 

and I was sure that 

that was not the answer. 

Mercifully my 

feet found the riverbed, 

and with a 

final heave I made 

my way to the bank. 

I was too tired to 

stand. But my raft, 

paddle, water bottle 

and shoes were 

all strewn about the 

downstream side, 

and needed somehow 

to be located. 

I never did find my 

left boot. I spent the 

rest of the weekend 

walking barefoot, 

accumulating cuts 

and blisters, until a 

kind old lady drove 

us back into town 

and another kind 

old lady sold me a 

pair of neon pink 

Sauconys at an op 

shop for $3. With 

moaning stomachs, 

sodden clothes, 

ill-fitting shoes, and 

a concern for the 

bike abandoned so 

early in the trek, a 

bus mercifully arrived 

and our deliverance 

from the turbid 

and turbulent 

river came. I have 

always respected 

water. And the 

faster that water is 

moving, the more 

respect it demands. 

But I cruelly found 

optimism’s ceiling 

on this journey: it is 

not always enough 

to approach a task 

with a happy-golucky 

framing and 

a self-assuredness. 

A little planning 

can go a long way. 

PS if you find my 

shoe, do please 

get in touch! 

— END — 

22



23


Unwritten 

Words by Zoe Kelly 


24


If my life were a 

story 

Would you read me 

cover to cover 

Or would you bookmark 

the pages 

that you liked 

The easy ones 

The uncomplicated 

sentences 

The journey leading 

somewhere 

And leave the rest 

behind? 

Would I be scribbled 

in the margins 

Dog eared 

Left on a shelf to 

gather dust 

For you to look 

back on one day 

And think 

I remember that I 

loved her once 

My story was a cliff 

edge 

The next chapter 

hangs unfinished 

Unblemished by the 

memories 

That are no longer 

mine 

You closed the book 

when things got 

hard 

And now I am the 

chapter 

That started with 

goodbye 

Maybe my story 

ends alone 

Maybe words are 

all we have left 

The underlined sentences 

Smudged with tears 

and time 

Maybe the real me 

has faded 

Illegible and forgotten 

Because you could 

not read between 

the lines 

So I will be the one 

To find the words 

this time 

And even if the story 

I tell 

Is the life I live without 

you 

At least that story is 

mine 

The first words I put 

on paper 

After it happened: 

I am starting again 

And now I write my 

own way in this 

world 

On the pages you 

left unfinished 

The end of all I 

know 

Is a blank slate 

A new page 

A fresh start 

One that goes 

where I take it 

And finds its own 

way 

With the end of all 

things 

Comes wherever 

life leads me next 

Is my future unwritten? 

I keep the pages 

closed for now 

But not erased 

And I start again 

25


26 

In memoriam of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 

(21/4/1926 – 8/9/2022)

Coloniser, Queen 


The bells sound a century’s close 

scattering Westminster ravens 

dressing London landscapes 

in a widow’s veil 

Black lace and tie, empire’s 

trumpets shake off the centuries 

of dust, ringing once more 

around the chapel of nations 

The Queen is dead. 

Long live the King 

Forty-two guns, ninety-six cannons 

fall on death’s deaf ear 

Even she, heart swollen 

with celestial fire and all 

pageantry, pomp and power 

yields to the democracy of death 

Let her live with England’s Queens 

whose likeness kings and men 

will never match; grace, dignity 

and humour; we shall never see 

their like again 

Her duty braced on marble shoulders 

her feet set in empire’s soil 

on stolen stone 

on black and brown bodies 

The deep set roots of palace roses 

like empire’s chain of graves 

encircles the Earth 

Those red petals redder still 

for toil of custodians who cultivate 

country which British boots stole 

the Endeavour’s bow 

breaking 

the beaches of Botany Bay 

beginning dispossession 

Artwork by Olivia Tait 

Generated used Stable which Diffusion continues AI today 

Homeless in a homeland; 

colonisation is not a 

moment 

but a method; its heirs 

squat 

their ears blocked 

to the steady solemn 

sound 

of Country’s Voice 

Unite in celebration 

or mourning 

God rest the Monarchy 

The Elizabethan age is 

ended 

The Queen is dead. 

We shall never see 

her like again 

sic transit gloria mundi 

Words by Eliot 


Generated by Stable DIffusion AI 

27


The End of 

Extinction 

Words by Angelica Haskins 


28

The Tasmanian 

tiger has long 

been an emblem 

of extinction at the 

hands of human 

beings. As a large 

carnivorous 

marsupial species, 

the thylacine was 

predator to many 

land-dwelling birds, 

however, it fell prey 

to the extreme 

overhunting and 

destruction of habitat 

instigated by 

perhaps the ultimate 

apex predator: 

humans. While 

a gradual 

shift in public opinion 

eventually proffered 

the species 

protection status, 

such conservation 

measures came too 

late, 

with the final Tasmanian 

tiger dying 

not two months later, 

yet, the species 

was not officially 

declared extinct 

until 

nearly 50 years 

later in 1982. 

However, some 

scientists believe 

that we may be 

able to ‘de-extinct’ 

the thylacine. Texan 

genetic engineering 

firm 

Colossal Biosciences 

have partnered 

with scientists at 

the Thylacine Integrated 

Genomic 

Restoration Research 

(TIGRR) Lab at the 

University of Melbourne 

in a groundbreaking 

and 

ambitious mission 

to bring the Tasmanian 

tiger back to life. 

Thus far, the team 

have been able 

to sequence the 

genome of a preserved 

thylacine 

and determined the 

most 

genetically related 

marsupial species 

to serve as a kind of 

template. In engaging 

the use of Colossal’s 

renowned 

CRISPR gene editing 

technology, 

the team hope to 

take stem cells from 

the fat-tailed dunnart, 

an Australian 

mouselike 

marsupial, and 

splice its genome 

with that of recovered 

thylacine 

genes to subsequently 

grow viable 

Tasmanian 

tiger embryos, 

which would be 

implanted into a 

surrogate species. 


While Colossal 

is no stranger to 

attention—their 

past ambitions 

have been to create 

‘mammophants,’ a 

kind of 

woolly mammoth-elephant 

hybrid 

that captured 

the curiosity of an 

international audience, 

yet has not 

bloomed 

intro fruition—their 

plan to effectively 

resuscitate a long 

dead species has 

incited ire and incertitude 

amongst 

the 

scientific community. 

Researchers associated 

with the project 

believe that the 

de-extinction of the 

thylacine will serve 

as a catalyst to 

rejuvenate the field 

of animal conservation; 

resurrection 

of the long extinct 

marsupial would be 

a scientific success 

story that would allow 

us to create, in 

effect, a safety net 

lest other vulnerable 

or threatened 

species fall prey to 

extinction. Moreover, 

it would allow 

us to restore ecological 

niches that 

have been lost from 

the biosphere, thus 

ultimately allowing 

a kind of factory 

reset to the natural 

world. Colossal 

CEO and cofounder, 

Ben Lamm, 

asserted 

that the success of 

this project would 

contribute immense 

scientific resources 

to preserving concurrent 

ecosystems 

in the form of 

increased understanding 

and utilisation 

of “gestational 

and genetic 

rescue technologies.” 

Furthermore, a former 

apex predator 

of the Tasmanian 

biosphere, resuscitating 

this species 

would fill a biological 

niche, potentially 

restoring balance 

to an ecosystem 

that has long been 

offset by its extinction. 

Moreover, 

returning 

this animal to its 

rightful place in the 

food chain would 

also be a way of 

making amends 

with the natural 

world. The 

thylacine was 

29 29

hunted to mass extinction 

by human 

beings; perhaps 

resuscitation by the 

hands of humans 

is an 

ethical and moral 

obligation that 

would also serve as 

a means of repent. 

Yet, this creates 

conflict in regards 

to an ethical and 

moral frontier. If 

large corporations 

and wealthy entities 

are 

able to pick and 

choose which creatures 

to bring back, 

perhaps many 

species deemed not 

‘cool’ enough may 

suffer. 

This lends credence 

to the idea that perhaps 

such animal 

or plant species 

already on the 

verge of extinction 

may die 

out due to neglect, 

as efforts 

are drawn towards 

resuscitation of 

species regarded 

as more interesting. 

This 

introduces a Jurassic 

Park fallacy in 

which large conglomerate 

entities 

may compete with 

one another to 

splice 

species to propel 

such animals as an 

avenue of entertainment 

rather than a 

means of conservation. 

As such, perhaps 

the funds allotted 

to this project could 

be better spent on 

preserving concurrently 

threatened 

wildlife. Perhaps, 

instead of focussing 

on bringing 

back species that 

humans have led to 

extinction, we could 

be 

directing our efforts 

on conservation 

processes to ensure 

that we don’t have 

to worry about further 

de-extinction 

projects in future. In 

Australia alone, 86 

animal species are 

considered critically 

endangered. 

In dedicating increased 

efforts to ameliorating 

this threat 

of extinction, we 

could ensure that 

we do not restore 

the sanctity of our 

natural 

biosphere, and not 

only preserve our 

concurrent ecosystems, 

but allow 

them to flourish. 


However, this may 

all be moot conjecture; 

many 

scientists are questioning 

the validity 

behind the aims of 

the 

project and are 

doubtful that reviving 

an animal from 

extinction is even 

possible. Biosciences 

professor, 

Andrew 

Pask found that 

there was a lack of 

genetic diversity 

amongst thylacines, 

and that if 

they were to be 

brought back, 

these creatures 

would subsequently 

be susceptible to 

myriad diseases 

and potentially 

once again fall 

victim to 

extinction. 

While it is unclear 

yet if the Tasmanian 

tiger will be 

brought back to life 

by such radical genome 

technologies, 

one 

thing is clear: this 

carnivorous beast 

will continue to live 

on as a paragon of 

Australian folklore 

for many decades 

to come. 

30 

30 

Art by Olivia Tait


31


32



33 

33

Art by Ruby Comte 



34



Special thanks to all 

our contributors! 

Writers 

Zoe Batholomeuz 

Laur 

Vanessa Liao 

Cameron Clay 

David C. Woodleigh 

Zoe Eleanor 

Janseet Singh 

Saima Khan 

Harrison Croft 

Zoe Kelly 

Eliot 

Angelica Haskins 

Artists 

Des Ramjee 

Olivia Tait 

James Spencer 

Zoe Eleanor 

Dimitri Tsivelekis 

To contribute to next year, keep an eye out on our 

social media for updates in 2023 

Visit linktr.ee/lotswife for links! 

@lotswifemag 

@lotswife 

www.lotswife.com.au 

Lot’s Wife 

@LotsWifeMag 

35 35


...until next time 

Lot’s Wife. 

2022 

Front Cover Des Ramjee 

Back Cover Art by Dimitri Tsivelekis 

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