MADELINE BACON

Writing is a holstered weapon, and too few recognize the power and prowess that go into its forgery. Stories conceived in laborious mines are birthed over iron clad plates and beaten into a primed existence. Painstaking detail lends to the defining quality of each instrument, for novelty prevails in the error of authorship. Searing metals rebel and obey, oscillating in paradox, their shapely inclination pressing unfaithfully between true form and potential mastery. No two steel smiths yield the same piece, for discrepancy in manufacturing asserts a defining characteristic. Nevertheless, unique weapons are wielded for identical outcomes, inflicting similar injury but by means of separate impact. Writing may be impressionable, ever-changing, yet its unwavering signature arises in this damage-riddled reader. The reader is dead, stagnant. This is of no regard, however, for the intrigue only arises in how the reader was killed. The fate is truly defined by the mold of the blade, the glimmer of its sheath, and the meaning in its withdrawal.

​

​