The Canvas War - Comments

This was more then exceptioal. This was brilliant. The whole thing was made up of brilliant metaphors that sounded like something from a Beatles song mixed with your amazing writing style. The Heil Hitler part was the best. It captured the whole thing for me.

I loved the mood of this story, just the whole feeling of it. World War II was a really interesting point in time, and there aren't enough historic fics on here, so kudos to you.

remember the artist, not as much as I remembered everything else, but I remembered him. I remembered his dark brown eyes – his deep voice, swallowing the minds and spitting them back out with new information. I remembered the way the crowd would swoon under his gaze and vocals – salute to him, watch him use music and paint to brainwash his allies and then kill them with the fumes.

I love, love, love the imagery here. It's fantastic. It's a little known fact that Hitler was an artist. So I really liked how you never say who he is, but you can definitely tell who it is just by your language and the part about the salute. It's really insightful.

I remember the ashes, the grayness, as they enveloped me into their arms. I remember his eyes. And the blank sky – and how it slowly evaporated into itself. The smell of bodies in the ovens that made the air murky, the moaning.

The last sentence in that part gave me chills. Because it kind of hints toward the Holocaust throughtout the entire story, but you gave me a vivid picture of what it was like even though there's only one sentence near the very end that directly refers to it. Not many authors can do that, so I applaud you.

The only thing I have to say is to keep an eye on the starts of your paragraphs--try substituting "I" every now and then with something else. Otherwise it gives a slight feeling of repitition and it makes it more exciting when it's varied.

Again, amazing oneshot and I really enjoyed it.

I love the way you made everything sound artistic. Figures of speech are abundant and make it seem almost poetic.
I remember the painted sun – melting, dripping into the canvas sky. The canvas fell onto the easel ground, steadying itself for what was to come. Steadying itself for its master, the artist, to paint the rest of the portrait. I remember how still everything looked, and I remembered how the stillness was swept away with the brush of death – a single few strokes, and the painted sky was replaced with careless spills and leaking fumes.
That was my favorite part. The simple way you display death and such is amazing. A very good one-shot.

written perfectly.
the way you used color to describe in his mind how beautiful the war was... was amazing. the canvas blank, and it was just perfect.
i don't know how to describe it, really.
i'm going to subscribe to this so that i can come back to it anytime, as an example of what a perfect piece of writing should be.

the way you completely stepped into his way of thought, genious. for most people it's hard to do, but you did it beautifully.
i admire you.

The Canvas War:
Even though I find that most stories that are written on that particular topic almost unbearable to read, I quite enjoyed this one. Your description is wonderfully vivid, and I felt as if I was right there, experiencing it alongside the narrorator.

"The artist had run out of canvas, and started to use the easel to paint the bodies on. So many bodies."
Ingenious. This was my favorite phrase of the entire story.

All in all, I've always enjoyed your work, and I will continue to keep tabs on the rest of your stories. (I'm assuming this is a one-shot...)

colors and war go hand in hand, if you think about it.

The Canvas War:
The intro was perfect. Simple as an intro should be : I remember.

The analogy concerning the sky resembling the canvas stunned me, along with the picture you drew of the molten painted sun as it gave me an amazing view of how the colors of the sun merged with the sky's own. Also, the whole portrayal of the events and framing them in the area of art, and his view of his self as the artist controlling it all with the strockes of his brush, left me gabing.

The way that it left my mind go adrift imagining the scenes in throughout reading the words and descriptions was beautiful. I like when words take your mind away on a journey, merging sounds and scenes together in a most beautiful mixture.

The sadistic nature of him protruded in a most shiver-inducing sense as his enjoyment for the other's suffering and also showed for him resemebling in his analogy of something sweet as music with something sinesterly heart-wrenching as the sounds of agony and moans

Descriptions of old Germany showed the dark mood and atmosphere surrounding the place, though it was utterly different in his eyes.

Comparing Hitler to an artist had some kind of bitter truth to it, as deceit is a form of art -which acquires more skill than any other arts-. The art of camophlaging the truth is something to be remembered for.

The ending was just as perfect, it had that slight sense of fantasy to it with a dose of sharp realism, making it very crisp and clear to the reader's mind.

All in all, it was a beautiful peice despite it's content. Just beautiful

Just... oh wow.

I remember the white easel, not as much as I remember the Fuehrer, but I remember the white easel drenched in red. I remember limping over it, letting it slip through my fingers, feeling what would make Germany gallery of the world. I fell to my knees and felt it’s cold, harsh touch, and looked up. The artist had run out of canvas, and started to use the easel to paint the bodies on. So many bodies. So many colors in the sky.

Favourite part because it was so intensely original and nothing like I'd ever read before.

This is just... haunting and so original and beautiful [/gross overuse of "and"].

I've never read anything like any of this before, so if I could, I'd quote the whole story, because it made me want to blink and read it again, so many times.

I was going to leave you a profile comment, until I saw you had a new story up. And I thought I give it a try.

You and colors go well together. You write about something so simple, but yet turn it into something so brilliant with your wording and detail.

The man has a very good memory, remembering something like that to every sound, and color. The descriptions were mind blowing you describe enough to know what's happening and you did it well.

I remember the painted sun – melting, dripping into the canvas sky. The canvas fell onto the easel ground, steadying itself for what was to come.

^Beautiful I loved the beginning and how everything around him reminded him of a morbid canvas even when times were not good he still saw some beauty in it.

I remember the first color that was added to the sky after many years without it. I could breathe in that color, I could close my eyes and analyze it in my mind.

Great job Chelsea

The first thing that caught my eye was definately the summary. It was simply amazing. I can say this is one of the best things you've written and I loved it.

I remember the painted sun – melting, dripping into the canvas sky. The canvas fell onto the easel ground, steadying itself for what was to come. Steadying itself for its master, the artist, to paint the rest of the portrait. I remember how still everything looked, and I remembered how the stillness was swept away with the brush of death – a single few strokes, and the painted sky was replaced with careless spills and leaking fumes.

I loved that. The detail, everything. I loved reading it. You're so talented.

This was intensely amazing. Absolutely brilliant.

For an idea that seems almost too-out-there-oh-my-God-they-weren't-human, it was incredibly deep and oh so human for all it's faults and traits.

Mind you, that part in your summary wasn't really needed, in my opinion anyway. Anyone can write about any little section of nasty history (Which, let's face it, most of it is) without condoning or celebrating the events that happened within the pages of history.

Your extended metaphors were simply sublime.

Steadying itself for its master, the artist, to paint the rest of the portrait.

I love this line as it shows how well the metaphor works. Hitler must have thought himself to be an artist of the world, shaping it to the way he wanted it in a very violent (But, perhaps in his mind, artistic) way.

Also, I like how you never mention Hitler's name when the narrator was describing him until you had to with the 'Heil Hitler' stance. It shows how deep the conditioning was that he was The Master and they had to obey to be obliterated from the painting.

There is so much to say about this...so little time as of yet.

One thing, why Motherland? Usually it's referred to Fatherland. But that doesn't matter.

Basically, I can feel why the man acts the way he does: he is not a monster by enjoying the sound of crying but more happy that he is still in the 'picture' or artistic piece which I think many people enjoy to have the knowledge that they are still in the painting or whatever, it makes them almost obvilious that they may have taken the role from a more deserving actor. If that makes any sense whatsoever.

A Masterpiece. (That last sentence made me laugh..I hope it made you laugh too).

This is awesome!
Loving the metaphors.
It's really beautiful.