Comment/critique, please?

• By Cali Shaye
• Growing Marijuana
• 13 years ago
• 8

Read as far as you want, I wont blame you if you get bored. XD
-Thanks!

A smooth, controlled flick of the wrist and with a last stroke the tiger figurine was brought to life. The fur on its lean body was rippled with bold black stripes, its eyes were painted a brilliant blue. The artist stood up and admired his work, noting with pride the even coats of paint and the skillfully captured ferocity frozen in the tiger figurine.
It was time to go to the marketplace, he thought. The morning was fast approaching and the artist had many new figurines to sell. He knew he was skilled and his carefully crafted figurines would fetch a good price with the rich lords and ladies.
The artist placed the tiger figurine in a little wooden box, taking great care not to damage it. The little paint he had just applied would dry quickly on his way into the marketplace. He placed the box in his carrying-bag with the other figurines and, replacing the lid of the black paint pot, he started out to the marketplace.
It did not take him long to reach his regular stand, the day was fair and his heart light. People were everywhere, swarming from stand to stand, shouting over one another. Buyers and sellers bargained with one another, and although it was yet early, the marketplace was already alive.
The artist took his time setting up his stand; he meticulously opened one box after another and carefully placed his figurines side by side on the counter. Before he was done, curious onlookers had already drifted over.
The haggling began, and the buyers were impressed by the artist’s easy manner. In truth, he wanted only a decent price for his work. He loved what he did and he had only himself to feed.
Time flew by, slowly the figurines disappeared one by one. The artist was making good profit, and there was still one piece left – the tiger.
Another man appeared and examined the tiger figurine. “That’s a beautiful piece,” he said. “What will you take for it?” The artist only nodded in reply; his eyes had strayed elsewhere. A little girl stood close by, a yearning look in her eyes. She had been there a long time, he realized, admiring the tiger figurine.
“How much?” the man said. “You set a price, and we’ll go from there.”
“No,” the artist murmured, finally looking up. “No, this one is special, it’s not for sale. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t put it up on the stand, then,” the man retorted. His eyes narrowed and he strode off to the next booth.
The artist picked up his carrying-bag, now empty of figurines, and he took the tiger into his other hand. The little girl shrank back a step, her eyes flicking to the side.
“Here,” the artist said. “Do you want this? You can have it.” He held out the tiger figurine in the palm of his head.
The girl looked him in the eyes, and he was surprised by the unexpected boldness he saw there. As she lifted her chin, her raven hair fell back and she took a step forward.
“Take it,” the artist said. “I’ve sold enough. Just one doesn’t matter to me.”
She stared at him for a tense moment, as if trying to read his every thought and intention. The artist stared back, and suddenly the girl dropped her eyes and her hand shot out in a swift motion. Holding the little tiger figurine against her chest, the girl smiled and performed a wobbly curtsy.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m sorry I can’t pay for it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the artist said, smiling. “I am called Aranis, by the way.”
The girl hesitated, her eyes once again searching his for any sign to mistrust. “Tarin,” she said after a moment. “Thank you for the tiger.” Before he could say another word, she darted into the crowd, weaving through the throng of people and away from sight.
Tarin, the artist said to himself. What a strange girl. I wonder if I will ever meet her again. He had lost a good price for one of his figurines, but as he started home, his step was light and he wore a smile on his lips. What was his craft for, if there was no joy to it?