Slugkid's Writings

So every once in a while, I write things in English. I like writing.
I've been doing it a lot for college, and even if it is just for college I try to have fun with it and make good use of my, uh, writing ability. Right now I'm only going to post one because I'm too lazy to look for the previous ones, but I'll edit this later I guess.

Also I suck at giving titles but my teacher requires me to so yeah.

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Spoiler

Rest in Peace​

My eyes were barely open, and my consciousness was flaky. Still, I held on. And I listened.

In hindsight, if only you had thought things better, this situation would be brighter for you, do you not agree? ... What am I to understand from that blank stare of yours? Do you intend to play the fool with me? In my opinion, that part is greatly unbecoming for you in this comedy. Out of character, if you like, Mr. Hero.

And the worst part of it all, the source of the sour feeling that is no doubt taking over you, is the very true fact that your actions, your so called "heroic" motions, your "holier-than-thou" demeanor, they all were, in the end, entirely futile. To you, of course. And dare I say, that if I was mistaken, and your purpose was not to halt my (very profitable) shenanigans, but to bring your own demise, swiftly delivered by yours truly, then, friend, you were successful.

However, the true reasons behind your poor behaviour are of no concern to me, and I only trouble myself in dealing with you, not because you greatly, or at all, hindered my endeavors, but because it entertains me. It amuses me to deal with little pests such as yourself. And I want it to sink in. I want it to seep into your mind.
You.

Are.​

Worthless.​

And, with that, I was shot, and I died. ​

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About this text: This motioned me to start this thread. Not writing it, really, but the fact that my teacher and my mom and my friends said it was excellent and whatnot. I actually don't like it that much, it's kind of boring in a way. I only wrote this because I had no good ideas and this was a plotless story. Feedback is much appreciated.

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Here's another one, again, for school. The assignment said I had to either finish or start with "She waved at him from the table, thinking she would never see him again." Doima kinda helped me figure out what to write about. I don't reeealy like this one either, but, it's OK.

Spoiler

She waved at him from the table, thinking she would never see him again.

James instinctively held the handle of the gun hanging from his belt. The atmosphere was heavy and uninviting. His brain urged him to ignore these instincts, reassuring him by replaying his boss' words in his head: "Nothing to worry about James. It's an easy job. Deliver the ice to the mob. They give you a cut. Nothing else happens. Now, get going."

As he eased his mind (and his grip), two suited men showed up on the far end of the warehouse.
James noticed they were not carrying a briefcase or bags, or any means to hold the hard, cold cash he expected. Of course, he grew wary, but not because of what they lacked, but rather because of what they were indeed holding. Much to his dismay, both men carried rifles, one of which was trained on him.
The other man, the one that was simply holding the weapon nonchalantly, as if it were not a gun but a baseball bat, smirked, and said, smugly: "This is it for you, buddy."
As the man motioned to straighten his weapon, James ducked behind a big industrial container. Conveniently, the container was both open and empty, so he rushed inside, thinking its sturdiness would allow it to hold out against assaults.

His mind raced for an endless minute. He was in equal parts concocting a getaway plan and harboring hatred and revenge towards his boss. Thinking while hearing the heavy gunfire hit the container had a sort of mesmerizing effect and let him focus on the task at hand. He pulled the little bag of diamonds from inside his chest pocket, and threw them as far as he could to the opposite side of the door. The bullets stopped, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

Mostly unscathed, a single bullet lodged inside his thigh, James made his way back to the city, found a vantage point close to his boss' house, and awaited her return, all the while muttering to himself, winding himself up, so that when the car finally came, he was frenzied. The woman, no longer his boss, stepped out of the car, and right there and then, James shot the whole magazine. 6 bullets. Not one target. Despite this fact, he continued to pull the trigger, clouded by his anger and pain.
"Heh. I thought wrong."
Another bullet was shot from a different gun, and the anger and the pain ceased.