Beans unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, crawling out lazily. He grabbed his stained and torn City 8 shirt from the pile of clothing. He began buttoning the shirt, moving up towards his head progressively. The birds chirped, and the sun glared through the small back window of the aged vehicle. He climbed to the front seat of the vehicle, pushing the door open. The creaking from the rusted door hinges interrupted the songs of the birds. The fluttering of their wings trailed off through the trees. Beans breathed deeply through his nostrils, sighing heavily. He turned to face his vehicle once more. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, wrapping his hands around the handle of a fuel can. He set it just outside of the vehicle. He scanned the objects in the vehicle thoughtfully, reaching for his sheathed knife, clipping it into a belt loop on his faded and horribly tattered City 11 pants. Beans reached his hand carefully under his seat, his hands wrapping around cold steel. He dragged the Mossberg 500 shotgun from beneath his seat and tossed it into the dirt outside of the vehicle with the fuel. He grabbed his old notebook from the pile of junk on the passenger seat, as well as his last pack of cigarettes. He looked at the pack thoughtfully, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He reached into the back seat, pulling his battered and worn out looking combine boot, guiding his foot into it. He packed all of his useful things- full cans of food, medical supplies, alcohol, and the like into his backpack. And with that, he exited the vehicle. He carried his backpack and shotgun a fair distance away, setting them amongst the grass. As he started once more for the aged vehicle, his pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. All that remained was a single cigarettes, a nearly empty book of matches, and a scrap of paper. He withdrew the cigarette and book as matches as he continued on, placing the cigarette between his lips. He yanked one of the matches from the book, folding it up once more and setting it back in his shirt pocket. As he got to the vehicle, he struck the match along the hood of the car, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He dropped the match in the grass, twisting it out with his booted foot. Beans took a long, content drag on the cigarette. He let his lower jaw separate from the upper slightly, letting the thick, condensed puff of smoke roll from his mouth impassively. He bent down, setting a hand on the cap of the fuel can. He twisted the cap open, tossing it onto the hood of the vehicle. He stood, yanking the fuel can up with him. Beans walked around to the hood of the vehicle, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth neutrally. With each breath, a small, nearly invisible puff of smoke exited Beans’ mouth and sailed into the airspace. Beans planting his foot on the bumper of the car, stepping onto the hood. He tilted the fuel can slightly, letting a splash of gasoline onto the hood. Beans poured a steady trail of gasoline behind him as he walked over the entirety of the automobile. He hopped off of the trunk, walking to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the door open, a few empty cans of soup fell at his feet. He stuck his arms inside, swinging them around and letting the fuel cover the interior of the car. As it emptied, he dropped the can on the passenger seat with the trash. Beans took one last long, sedated drag on the cigarette as he walked towards the hood of the vehicle. He blew the smoke out in a steady trail from the corner of his mouth, withdrawing the mere stump of a cigarette from his mouth. He sighed, flicking the cigarette onto the hood of the car. The flames grew nearly instantly from the fluid covering the car. Beans stepped backwards slowly as the flames spread, staring at his burning possessions dejectedly. He reached his belongings near the edge of the clearing. He sat down at the edge of the tall grass, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. He dropped his hand in his shirt pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open, and pulled out the scrap of paper, splaying it out on the grass in front of him, between his legs. Beans stared down at the scrap of paper, lost in thought. His hand fell upon the barrel of his Mossberg. The cold steel never felt better.
Quote from: Tray on April 04, 2013, 05:00:50 PMBeans unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, crawling out lazily. He grabbed his stained and torn City 8 shirt from the pile of clothing. He began buttoning the shirt, moving up towards his head progressively. The birds chirped, and the sun glared through the small back window of the aged vehicle. He climbed to the front seat of the vehicle, pushing the door open. The creaking from the rusted door hinges interrupted the songs of the birds. The fluttering of their wings trailed off through the trees. Beans breathed deeply through his nostrils, sighing heavily. He turned to face his vehicle once more. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, wrapping his hands around the handle of a fuel can. He set it just outside of the vehicle. He scanned the objects in the vehicle thoughtfully, reaching for his sheathed knife, clipping it into a belt loop on his faded and horribly tattered City 11 pants. Beans reached his hand carefully under his seat, his hands wrapping around cold steel. He dragged the Mossberg 500 shotgun from beneath his seat and tossed it into the dirt outside of the vehicle with the fuel. He grabbed his old notebook from the pile of junk on the passenger seat, as well as his last pack of cigarettes. He looked at the pack thoughtfully, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He reached into the back seat, pulling his battered and worn out looking combine boot, guiding his foot into it. He packed all of his useful things- full cans of food, medical supplies, alcohol, and the like into his backpack. And with that, he exited the vehicle. He carried his backpack and shotgun a fair distance away, setting them amongst the grass. As he started once more for the aged vehicle, his pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. All that remained was a single cigarettes, a nearly empty book of matches, and a scrap of paper. He withdrew the cigarette and book as matches as he continued on, placing the cigarette between his lips. He yanked one of the matches from the book, folding it up once more and setting it back in his shirt pocket. As he got to the vehicle, he struck the match along the hood of the car, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He dropped the match in the grass, twisting it out with his booted foot. Beans took a long, content drag on the cigarette. He let his lower jaw separate from the upper slightly, letting the thick, condensed puff of smoke roll from his mouth impassively. He bent down, setting a hand on the cap of the fuel can. He twisted the cap open, tossing it onto the hood of the vehicle. He stood, yanking the fuel can up with him. Beans walked around to the hood of the vehicle, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth neutrally. With each breath, a small, nearly invisible puff of smoke exited Beans’ mouth and sailed into the airspace. Beans planting his foot on the bumper of the car, stepping onto the hood. He tilted the fuel can slightly, letting a splash of gasoline onto the hood. Beans poured a steady trail of gasoline behind him as he walked over the entirety of the automobile. He hopped off of the trunk, walking to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the door open, a few empty cans of soup fell at his feet. He stuck his arms inside, swinging them around and letting the fuel cover the interior of the car. As it emptied, he dropped the can on the passenger seat with the trash. Beans took one last long, sedated drag on the cigarette as he walked towards the hood of the vehicle. He blew the smoke out in a steady trail from the corner of his mouth, withdrawing the mere stump of a cigarette from his mouth. He sighed, flicking the cigarette onto the hood of the car. The flames grew nearly instantly from the fluid covering the car. Beans stepped backwards slowly as the flames spread, staring at his burning possessions dejectedly. He reached his belongings near the edge of the clearing. He sat down at the edge of the tall grass, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. He dropped his hand in his shirt pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open, and pulled out the scrap of paper, splaying it out on the grass in front of him, between his legs. Beans stared down at the scrap of paper, lost in thought. His hand fell upon the barrel of his Mossberg. The cold steel never felt better. Sorry but I had to. You need to come up with new words at the beginning of your sentences instead of "He." Try something like instead, thus, never, etc that continue your last sentence.