backpack - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The backpack is the colour of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that gets brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It is a sort of bold, "Hello," something that is confident to glow in all weathers.
The backpack has broad shoulder straps that feel quite natural even with the weight added. With it I walk a little taller, feel the straightening of my back and my head rise a little higher. Somehow it is easy to carry, almost easier than having being free of it.
The backpack has that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It takes the form of my shoulder in the same way a friend's hand might, gentle and warm.
In the backpack is my world, my everything, all heaved onto shoulders that look too frail to bear it. Head lies the mountains in jagged points, the path more narrow than the wire around the paddocks. I curl my fingers around the sky-blue fabric that repels the light mist and pull me back to earth. With every step my feet slip back a little, but always there is forward motion no matter the terrain.
The age-thinned and frayed straps of the backpack dug into her shoulders, but she was afraid to put it down. Everything she owned was in there. Her passport was in there and the little money she'd scraped together before hitting the road. Inside it she'd wrapped everything in the plastic bags she'd smuggled into her room after her Mom came back from the supermarket. Maybe once this backpack had been weatherproof, but not now, now it was about as water resistant as a paper kitchen towel. It was older than she was and the zip got stuck sometimes, but it was all she had.
The smokey grey canvas of the backpack was quite camouflaged in the twilight and Eddie almost tripped over it.
The backpack was old denim, deeply unfashionable and too small for all her books. She crammed it to bursting and hauled it onto her back. Then set off for school thinking of what she would say when her friends commented on it. It wasn't quite old enough to be retro, it wasn't small enough to be cute, but at least it didn't smell bad. She'd just have to blame her Mom, that usually worked.
The backpack was chic and black. It perched on her back like a little koala to it's mother.
The backpack has seen better days, frayed around the piping. Momma always says I should get another but I love this one too much. We've been on so many adventures together this fabric and I, my worldly goods safe inside. So if it breaks a little I'll simply sew it up, reinforce the weaknesses and keep on moving. By the end it will be more technicolor than any dream-coat and mean as much to me as anything ever could.
Lucy holds the empty backpack to the window, frowning at the khaki green. There are smears of mud and she's sure she detects her brother's musky scent. It ought to be a new one, lilac or soft brown. She sits to explore the pockets, crumbs in every one. Then just as she's about to toss it to the floor out comes a note...
The backpack is a fat navy sausage of water resistant polymers. The straps are functional to a basic degree, no advanced padding for long treks. Ben pulls a strap to feel the weight and inwardly groans. It's far heavier than it ought to be. Whatever Ian packed will need to come out and be reassessed...