A/N: Well, here we are! The start of my third drabble/shortfic/flashfic collection for Yuffentine. After Yuffentine ABC, a lot of people said they were sad it was ending, so I decided to make another. This one'll be a little different though. Here's the deal:
These things will be ranging from 50 words to...well, probably anywhere less than 1000 words. I won't be keeping as strict an eye on the word count as I normally would.
These will be, by nature, somewhat experimental at times. It keeps things fun, I find.
They will have a range of subjects- basically, anything I feel like, or anything that's suggested by the readers.
That last point is the important one. If you have a prompt, a situation, or just something you'd like to see, throw it my way. I'll take it as a challenge and write something as best I can for it. I'm always in need of good prompts and challenges, so don't be shy! I'll give you credit for the prompt if I use it, and I'll put priority on requests, so really, fire away.
Disclaimer: I can hardly afford food. Buying the rights to FFVII is a little bit out of my league.
The sun is seeping through the windows and leaks onto the floor in bright pools, but Vincent doesn't notice. He scratches his chin absently with the end of his pen, wondering what possessed him to do this in the first place. The page in front of him looks intimidatingly white, apart from the rules that shoot across like bullet trajectories. He thinks of writing that, but he has enough experience with bullets and doesn't particularly want them cluttering up his new, never-before-written-in notebook.
He doesn't actually like the notebook. It's a blocky, poorly made mishmash of bright covers and a type of paper that he wouldn't even tolerate in his bathroom. When he was a child, he'd wanted a real notebook, heavy and worn and leather bound, the type you'd find weighing down the bag of an old-school explorer. He'd wanted to write about plants and animals and machines, doing diagrams and descriptions, capturing something living in pen and ink.
Of course, like so many other things, that notion was unerringly romantic, and he forgot it when his boyhood passed. No one actually makes that kind of notebook anymore, and he's saddened by it. He wonders if complaining about your new notebook is a legitimate way to fill said notebook. He decides not. What exactly is considered normal to write in one's diary?
He notices Yuffie hovering somewhere in the back of the room, and makes a motion with his head. She seems to understand, and moves forwards to hover at his shoulder.
"Hey, Vince. How's your post-coffin diary going?" she asks, looking at the notebook. Seeing it blank, she shakes it, as if that will somehow cause it to become something other than pristine and white. It reminds him of a child shaking an etch-a-sketch, but in reverse.
"Oh, I see." she grins. "Invisible ink, huh?"
She pads off, looking for Cloud or Nanaki. He's not sure if she was joking or not. He decides that maybe is a good answer.
He inserts the pen into his mouth and chews. Perhaps a post-coffin diary is simply too challenging for his stunted literary talents. Silently, his romantic notions and his boyhood creep up and tag team him. He smiles privately. Capture life in pen and ink.
He begins to write, the ink flowing from the nib in tight, tiny loops and curves. Soon, he has finished his first page, and turns to the next. India ink seeps into the pressed paper, and before long he's covered three pages. His writing sits on the paper lazily, and suddenly the notebook is not intimidating or white or pristine, but is his.
As an afterthought, he scrawls four words carelessly on the cover, cementing the book with purpose and promise.
Yuffie Kisaragi Observation Journal
A/N: Hmm...Weird start there. I had trouble with this prompt. I decided to go with slice of life.
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