(no subject)
So I took the adapted challenge and did my best (I admit I still cheated a bit. I'm totally incapable of writing something and not going back to tweak). But it is my first posted NCIS fic, and my first drabblets ever. If I get more time I may do a few more.
1b
1) Listen to 10 songs on your favorite mp3 device and write down the artist & title.
2) Choose 3 or more songs you think give you drabble/ficlet material.
3) Give yourself 10 minutes, no more, per drabble/ficlet.
4) After it is all said and done, you may do the basic beta glance over, but no adding or tweaking! Give yourself no more than one minute per drabble for that. I added this one for all us extremely bad spellers that hate to see our mistakes out there permanently.
I Dreamed A Dream - Aretha Franklin
Ziva had never really had dreams. Of course she has REM dreams - everyone does - though she usually does not remember hers when she wakes….
No, she had never had dreams of the future - fantasies, day dreams, visions - call them what you will. Not after her twelfth birthday anyway. Not since the year she became a woman, the year she stopped her ballet lessons, the year her father clasped the thin golden chain around her neck and then put her first Uzi into her hands. After that year, what was there to dream about?
Her career had been chosen for her, she had never needed to dream about what job she would have when she grew up. She had never needed to dream about being good at what she did. She had simply worked until she was good, until she was the best. In hindsight, she realizes that was probably a good thing. It would have been disturbing to be dreaming about becoming the perfect killing machine while still only an adolescent.
Her job had been her life. She had never had the impulse to dream about a … personal life. … What a strange concept, a life that was personal to her, private, a life outside her duties…..
When her physical needs made themselves known, she found someone to sate them, or took care of them herself.
There had never been anything beyond this. She had never daydreamed about a lover. Had never contemplated a domestic future with a partner. Never felt her … what was the phrase? …biological clock ringing while thinking of starting a family.
This had been a good thing. No dreams meant no regrets. She has never believed in regrets. She still does not.
It had all changed. Abby had changed it. And she cursed the woman even as she loved her. Because now, now as she lay on the rough gritty concrete of this unremarkable parking garage, now as she felt her hand at her side lay in a warm sticky puddle of … well, she supposed it was her own blood, yes?…, now as Tony’s - she thinks it is Tony - faceless shadow leans over her, his head surrounded by a halo of yellow light, all his weight pressed onto her abdomen, now, now, now she has regrets. Her dreams, her dreams with Abby, are fading away. And she regrets they will never be more than dreams.
Sona Sona Roop - Bollywood Hollywood
Tony was not unused to loud and unusual music coming from Abby’s lab. Most of the stuff Abby played made his ears bleed…though he would never tell her that.
This, however, was highly unusual, even for Abby. It sounded like dying cats screeching to a heavy bass beat - he had no qualms about questioning the lab rat’s choice of music this time.
“Abby!”
No answer. He got closer to the bopping goth (was that supposed to be dancing? And was she trying to sing along with the foreign words?) and this time shouted in her ear -
“ABBY!’
It seemed to do the trick. She turned and seeing him, lowered the music slightly with a remote.
“Hi Tony! What’s up?” She looked at both his empty hands and pouted. “No Caff-Pow?”
“No Abby, but I’ll go and get you one if you turn this off.” She frowned at him and turned back to her bank of computers.
He tried again..
“What the hell are you doing listening to Bollywood music?”
She threw a smile over her shoulder before turning back around once more, continuing to bounce to the music.
“Isn’t it great! I really love it. I didn’t think I would! Last night Ziva introduced me to some Bollywood movies, we watched ‘Veer-Zara’ and ‘Bunti aur…’”
Tony interrupted her mid-rant.
“Hold up! Ziva? Ziva introduced you to Bollywood movies?!”
Abby nodded with more than her usual dose of enthusiasm. “Yep! We watched four, which is surprising ‘cause, you know, they’re really long - like three hours each, though the last one, ‘Dhoom’ we didn‘t really get to the end cause we got, you know, distracted..”
Tony’s brain kicked in again at Abby’s drawl of the word “distracted” and the smirk on her face. Something was very wrong here, and he was determined to find out what.
“Distracted? By what? And since when does Ziva even like Bollywood movies? She refused to watch ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’ with me!” He narrowed his eyes before asking again. “And what do you mean by distracted?”
Abby smirked at him again. “What Tony? You don’t think you’d get distracted by all those beautiful girls dancing in bright skimpy outfits? And Ziva loves Bollywood films! She has a collection that takes up two shelves. I love it too! All that music and dancing and happy endings and.. Oh! High Babe!”
At that last Tony whirled toward the door. Ziva was leaning against the door frame, with an expression on her face that Tony couldn’t quite read. Regardless, Tony was convinced he had stepped into the Twilight Zone, his brain stuttering to keep up.. “happy endings…. Collection…. Two shelves… babe!… Ziva, what’s going on?”
Ziva stepped closer to him. To close for his comfort. Way to close.
“Yes, Tony. I do have a secret collection of Bollywood movies, yes, I do like happy endings, and yes, Abby and I are dating. If you exhale a word of this to anyone, I will personally see to it that you sing in a soprano for the rest of your life.” She emphasized her point by lightly running her hand up the inside of his thigh. “Do we understand each other?”
Shielding his family jewels with one hand from, he was convinced, the most dangerous women in the D.C. area, if not the country, he squeaked out an affirmative and quickly made his way out of the lab and into the elevator. Not sparing either a goodbye for Abby or a moment to correct Ziva’s english. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Ne Dans La Rue - Zebda
Ziva walked through the main Souke in Casablanca. Her steps and mood influenced by an inaudible French-North African beat, her mind for the moment decidedly not on her mission. She was meeting one of her Mossad contacts at the other end of the market expanse in just under an hour, and then tonight upholding her regular gig at The Zanzabar, the small bar inside one of the medium sized tourist hotels in Casablanca. One of her targets was scheduled for an appearance in the bar tonight - her contact had info she would need to identify him and eliminate him.
But for now she had a bit of time to linger and try to enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of Morocco- enjoy it for what it had to offer outside her spy profession. It was not something she had always done, but had learned a few years ago from an old partner and friend while on missions in Cairo, Eastern Europe, and the UK.
Jenny had always insisted that there was time to appreciate the place and the culture - even if it was only for a few minutes. Even if it was nothing more than an inhalation of the air and a second to experience the place with the mind of a human instead of a spook.
Ziva took in the stalls on either side of her, the decorative wares, the colorful mounds of spices and lentils piled high in woven baskets, the smell of overripe fruit. She firmly pushed down the thought that many of these stalls would be the perfect place to hide deadly bombs - and instead stopped at a small corner stall that had glittering pieces of silver jewelry displayed. One piece, a rather Celtic looking solid silver twisted torc caught her eye. It’s facets held beautifully inscribed Arabic words. On inspection she was surprised to find an excerpt from one of her favorite Middle Eastern poets.
After the requisite bargaining she tucked the delicate piece of twisted silver into her small backpack and with a small grin, continued on to her meet.
One month later, as she slipped the torc around the pale tattooed neck, she whispered in her love’s ear “Who are you woman entering my life like a dagger, mild as the eyes of a rabbit, soft as the skin of a plum, pure as strings of jasmine, innocent as children's bibs, and devouring like words?”
1b
1) Listen to 10 songs on your favorite mp3 device and write down the artist & title.
2) Choose 3 or more songs you think give you drabble/ficlet material.
3) Give yourself 10 minutes, no more, per drabble/ficlet.
4) After it is all said and done, you may do the basic beta glance over, but no adding or tweaking! Give yourself no more than one minute per drabble for that. I added this one for all us extremely bad spellers that hate to see our mistakes out there permanently.
I Dreamed A Dream - Aretha Franklin
Ziva had never really had dreams. Of course she has REM dreams - everyone does - though she usually does not remember hers when she wakes….
No, she had never had dreams of the future - fantasies, day dreams, visions - call them what you will. Not after her twelfth birthday anyway. Not since the year she became a woman, the year she stopped her ballet lessons, the year her father clasped the thin golden chain around her neck and then put her first Uzi into her hands. After that year, what was there to dream about?
Her career had been chosen for her, she had never needed to dream about what job she would have when she grew up. She had never needed to dream about being good at what she did. She had simply worked until she was good, until she was the best. In hindsight, she realizes that was probably a good thing. It would have been disturbing to be dreaming about becoming the perfect killing machine while still only an adolescent.
Her job had been her life. She had never had the impulse to dream about a … personal life. … What a strange concept, a life that was personal to her, private, a life outside her duties…..
When her physical needs made themselves known, she found someone to sate them, or took care of them herself.
There had never been anything beyond this. She had never daydreamed about a lover. Had never contemplated a domestic future with a partner. Never felt her … what was the phrase? …biological clock ringing while thinking of starting a family.
This had been a good thing. No dreams meant no regrets. She has never believed in regrets. She still does not.
It had all changed. Abby had changed it. And she cursed the woman even as she loved her. Because now, now as she lay on the rough gritty concrete of this unremarkable parking garage, now as she felt her hand at her side lay in a warm sticky puddle of … well, she supposed it was her own blood, yes?…, now as Tony’s - she thinks it is Tony - faceless shadow leans over her, his head surrounded by a halo of yellow light, all his weight pressed onto her abdomen, now, now, now she has regrets. Her dreams, her dreams with Abby, are fading away. And she regrets they will never be more than dreams.
Sona Sona Roop - Bollywood Hollywood
Tony was not unused to loud and unusual music coming from Abby’s lab. Most of the stuff Abby played made his ears bleed…though he would never tell her that.
This, however, was highly unusual, even for Abby. It sounded like dying cats screeching to a heavy bass beat - he had no qualms about questioning the lab rat’s choice of music this time.
“Abby!”
No answer. He got closer to the bopping goth (was that supposed to be dancing? And was she trying to sing along with the foreign words?) and this time shouted in her ear -
“ABBY!’
It seemed to do the trick. She turned and seeing him, lowered the music slightly with a remote.
“Hi Tony! What’s up?” She looked at both his empty hands and pouted. “No Caff-Pow?”
“No Abby, but I’ll go and get you one if you turn this off.” She frowned at him and turned back to her bank of computers.
He tried again..
“What the hell are you doing listening to Bollywood music?”
She threw a smile over her shoulder before turning back around once more, continuing to bounce to the music.
“Isn’t it great! I really love it. I didn’t think I would! Last night Ziva introduced me to some Bollywood movies, we watched ‘Veer-Zara’ and ‘Bunti aur…’”
Tony interrupted her mid-rant.
“Hold up! Ziva? Ziva introduced you to Bollywood movies?!”
Abby nodded with more than her usual dose of enthusiasm. “Yep! We watched four, which is surprising ‘cause, you know, they’re really long - like three hours each, though the last one, ‘Dhoom’ we didn‘t really get to the end cause we got, you know, distracted..”
Tony’s brain kicked in again at Abby’s drawl of the word “distracted” and the smirk on her face. Something was very wrong here, and he was determined to find out what.
“Distracted? By what? And since when does Ziva even like Bollywood movies? She refused to watch ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’ with me!” He narrowed his eyes before asking again. “And what do you mean by distracted?”
Abby smirked at him again. “What Tony? You don’t think you’d get distracted by all those beautiful girls dancing in bright skimpy outfits? And Ziva loves Bollywood films! She has a collection that takes up two shelves. I love it too! All that music and dancing and happy endings and.. Oh! High Babe!”
At that last Tony whirled toward the door. Ziva was leaning against the door frame, with an expression on her face that Tony couldn’t quite read. Regardless, Tony was convinced he had stepped into the Twilight Zone, his brain stuttering to keep up.. “happy endings…. Collection…. Two shelves… babe!… Ziva, what’s going on?”
Ziva stepped closer to him. To close for his comfort. Way to close.
“Yes, Tony. I do have a secret collection of Bollywood movies, yes, I do like happy endings, and yes, Abby and I are dating. If you exhale a word of this to anyone, I will personally see to it that you sing in a soprano for the rest of your life.” She emphasized her point by lightly running her hand up the inside of his thigh. “Do we understand each other?”
Shielding his family jewels with one hand from, he was convinced, the most dangerous women in the D.C. area, if not the country, he squeaked out an affirmative and quickly made his way out of the lab and into the elevator. Not sparing either a goodbye for Abby or a moment to correct Ziva’s english. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Ne Dans La Rue - Zebda
Ziva walked through the main Souke in Casablanca. Her steps and mood influenced by an inaudible French-North African beat, her mind for the moment decidedly not on her mission. She was meeting one of her Mossad contacts at the other end of the market expanse in just under an hour, and then tonight upholding her regular gig at The Zanzabar, the small bar inside one of the medium sized tourist hotels in Casablanca. One of her targets was scheduled for an appearance in the bar tonight - her contact had info she would need to identify him and eliminate him.
But for now she had a bit of time to linger and try to enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of Morocco- enjoy it for what it had to offer outside her spy profession. It was not something she had always done, but had learned a few years ago from an old partner and friend while on missions in Cairo, Eastern Europe, and the UK.
Jenny had always insisted that there was time to appreciate the place and the culture - even if it was only for a few minutes. Even if it was nothing more than an inhalation of the air and a second to experience the place with the mind of a human instead of a spook.
Ziva took in the stalls on either side of her, the decorative wares, the colorful mounds of spices and lentils piled high in woven baskets, the smell of overripe fruit. She firmly pushed down the thought that many of these stalls would be the perfect place to hide deadly bombs - and instead stopped at a small corner stall that had glittering pieces of silver jewelry displayed. One piece, a rather Celtic looking solid silver twisted torc caught her eye. It’s facets held beautifully inscribed Arabic words. On inspection she was surprised to find an excerpt from one of her favorite Middle Eastern poets.
After the requisite bargaining she tucked the delicate piece of twisted silver into her small backpack and with a small grin, continued on to her meet.
One month later, as she slipped the torc around the pale tattooed neck, she whispered in her love’s ear “Who are you woman entering my life like a dagger, mild as the eyes of a rabbit, soft as the skin of a plum, pure as strings of jasmine, innocent as children's bibs, and devouring like words?”