•••••••••••••••••••••••Requests Open!••••••••••••••••••••••••
Will update upon receiving requests. Check chapter cleverly titled "⭐️Requests Open!⭐️" for more details (it's the 10th chapter!)
You can never have too many classic rock one shots, can y...
Muse: American Actress, Poet, Playwright, Screenwriter, Journalist and Civil Rights Activist Ruby Dee Musician: American Singer/ Songwriter, Bob Dylan Time: Mid Sixties
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Bob Dylan is in my fucking house. That was the only thing that Shelly could think as she stood against her sunroom wall with her hands to her chest. She didn't know exactly who Bob Dylan was, just that he was someone — someone famous. Someone famous, sitting at her kitchen table, eating her food. How did it get to this?
It's a funny story, really. It all started with random and frantic pounding at Shelly's front door. Not expecting anyone, she was quite startled at the aggressive knocking. She slipped off her house shoes so as to not make a sound, and tip toed to the door to look through the peephole. There stood a man in the poorly-lit alleyway, about 25, with a head of brown curls and shades over his eyes. He seemed quite panicked.
"Hello." She spoke through the door, tone questioning. Although timid, she was sure her voice was loud enough to be heard on the other side of the heavy door.
"Hello! I need you to let me in. Like, right now!" Shelly paused, completely baffled by his absurd request. With her hand against her chest, she replied.
"Now who the hell do think you are?"
"Look, ma'am. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to explain. You need to let me in right now!" He began banging on the door again, rattling the rectangle of wood in the ill-measured doorframe.
"Hey, hey, hey! You're gonna ruin my paint even more with that bangin'!" Scolded Shelly, imagining the chips of mint white paint that were likely stuck to the man's knuckles.
"I'd just hate to do that, so please open the door!" He harshly slammed his open palm again the door, shaking the sepia photos hanging on the wall by Shelly's front door. Greatly annoyed and not thinking clearly, Shelly slid off the bolt chain and unlocked the handle, muttering 'why, I ought'a's and 'who does he think he is?'s in the process. Before she could give him a piece of her mind and spew further sentiments laced with profanity, the individual pushed the door open and forced his way in. He did so with such violence that he ended up throwing himself onto the water damaged wooden planks of Shelly's two-story home.
Despite feeling stunned, Shelly raced to shut the door again and fix both of the locks, turning to him in shock once she'd finished. "Who in God's name are you?" She yelled, fists balled at her sides and shoulders tense. The man propped his torso up on this forearms, peeling himself off of the row-house floor.
"Hi. I'm Bob." He chuckled, finally having risen to sit with his knees tucked to his chest.
"Well, Bob," she spat his name, as if it were bitter medicine. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Oh, I'm nobody." He coyly remarked. She observed him; he had spots of white paint on his hands, just as she'd suspected. Great. He was rather skinny, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and body veiled in further-slimming black.
