Len Sherman
Bio
I'm a published author/artist but tend to think of myself as a doodler\dabbler. I've sailed the NW Passage & wrote & illustrated a book, ARCTIC ODYSSEY. Currently, I live on 50 semi wilderness acres & see lots of wild critters in the yard.
Stories (40/0)
VIRGO
Virgo is the sixth sign of the zodiac and is the largest constellation. Like an alluring virgin, Virgo can be seen mainly in the northern hemisphere during March and April by locating Spica, its brightest star and following the curve of the big dipper. One of the Greek myths specifies that Virgo is Erigone, the daughter of Icarius. After knocking back bottles of wine with Dionysus (god of the grape harvest) until he was totally inebriated, could hardly stand up, his shepherds killed him. Erigone was so overcome with grief because of her father’s death, she hanged herself. Since Icarius was one of Dionysus’ favourite drinking buddies, he placed the father and daughter amongst the stars.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Futurism
RACETRACKER
It’s a vulnerable age in my life. Not that different ages can’t be equally vulnerable but in my early 20’s, as a young adult, not as clever as I would like to believe, I’m wandering down a road with no responsibilities; I do pretty much as I please and the world is my oyster so to speak. But not every oyster contains a pearl.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Motivation
THE ARTIST AND THE BULL
I most likely should have paid more attention to the sign, BEWARE OF BULL, which was tacked on the fence that I climbed over, but the peaceful meadow was devoid of any animals, only birds darting from tree to tree, their cheerful melodies heard. The grass was golden, tall and wispy and gently waving in the breeze as I packed my easel, small blank canvas, brushes and paints down the slight incline to a meandering brook chuckling between the boulders before disappearing beneath a copse of birch trees, strands of white bark peeling in the sunlight. The indigo-purple mountains in the distance poking up from behind the green undulating hills, their lavender snowy peaks stretching upwards into the approaching sunset looked serene and majestic.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
MACK THE KNIFE
The shark’s dorsal fin sliced through the water as easily as a sharp blade slitting a woman’s tender throat. While the shark headed towards a dinghy through the undulating turquoise sea, a thin white line following in its wake, the old man lifted his arm out of the water, a stream of crimson blood dripping off his elbow. He grinned as the enormous shark slid by the dinghy on its side partially exposing its white belly, one of the creature’s big dead eyes staring up at him just below the sea’s surface. “Not yet my pretty but we’ll dance soon,” he said.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
SURPRISE PACKAGE
I’ve been having trouble sleeping this past week and as I lie awake staring into the darkness on a makeshift bed on the living room floor, I wonder what else can go wrong with my life. When I went to work last Monday, my boss called me into his office. I had been expecting a promotion or at the very least, a substantial raise after fifteen years of hard reliable work. I’m a mechanic and I work, should say worked for a large national company that has a fleet of big diesel trucks that transport goods all over America, even Canada and sometimes Mexico. But last Monday, as I sat across from my boss, his jowls jiggling on his man-boobs protruding through his sweaty white shirt while shuffling some papers around on his desk, he informed me that the company was letting me go, they were upscaling, and my position had become obsolete. I couldn’t believe I was being fired by someone who was wedged into a chair, tighter than a walnut in a shell that would take a crowbar to pry him out, after he’s finished eating the two boxes of donuts sitting on his desk. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. It’s not my fault that I couldn’t figure out how electric trucks work, even after they sent me to school to learn about them and I almost electrocuted myself—electricity and I have never gotten along.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
FATIMA'S REVENGE
Fatima Wheedlewaxer is not one of the popular girls in her classes at school. Her body is hardly the Barbie doll, perfectly shaped hour-glass type. She may be packing more weight than necessary but she’s not especially fat, sort of pleasantly plump or Rubenesque. Nor is she pretty, more the “plain-Jane” variety. However, like most teenage girls, whether they are drop-dead gorgeous or lean as a beanpole, for some reason or another they always believe they are overweight—the media, celebrities and models are perhaps to blame. She used to really like her first name when she was a little girl because it sounded so pretty, even exotic. But now, she’s come to hate it because she would occasionally hear some of the prettier girls whisper behind her back, “There goes Fatty-Fatima or Fatso-Wheedlewaxer.” At first, she tried ignoring the cruel comments but sometimes they hurt so much, she would rush into a washroom stall, lock the door behind her and then bawl her eyes out, which only made her face blotchy and redder than usual.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
THE OLD BARN
My name is Malone, Jock Malone. I’m a private detective and I’ve been hired by a woman, who’s sister along with three other people had been brutally murdered, then bisected, dissected and intersected inside an old dilapidated barn. The gruesome murders were committed almost 20 years ago, and the case went cold, you might say icy cold almost immediately. The only solid evidence the police really had was that whoever the killer was, he’s either a very big man or an enormously large woman with the strength of a grizzly bear. My guess is, it’s probably a guy since the victims were all strangled to death before being sliced and diced; large bruised finger imprints around their throats were still visible when forensics took the ghastly photos. There’s a slight possibility the killer may be a butcher because of the way the victims had been fileted while their bodies were hanging on meat hooks. As odd as it seems, even though buckets of blood, which belonged to the murder victims had soaked into the ground, floorboards and the walls, a trace of someone else’s blood had been discovered as well, most likely the killer’s.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
FIRST KISS
Reuben had just finished Grade 8, when he and his mom went to visit his grandparents for the summer. They lived on a small farm in Montana, so leaving the busyness of Seattle for the quietness of the country might be challenging, especially since there wasn’t any Internet. He couldn’t believe they would be gone for almost two months, almost two lifetimes in his mind.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction
THE AMAZING BEAN CAKE
When I was a little boy and was certain that monsters lived in my closet and crept out into my room at night, my father being more imaginative than my mother, would sometimes read me a bedtime story until I fell asleep but more often, he would make one up—he was good at that. The fairy tale that stands out in my mind foremost, which of course I’ve taken many liberties, is The Amazing Bean Cake. He would usually tell this story when I was very sad, like when my grandma, grandpa and my little puppy died. It was difficult not to smile and near the end of his story, it was impossible to stop laughing when he used his armpit for sound effects. Looking back, I think his telling this story also helped alleviate his own sadness.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Families
ZOE'S SALVATION
Zoe and Adam were running for their lives. Adam was slightly ahead when the blast from a zapper hit him square in the back, instantly turning his whole being into a vaporized red mist that Zoe ran straight through. Zigzagging towards a big tree, she had barely tossed her body encased with red slime behind it, when the zapper fired again. The blast hit the tree and as a sharp chunk of wood summersaulted past her head, she could feel it vibrating from the impact. As the tree began breaking apart, she slid down the trunk and slithered through the tall grass on her belly like a snake towards some huge boulders. Quickly crawling behind the rocky barrier, the zapper fired again, a huge hole appearing in the ground where she had just been. Quickly scanning her immediate area, realizing she was now cornered, the only option remaining to escape the WGOP (World Government Official Police or Gops) was jumping off the high, rocky cliff into the river below that was churning through the rapids. She had to make up her mind quickly since her enemies would be flanking her position as she waited—to die in the river or die from a zapper blast—they weren’t taking prisoners.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Fiction