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)
COUGAR ATTACKS SMALL BOY
It’s the middle of a hot summer and the year is 1985. I’m 44 years old and I must have been having a midlife crisis or maybe I was just drunk the evening my friend John Stalzer dropped by with a case of beer. Nothing abnormal about that since it was quite typical. However, I have no inkling, not one iota of an idea how he came up with the brilliant idea of hiking the West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, BC, and he was serious about this endeavour.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Wander
THE NIGHT I MET ROY ORBISON
It was a hot summer day, the kind of heat that would blister your backside if you were lying outside trying to snatch a tan au naturel. As I struck a match and waited for a flame to light my second joint of the day, the telephone rang. Sucking back a toke, I held my breath and slowly let it out. As a cloud of smoke filled my small art studio, I listened to the phone continually ringing. Wiping a film of sweat off my brow, I had another hit. Then, deciding it might be a potential customer, as soon as I exhaled, I answered the phone.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Beat
A MAN OF MEANS BY ANY MEANS
Some people, and I’m one of those people that tripped, teetered, tottered, lurched, and fallen into waywardness as I’ve journeyed through life’s storms. Now that doesn’t mean I’m a bad man or a man of egregious evil intentions just because I occasionally used rare and unconventional knowledge to squeeze me through some very tight and incommodious situations.
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Humans
YOU WANT THESE DON'T YOU
It was one of those nights, not just a dark and stormy night, but another night – alone. As I sat in my apartment, the neon sign outside the window casting soft shadows across my dilapidated furniture, wall-papered walls, and thread-bare imitation Persian carpet, the cell phone resting on my crotch almost gave me a thrill when it vibrated. The caller was my dead friend’s wife. What did she want I wondered?
By Len Sherman3 years ago in Filthy
