Steve Sloane
Bio
Steve graduated from UC Riverside with BA's in Creative Writing and Film Theory, in 2005. Originally from England, he lives in Southern California with his wife and two children.
Stories (5/0)
Second Bounce
The Ringmaster summed it up best. “Mark my words Tiresias,” he said to me,mysteriously appearing by my side. “You and Big George, as soon as you both cash it in and retire, you’re gonna change.” He’s the only one in the whole circus who ever called me by my full name—mostly everyone else called me “Reesey.” “Greasy Reesey,” some of the younger trapeze artists used to say long ago, on account of my Italian roots (though there isn’t a drop of Italian blood in my whole family—I mentioned my “Italian” heritage years ago, while landing the job. To add a dash of flair, elegance, something like that).
By Steve Sloaneabout a year ago in Fiction
Hard Choices in Parenting: The Pre-Birth Phase.
Two summers ago, while I was engrossed in the rigors of building a deck onto our house, my wife ambled outside to me, tending both cold drink and the tradition of dutiful daily inspection. ‘Looks good,’ or ‘It’s coming along, isn’t it?’ were the more conventional phrases of vocal encouragement I’d become accustomed to, usually coupled with a slight grin—or on less successful days, worried looks of concern. This day, however, a deeper, more radiant smile than usual was on offer, and I could tell even before she made a sound, that a more blissful incentive had brought her to my side.
By Steve Sloaneabout a year ago in Families
Something Of The Night
Tobias the prototype, after five full years of life, still viewed the world around him with a child-like sense of fascination and wide-eyed wonder. He looked to be a man of forty or so years, and his short time on Earth had given him a greater appreciation for life than many people in their old age would ever experience. With nostrils flared, he drew his wheelchair closer to the small circular table before him, breathing in the Starbuck’s café’s rich aroma of coffee, cocoa and cinnamon. Lucy, one of those responsible for his creation, sat opposite him with a notebook on her lap, engrossed in the ritual of her weekly chat-room session with other members of The Group.
By Steve Sloaneabout a year ago in Fiction
The Solitary
Leonard wore mist like a shroud. The rain, sore feet or possibly a combination of both, swayed him to view Central Park as a separate entity from the city fused to its borders. Lilly, his wife, took the park’s vastness entirely in her stride. It didn’t faze her at all, nothing ever did. He’d thought many times this had been the catalyst to their marital discord: her intransigence versus his compliance.
By Steve Sloaneabout a year ago in Fiction
