Tag Archives: Stephen DeBock

A Cross to Bare…

14 Nov

Another GSP release from Author of the Week; Stephen DeBock.

A Cross to Bare by Stephen M. DeBock

Reporter Lucille Easton’s nose tells her that the full moon murders plaguing the city are the work of a vampire, and thanks to the efforts of the newspaper’s researcher Willi, she learns that the undead do indeed exist.

When Willi herself becomes a victim, Lucille deduces that the vampire is her new boyfriend: he’s the undertaker’s new assistant; he lives in the apartment above the mortuary; and his job guarantees an endless supply of blood.

The reporter plans to stage a seduction of the suspected vampire in his apartment, while hiding a crucifix in her cleavage and a vial of holy water in her purse. She’s already framing in her mind the story she’ll write and the Pulitzer she’ll win. Surely a TV anchor’s slot will follow.

But we know what they say about the best-laid plans . . .

Excerpt:

Connie Marx shivered as she stood alone in the moonlight. Spring weather was late in coming this year, and she longed for something warm to cover herself with; but of course that would defeat the purpose of her being here. She needed to display as much of herself as the law allowed, in order to consummate relationships beyond what the law allowed. Business had been slow tonight—make that nonexistent—and Connie needed business, now, in order to transact business of her own later. She wore a long-sleeved blouse to hide the telltale tracks in her arm, but the front of it was unbuttoned enough to show any interested party that she had nothing to hide beneath. Her skirt was hardly wider than the belt that hugged her hips, and her spiked heels made her look taller than her barely five-foot height.

The shadowed alleyway before which she stood gave Connie the creeps. But, she thought with a twist of her mouth, creeps were what she was after. She checked her make-up one more time in her compact mirror. The moonlight was dim enough to conceal the worst of the acne scars, and thick pancake hid the darkness around her eyes. Her lips were blood red, vivid and glossy.

She put the compact back inside her purse and looked around. Where was everybody? Oh, wait, it was Good Friday. Maybe her potential johns were in church, or dyeing Easter eggs with their families. Connie herself had a family, of sorts; in fact, she was carrying on the family trade. At twenty, she had grudgingly taken on the support of both herself and her besotted mother, who at this very moment probably lay in a pool of her own puke, a bottle of cheap vodka on the night stand alongside her stained and sagging mattress. What did Good Friday mean to Connie? She knew it was something about Jesus dying and coming back from the dead, but she’d never gone to Sunday School, never spent one hour inside a church.

Someone was approaching. Connie heard soft footfalls and looked up to see a man, in a dark overcoat, heading her way. The moon was behind him, which meant its light shone directly on her while he was in shadow. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette.

“Excuse me,” she purred, “but would you have a light?”

The man stopped and looked down at her. “Sorry, I don’t smoke,” he said, but he didn’t make any move to continue walking.

Connie replaced the cigarette and smiled. “I’m going to quit,” she said. “Nasty habit anyway.”

“If you were really going to quit, you’d have thrown that thing away rather than putting it back.”

She looked up at the man, batted her eyes. “I am going to quit, I mean it.”

“Oh, I believe you.” He paused. “Tell me, what’s your name, and why are you out all alone this late at night?”

“My name’s Tiffany. What’s yours?”

“Call me John.”

She smiled. “John? Really?”

“Really, like you’re really Tiffany.”

“Got me. My real name’s Candy.”

“Candy. That’s sweet.”

If she got the pun, she gave no sign. “So, let me ask you the same question. What are you doing out all alone? This late at night?”

“I’m . . . looking for someone.”

“Could that someone be me?”

“That could very well be, yes.”

The man spread his coat and dug into his pants pocket. Connie stiffened, then relaxed as he brought out a money clip—not a badge, not a gun, not a knife. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, from what she could see, and his eyes seemed to capture the reflection of a distant street lamp as he glanced from side to side before peeling off some bills.

“This be enough?” he asked.

“For a quickie, right here in the alley.”

“That will be fine. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship.”

She laughed then, took his money, and led him into the alleyway.

“Well,” he said, “where do we begin?”

He was on Connie’s turf now, and her self-assurance took over. “No kissie-kissie stuff, okay? We cut right to the chase.”

“That’s fine with me. I wouldn’t want to smear the paint from those pretty lips. But I do intend to kiss you somewhere else. Would you like that?”

“Oh, honey,” she sighed. “You’ve got me wet already. Feel.” She hiked up her excuse for a skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties, and her wetness came from a light smear of petroleum jelly—a trick she’d learned from her mother.

The man felt, smiled, and Connie saw the glint of moonlight on his perfect teeth. Must’ve had braces as a kid, she thought idly as her body went on autopilot. She murmured, “Ooh, I like it when you touch me there.”

With one hand between her legs, the man slipped the other inside Connie’s blouse. She forced herself to breathe heavily, feigning passion, hoping to get him into her and out quickly. “Yes, oh yes,” she moaned.

The man ran his tongue inside her cleavage, and she felt his teeth brush against her flesh. Connie reached down and fumbled with his belt buckle. He said nothing; instead, both hands parted her blouse all the way and moved up to her armpits. She lost her grip on his buckle as he lifted her into the air and pinned her against the brick wall. They were eyeball-to-eyeball now, and she saw that his pupils were severely dilated. They looked almost vertical, too, like a cat’s. Or maybe a snake’s.

Links: 

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StephenDeBock.html#CrossExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Cross-Bare-Stephen-M-DeBock-ebook/dp/B0073YCG26/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1384451096&sr=8-1&keywords=a+cross+to+bare+stephen+debock

 

Morgen…

13 Nov

A GSP release from Author of the Week: Stephen DeBock.

Morgen by Stephen M. DeBock

Two months ago, college junior Lori Stark was found dead of unknown causes alongside the Appalachian Trail. Today, the police bring a beautiful girl to the grieving parents’ door. She appears around Lori’s age; is amnesiac from an as yet mysterious trauma; and her only link to her prior life consists of two words: Lori Stark.

Lori’s parents take the girl—whom they’ve named Morgen—into their home and eventually into their hearts. The arrangement is intended to be temporary, until her memory returns. But time and the girl’s near perfect nature draws the parents into her sphere, resulting in Morgen’s blinding them—and binding them—to her dark purpose.

When something seems too good to be true … it is.

Excerpt:

It was obvious when Nate answered the bell that the policeman facing him was uncomfortable. The officer’s car was parked at the curb, even though the driveway leading to the single-car garage was vacant. At least the lights weren’t flashing. Flashing lights made Nate’s knees weak.

Standing next to the uniform, and a half step behind, was a young woman. A hooded gray sweatshirt hid her hair, and her head was lowered, as if her shoes fascinated her.

“Good morning, Professor Stark,” mumbled the cop. He was youngish, with blue eyes, apple cheeks, and sandy hair. He looked like he might have just graduated from the academy. “Sorry to disturb you. I know it’s early.”

“Not a problem,” Nate replied. “I’ve been up since five.” He gestured toward his sweats. “Jogging.” He glanced at the cop’s nametag. “Collins. I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes, sir, I was one of your German students about five years ago.”

“Uh . . . huh. I remember. And I’m sure that your knowledge of German makes you invaluable in your job.”

The officer returned the smile. “Not really, but it did help me get a bride.”

“You don’t say.”

The girl might as well have been invisible.

“Right after graduation I decided to backpack through Germany, staying in hostels. Your classes paid off when I got to Berlin.” He grinned. “See, I met a certain Fräulein there . . . and now she’s my schöne Frau.”

“Wunderbar.” Nate glanced at the girl. “I assume this young lady isn’t your bride?” Little Gray Riding Hood, he thought.

The girl tilted up her head. Her eyes, Nate observed, were startlingly green. She wore jeans that were as unkempt as her sweatshirt. The hair that peeked out from her hoodie was dark red.

“No, sir; sorry, got sidetracked there.”

Nate said to the girl, “Have we met, miss? Were you one of my students, too?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her eyes not quite making contact with his. Her voice was weak, almost a whimper. Tracks made by dried tears were evident in the smudges on her cheeks.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Nate said. “It’s only September, but already there’s a chill in the air.” He turned and called, “Ellen, company.”

Nate ushered them into a tidy kitchen and bid them sit at a circular table. His wife looked at her guests nervously.

“Is anything wrong?” Two months now, and she still grew apprehensive in the presence of the police.

Nate said no, introduced her to the officer, and then said, “I didn’t get your name, miss.”

The girl’s lips parted, as if she were about to speak. Then she simply shook her head.

“That’s what I need to talk to you about, Professor. She was picked up late last night wandering around the Criterion campus. She didn’t seem to know where she was or what she was doing there. Campus security brought her to the station. It’s like she’s got amnesia or something.”

Nate frowned. “Amnesia? Really?”

Ellen said, “Amnesia? This is beginning to sound like a scene from a penny dreadful.”

Collins continued: “We checked her out as well as we could; there’s no record of her fingerprints on any law enforcement files, which means she has no criminal record. We sent her photo to the missing persons database; again, no joy. Meanwhile, she doesn’t match anyone on the university’s student photo file either.”

Ellen said, “No evidence of physical trauma?”

“We took her to the hospital. The doc said there was no sign of sexual assault.” He looked at the girl, embarrassment in his face. “I’m really sorry to be talking about you like you weren’t here.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StephenDeBock.html#MorgenExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Morgen-Stephen-M-DeBock-ebook/dp/B005NWRK2Q/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1384362956&sr=8-1&keywords=Morgen+Stephen+DeBock

Author of the week…

12 Nov

Congratulations to GSP Author of the Week: Stephen DeBock

Stephen M. DeBock, Author of Morgen

Stephen DeBock writes on just about any topic but for fun concentrates on sci-fi/fantasy adventure and supernatural fiction.

As a teenager, Steve would entertain (and frighten) the neighborhood children by retelling them stories from E.C. horror comics like The Crypt of Terror. As a middle school teacher, he continued the tradition by reading his students a horror story to initiate the school year. Now retired, he has time to write his own stories.

His first writing success came as a high school senior, when a 25-word essay won him an all-expenses-paid vacation in Alaska. Upon his return he entered the Marines and was chosen to serve in the President’s Honor Guard. Vignettes from that venue have appeared in American Heritage magazine and in various newspapers. 

Upon leaving the Corps, Steve worked days, went to college at night, and spent weekends earning a private pilot’s certificate. A flying narrative he wrote was published in AOPA Pilot Online. 

During his teaching career, Steve garnered an award by the State of New Jersey for his work in consumer education. He served briefly as a consultant for Consumers Union and contributed to essays in Time magazine, ABC’s World News Tonight, and CNBC.

Having founded and later sold a video rental business, Steve and his wife also sold their home and lived for three years aboard a 42-foot sea-going trawler yacht. An article describing one of their summer cruises was sold to Living Aboard magazine.

Steve has written newsletters for both private and non-profit organizations; a flash fiction story for the children’s magazine Spider; and the text for a coffee-table book on one of America’s most-collected living artists: The Art of H. Hargrove.

He and his wife Joy live in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

The Bridge Between Worlds…..

23 Mar

Today on the GSP Fireflies Promo we welcome Stephen DeBock.

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Stephen DeBock writes on just about any topic but for fun concentrates on sci-fi/fantasy adventure and supernatural fiction.

As a teenager, Steve would entertain (and frighten) the neighborhood children by retelling them stories from E.C. horror comics like The Crypt of Terror. As a middle school teacher, he continued the tradition by reading his students a horror story to initiate the school year. Now retired, he has time to write his own stories.

His first writing success came as a high school senior, when a 25-word essay won him an all-expenses-paid vacation in Alaska. Upon his return he entered the Marines and was chosen to serve in the President’s Honor Guard. Vignettes from that venue have appeared in American Heritage magazine and in various newspapers.

Upon leaving the Corps, Steve worked days, went to college at night, and spent weekends earning a private pilot’s certificate. A flying narrative he wrote was published in AOPA Pilot Online.

During his teaching career, Steve garnered an award by the State of New Jersey for his work in consumer education. He served briefly as a consultant for Consumers Union and contributed to essays in Time magazine, ABC’s World News Tonight, and CNBC.

Having founded and later sold a video rental business, Steve and his wife also sold their home and lived for three years aboard a 42-foot sea-going trawler yacht. An article describing one of their summer cruises was sold to Living Aboard magazine.

Steve has written newsletters for both private and non-profit organizations; a flash fiction story for the children’s magazine Spider; and the text for a coffee-table book on one of America’s most-collected living artists: The Art of H. Hargrove.

He and his wife Joy live in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

His book that we are highliting today is The Bridge Between Worlds.

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Alden Walker—sport pilot and skydiver—finds himself and his light airplane mysteriously transported into an alien world: a parallel Earth peopled by exotic-looking humans as well as a host of animals that have evolved into human-like form, with human-like powers of thought, but which have retained their appetites for flesh and blood.

Excerpt:

PROLOGUE

From the Baltimore Sun:

REPORTER KILLED IN SKYDIVING ACCIDENT

SALISBURY, MD—A skydiving mishap has cost the life of a well-known feature writer for this newspaper. Lynda Murray, 26, perished when her parachute failed to open. She was a veteran of over 100 jumps.

Murray was the correspondent who penned the popular “Girls Do It” feature that appeared monthly in Sunday’s edition of this newspaper. The column chronicled her forays into offbeat and occasionally dangerous hobbies and pursuits, especially those favored mostly by men. Last September, she learned of a parachuting school located at Walker Field, here, and signed up for a jump course. She wrote a full-page article about her experience, complete with freefall photographs, in a subsequent “Girls Do It” column.

Having become enamored of the sport, Murray coupled her love of skydiving with her growing affection for the airport’s owner, Mr. Alden Walker. The two were married last Saturday while enroute to jump altitude in the center’s airplane. Their plan was to be pronounced man and wife during freefall by the Rev. Donald Wilson, a fellow parachutist. They were then to perform aerial maneuvers for the entertainment of their guests on the ground before opening their chutes.

Features editor George Murray (no relation), an invited guest, reports that whereas the parachutes of Walker and the minister deployed normally, “Lynda’s never came out of her pack. All of us could see her struggle to pull the ripcord. When she finally pulled her reserve, it was just too late.” He added, “Lynda was a vital part of our Sun family. She will truly be missed.”

Murray’s parents are deceased and she had no siblings. She is survived by her husband, Alden James Walker. The Hemby Funeral Home, Salisbury, is in charge of arrangements. Rev. Wilson, acting as spokesman, has asked that in lieu of flowers, memorial gifts be made to the donors’ favorite charities in the name of Lynda Murray Walker.

CHAPTER 1

I could tell Gus wanted to smack me—hard—upside the head.

“When are you gonna stop moping around, Numbnuts? Two months and you still won’t get back on the horse that throwed you. Fly a plane. Take a jump. Even better, take a student pilot up, run a jump lesson, earn the company some money for a change.”

I attempted to deflect the sting with a weak stab at humor. “Just so I’m clear on this, Gunny. You’re calling the man who signs your paychecks Numbnuts?”

He tried to look contrite, something he was never able to do. “Oh, I’m sorry; Mister Numbnuts—sir.” He scowled and shook his head, his short gray hair still cut high and tight and flat on top, just as it had been when he was in the Marines. “Come on, Walker, all due respect to Lynda, you’re not the one screwed up. I’ve told you every day, every way I know, and you know I’m right. From now on, convince yourself And do it fast.” He put his hands on his hips, as he used to do when he wanted to intimidate recruits. “I’m carrying your load as well as mine around here, and my sea bag’s gettin’ kinda heavy. Know what I mean?”

I had to admit he was right. I was as useless as teats on a boar hog since what folks euphemistically called the accident. Don Wilson, Nate the jump pilot, Lisa the head instructor, Dennis the chief rigger, all the club members—they knew full well accidents are caused; they don’t just happen. And they were kind enough never to mention the obvious—that I was made a widower after forty-five seconds of married life because of human error, not mechanical. And the human in question wasn’t me.

So here I stood, in the ops building next to the airport parking lot and directly across from the jump school, attempting the impossible: staring down my former drill instructor, now my fixed-base operation’s chief administrator. Gus ran the FBO with the same no-nonsense, by-the-numbers approach he’d used on the grinder at Parris Island. And his calling me Numbnuts was mellow. I can remember from when I was an eighteen-year-old recruit his getting within two inches of my nose, his stogie breath nearly gagging me, screaming all sorts of imprecations and aspersions upon my ancestry. I remember too, his famous threat to the platoon, which he regularly made good on to individuals throughout our boot training: “You little pissant, I’ve decided I’m not going to chew your ass out! No, private! I’m going to chew around your ass, and let it fall out by itself!”

From day one, when my ragged platoon mates and I had to stand on the painted yellow footprints in our first formation, eyes front, thumbs on our trouser seams, heels together, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, Staff Sergeant Bellows (how appropriate the name) and his two junior drill instructors rode us hard, kept reminding us that we weren’t Marines, we wouldn’t make a pimple on a Marine’s ass, we were nothing but a bunch of high school pussies. And they kept reminding us there were: “only two ways to get off my beloved Parris Island—in a Marine Corps uniform or in a pine box.” Most of the recruits both feared and hated their DIs. But I didn’t. Well, I admit to a certain amount of fear. But I had gone in knowing what they had to do.
Especially human flesh and blood.

Accompanied by a beautiful indigenous woman with a score of her own to settle, Walker must set out upon a covert mission to retrieve a vital element from the creatures who have stolen it, employing his piloting and parachuting skills in combination with her superb swordsmanship. On their quest they will encounter a host of anthropomorphic predators, until they finally reach their goal: a mountain fortress occupied by a coldly calculating race of humanoid vampire bats.

And upon the success or failure of their mission hangs the fate of both their worlds.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StephenDeBock.html#BridgeExc

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Bridge-Between-Worlds-ebook/dp/B006GKBF3E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364016408&sr=8-1&keywords=the+bridge+between+the+worlds+stephen+debock

New Release New Release New Release…..

11 Mar

A two day break from the Fireflies Promo to announce our new releases.

The first of the two is Catamount. Congratulations to Stephen M. DeBock. Another GSP author.

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Allen Foss, a 22-year-old college senior with a history of tormenting his teachers and pissing off his peers, has found two new targets and marked them for humiliation: goodie-two-shoes classmate Melanie Foster and current professor Diana Darcy, a “cougar” 16 years his senior.

Following Melanie’s downfall and disgrace at a fraternity party, Allen concentrates on getting into Professor Darcy’s good graces—and into her bed. But what he doesn’t know is that the beautiful professor—a Native American Indian, mysteriously abandoned by her tribe while still a baby—has an agenda, and a secret, of her own.

Some cougars, it seems, are not meant to be tamed.

 

Excerpt:

 

Come on, Professor, get real.” Allen Foss proceeded to interrupt the classroom lecture for the nth time. “This supernatural garbage is just . . . bullshit . . . and everyone in this room knows it, they’re just afraid to say you’re wrong.”

The others in the lecture hall looked from him to their instructor, wondering when his constant and unwarranted goading would drive her over the edge.

She merely smiled and gave him that enigmatic look which made her seem as if she were enjoying her own private joke. “Surely, Mr. Foss, we can agree to disagree without being disagreeable?”

“What’s being disagreeable?” he demanded.

The student next to him whispered from the side of his mouth. “Your language, asshole. Your tone of voice. And your butting in without raising your hand like us common folk.”

Professor Darcy gave a nod toward the boy, who looked surprised that she’d heard him. “Mr. Foss, all I ask is that you afford me the same level of respect that I afford you.”

“Whether you deserve it or not,” whispered the girl seated on the other side of him. “And you don’t.”

Allen looked at the floor and then back up, his eyes meeting the teacher’s. “All right, I’ll raise my hand from now on. But come on, you can’t be serious about this shape-shifter sh—crap.”

Diana Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is a class on the influence of superstition on social norms throughout history, is it not? Did you read the syllabus before you signed up, Mr. Foss? And if this course is a complete and utter waste of your time, why ever did you enroll, if I may be so bold?”

“You may be so bold,” he said, not giving an inch. “I need a couple electives before I can graduate, and everybody says you’re an easy A.”

The other seniors shook their heads, or rolled their eyes, or mumbled to themselves. Some did all three. Darcy was a great professor, one of the best. She was the genuine article, a teacher who connected with and cared for her students, engaging them and entertaining them as she enlightened them. Her classes were always full.

But there’s always that ten percent who think themselves oh so sophisticated and look for any opening to challenge the teacher. And Allen Foss was that figurative ten percent all by himself. How Professor Darcy managed to keep her cool the students didn’t know. But the fact that she could, elevated her status among them all the more.

Allen wasn’t done. “I guess I just screwed myself out of that A, didn’t I?”

“I hold no grudges, Mr. Foss.”

He mumbled to himself, “Maybe I could screw myself into an A. She’s hot enough.”

“Now you’re being disrespectful.” Again that amazing sense of hearing, almost supernatural in itself. “And you’ve already broken your word about raising your hand.”

“Yeah,” said the boy next to him. “Just shut your mouth, asshole.”

But Allen still wasn’t done. “Changing the subject, I’m curious. I mean, what are you doing teaching anyway? You’re a good-looking woman, you should be married already and home raising your kids. That’s what my mother was doing when she was forty.”

“Way to make points,” muttered the girl. “She’s thirty-eight. Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”

Allen glanced at the professor’s blouse. “Thirty-eight, yeah, I can believe that.”

“Foss! Shut! Up!” called someone from the back of the hall, and virtually everyone echoed his cry.

“Thank you all,” said the professor. “Mr. Foss, if you’ve anything more to say, whether outrageous or not, you may communicate it during office hours. Now if you’ll excuse me, I intend to sprinkle some of that bovine excrement you mentioned around the room. After all, it makes excellent fertilizer, and perhaps it will nourish these budding minds and help them grow.”

A boy in the back began clapping, loudly and slowly. Seconds later, the others joined in, until Allen Foss stormed from the hall, slamming the door behind him. Everyone breathed again. Some gave each other high fives.

“Now that we’ve weeded the garden,” Dr. Darcy said, “perhaps we can continue.” The class laughed, then grew serious again. “We mentioned earlier that while Germany claims the franchise on werewolves, other cultures report different were-creatures in their midst. India, for example, has were-tigers, Africa has were-leopards and -hyenas, American Indians have were-bears and were-pumas; also, were-jaguars in the southern continent, extending into our own Southwest. Remember, the word were means man, but that’s a generic term. Were-creatures can be either sex. If they exist at all,” she added.

A girl raised her hand. “How about vampires? Did people believe they were, uh, were-bats?”

“Good one. Vampire lore originated in Central Europe and had nothing to do with the bats explorers found much later in the New World. That said, when they discovered the blood-suckers, it was only natural to name them after the vampires from their folklore.” She seemed to think for a moment. “The bats, I’m told, neither knew about nor cared what they were called. Which leads one to wonder about nomenclature, doesn’t it? Does a dog know it’s a dog? Or a cat, a cat? Native American Indians—and I know something about this—simply called themselves the People.”

They nodded as the professor checked her watch. “Why the architect who put the wall clock up front, where you all can count down the class time remaining, instead of in the back of the room where only I can see it, I will never know. See you tomorrow, and make sure you keep up with the reading. You’re big boys and girls now, I shouldn’t have to remind you.”

The room cleared, with some of the students making solicitous comments about her constant harangues from Allen Foss, and the professor returning their remarks with a non-committal nod and a smile. Melanie Foster, the girl who by dint of alphabet was assigned to the seat beside him, approached her and said, “I don’t know how you put up with him. I’d have killed him long ago.”

About the author:

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Stephen DeBock writes on just about any topic but for fun concentrates on sci-fi/fantasy adventure and supernatural fiction.

As a teenager, Steve would entertain (and frighten) the neighborhood children by retelling them stories from E.C. horror comics like The Crypt of Terror. As a middle school teacher, he continued the tradition by reading his students a horror story to initiate the school year. Now retired, he has time to write his own stories.

His first writing success came as a high school senior, when a 25-word essay won him an all-expenses-paid vacation in Alaska. Upon his return he entered the Marines and was chosen to serve in the President’s Honor Guard. Vignettes from that venue have appeared in American Heritage magazine and in various newspapers.

Upon leaving the Corps, Steve worked days, went to college at night, and spent weekends earning a private pilot’s certificate. A flying narrative he wrote was published in AOPA Pilot Online.

During his teaching career, Steve garnered an award by the State of New Jersey for his work in consumer education. He served briefly as a consultant for Consumers Union and contributed to essays in Time magazine, ABC’s World News Tonight, and CNBC.

Having founded and later sold a video rental business, Steve and his wife also sold their home and lived for three years aboard a 42-foot sea-going trawler yacht. An article describing one of their summer cruises was sold to Living Aboard magazine.

Steve has written newsletters for both private and non-profit organizations; a flash fiction story for the children’s magazine Spider; and the text for a coffee-table book on one of America’s most-collected living artists: The Art of H. Hargrove.

He and his wife Joy live in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

Links:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StephenDeBock.html#CatamountExc

 

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Catamount-ebook/dp/B00BR5H3H0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362977789&sr=8-1&keywords=Catamount+debock