Michael Loring
Authors Bio: Michael Loring was born in Bristol,
Connecticut, but has lived in a variety of places such as Florida and
Tennessee. He likes to think of himself as an amateur Lycanthropologist,
studying werewolves ever since he was eight years old when he first saw An
American Werewolf In London. He spent most of his life switching between home
school and public school, always focusing on his passion of writing no matter
what. His interest in writing was sparked in the second grade when his teacher
encouraged him to write short stories for the class, earning him more than one
award at school assemblies for Creative Writing.
He currently resides back in his birthplace of Connecticut
with a house full of women who like to drive him up the wall until he finishes
his chores. Though they seem to avoid him during the night of the full moon for
some unexplainable reason…
TAGLINE - We will not
be caged.
Website - http://www.michaelloring.com
Author’s Links
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MichaelLoring
The Writers Voice: http://ourbooksourvoice.blogspot.com/
Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Michael-Loring/e/B008OACK24/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1374211565&sr=8-2
Buy Links:
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/178755
Dehumanized
Release Date: July 24th, 2013
Blurb: Ryan Zachery lived his life the way all high school
teenagers should – carefree. Until he was attacked by an unknown assailer and
awoke in the hospital with lycanthropy. Taken by armed guards and dragged away
from everything he held dear, Ryan was thrown into a US camp made for those
‘suffering’ from lycanthropy. They caged the beast, but now he will show them
that he will never be dehumanized.
Genre: Paranormal/Dystopian/New Adult
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Present Day Unknown,
Canada.
There was nothing quite like being attacked unannounced. The
surprise of being hit without seeing it coming made it just a bit more painful.
There would be a tiny moment of pure shock, when your heart nearly burst and
your brain halted in an attempt to look
back on what had just happened to determine what exactly it was. The
shock, the confusion and the pain, made the experience all the more unpleasant.
Ryan spat out the grime and muck that had entered his mouth as he was slammed
down face-first to the ground. The man who had performed this very unpleasant
act was standing over him and smirking smugly, holding up his fists in
preparation of Ryan's countermove. He had caught the boy off guard, and had
slammed his fist into the back of his head, sending him tumbling forward into
the mud. Ryan growled, agitated at having been attacked unannounced and for no
apparent reason. He jumped to his feet and charged the larger man head-first,
tackling him to the ground. A crowd began to brew around the fighting pair as
he drove hisfists like hammer into the ugly man's face. Anger was bubbling
beneath the surface, and nothing could stop him now that he wasin motion.“Hey!
Quit it!” The guards were trampling through the small crowd, their body armor
giving them great leverage. Twomen in black armor with tasers strapped to their
hips restrainedRyan, pulling him into a lock and yanking him off the bloodied
man lying in an unconscious heap on the ground. Two others tended
to the unconscious man as he was dragged off to await punishment. Ryan
struggled against the guard's grasp. He hated to be manhandled, and he knew
that whatever punishment they dealt out would be unjust and cruel. It wasn't his
fault the fight had started. The other man had thrown the first punch. He was
just staring listlessly out through the barbed-wire fence at the silent forest
when he was attacked. “Let me go!” he cried out, snarling and flailing about.
The men had a firm grasp under his arms, hindering his general movement. Anger
was stirring inside his gut, and it only angered him more to think he was not
going to win this battle. He never did. The guards stripped him down and threw
him into the Dungeon, a dark murky room with no lights or windows and only a
bucket to use as a bathroom. They tossed him into the cold dark room and locked
the door behind him before he could turn and try to run. He shivered, his naked
body reacting to the temperature. The room was made specifically to be cold in order
to 'properly' punish the delinquents. But due to the prisoners' increased body
heat, they had to adjust the conditioners to an extremely low temp for it to
truly effect the punished. Ryan slammed his fist into the metal door with a
bark, not caring that he'd most likely broken a finger or two. It would heal in
an hour, as would the gash on the back of his head. The wounds always heal. Be
it an hour or two or three they healed to near perfection. Not a scar marred
his flesh, except the mangled mark that ran between his shoulder and neck. He
tenderly touched the scar on his neck as he turned and slunk down against the
wall, ignoring the hot pain grating against his back as he did so. The scar was
a large red gape in his flesh that ran from the end of his shoulder up to his
neck and down to just a few inches above his nipple. It was all he would ever
keep in this hell. He lost everything the day he gained this mark. His family,
his friends, his home; they were all gone. He had been taken away from his family
nearly two years ago. After being attacked by a large animalistic creature he
was brought by a team of those bastard guards to this horrid place. At the
time, neither he nor his family understood why he was being taken away, and
were outraged to find out he was to be taken. He had fought tooth and nail to
escape the men in black armor, but they had tasered him and left him
unconscious until he found himself on the inside of a white van speeding across
the country to this camp. Confused and terrified, he had tried to reason with
them – telling them he shouldn't be here. He'd run up to every guard or
scientist he saw and pleaded that it was a mistake. He wasn't one of those. He
was just attacked by a...That had eluded him for a time. What he had seen that
night was a monster, a terrible creature that was unfit to walk this earth. It
had bitten him, leaving behind this glaring scar in the crook of his neck. His
lips peeled back in disgust. It was confirmed the next full moon that what they
believed him to be was what he really was. He had been locked away in a cage
under the building alongside other cages filled with the other men and women of
this place. Ryan had yelled, cried, and begged to be let free. He knew what was
to come. The people around him were resigned to what lay ahead, some looking at
him with interest, as if they had seen this a hundred times before. He had
feared he'd be in danger with all of these monsters around him. But he
shouldn't have worried, for when the moon came around he, too, fell and began
to Change. Limbs and skin ripping and tearing into something that he could
never accept. Something he'd fear for the rest of his life.
A werewolf...
As he adjusted his weight against the cold, hard stone wall
he scowled at the memory of waking up to find he had gone on a similar rampage
as the rest of the room's occupants. He was a werewolf. Infected by the disease
that had swept the Nations in a flurry of fur and fang .Forever cursed, forever
alone. Ryan sighed as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But itwas too
hard, for his skin prickled and his nose caught the scent of the bucket in the
corner. He groaned and slammed his hand
against the wall again. They called this place a
rehabilitation center, but the camp was more a prison than anything else. The
dark room he was trapped in was a common punishment in prison systems, known as
the “Hole.” The guards outside fondly referred to it as a“Dungeon” for its
similarity to the prisons they kept people in under castles in medieval times.
He had only been thrown in this place three times, excluding this one. The
first time was upon his arrival when he punched out a guard in shock. He hadn't
known why he was here, and he had still believed strongly that he wasn't a
werewolf. They threw him in here and he puked at the strange smells that
invaded his nose. The second and third times were both because of fights. Here
in the camp there wasn’t much to do during recess – a designated time where the
subjects, as the scientists preferred to call them, are allowed to roam a
confined space outside to keep themselves in shape – other than fight. He had
been, and still was, a favorite among the crowd to fight for the simple fact
that he was so young. Most of the men were in their thirties or forties, as
well as the women. He though was only nineteen, and as such was seen as an
easier target for their brutality. Ryan ran his hand over the stubble of shaved
hair atop his head and snorted, half in spite and half to try and get rid of
the foul taste of dirt from his mouth. What had he done to deserve this? Of all
the things he had done in life, what was it that sent him here? What made him
what he is and why?
I'll never know...
and that's my downfall.
Author Guest Post:
I think I’m very odd
when it comes to thinking up ideas for my writing. I read about other authors
who outline their ideas before writing them, bounce ideas off other people to
see what they think, or just generally go straight to the computer to see how the
idea flows. I’m different when it comes to my ideas, and though it’s unorthodox
I feel it’s pretty simple.
There’s a psychological study that says,
in its basic form: “a crush only lasts for a maximum of 4 months. If it
exceeds, you're already in love.” Now my process of coming up with ideas is
actually pretty similar to this fact. I come up with an idea and instead of
doing anything with it I let it sit in the back of my mind to see how it fairs.
I could come up with the idea and be like, “Holy turkey! This is the greatest
idea ever!” but then when the next day comes around I’d think the exact
opposite. There have been so many times when I’ve had an idea, sat down to
write it, and then be halfway through and then just suddenly lose interest.
That’s such a waste of time and effort, so I came up with a simple way of
determining if the idea is good or not. I think of an idea, and then if I still
think it’s a good idea a few days later I’ll do it.
This system hasn’t worked every time, of
course. But what system works one hundred percent of the time? Humans are
perfect because we’re imperfect, right?
There would be times when I’d have an
idea sitting my coconut head for almost a whole month and when I would finally
get to writing it, thinking it would be my latest and greatest thing, I’d find
it looked better in theory than in reality.
But there have been more times than
naught where my system works. More than half of Dehumanized was written with
this process. Heck, I probably spent almost two weeks with the idea of
Dehumanized in my head before I actually sat down to write it.
So, that’s how I work. I always feel I’m
the weird one out of the group, though I’m sure there’s got to be someone
weirder than me out there…right?
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