Book Spotlight: Not Broken by Meka James #amreadingromance

Happy Thanksgiving! Please welcome my special guest, Meka James, author of Not Broken. It’s the release day for her new novel, and I’m very happy for her. Please check out her book spotlight.


They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…

Calida Jokobi doesn’t see it that way. Surviving an abusive relationship with a sadistic, manipulative man changed her. She has spent the last two years carefully constructing her new persona with two goals in mind: to keep the remaining pieces of her heart safe and her deepest secrets buried. One man puts it all at risk.

Malcolm has been a part of Calida’s life for as long as she can remember. A friend. Her first teenage crush. Now he’s asking for something she swore she’d never give again: her heart.

Calida must decide if she should risk the fragile facade she’s created and give Malcolm the chance he’s asking for.

They say love can heal all wounds…

Malcolm Frankel wants to prove to Calida it’s true. She survived a hell most people couldn’t fathom. He’s been by her side fulfilling whatever role she needs him to play. All except the one he wants most. It took nearly losing her to make Malcolm realize he couldn’t keep denying his feelings.

He knows no one goes through an ordeal like that and comes out unscathed, but the closer they get, the more he learns just how deep Calida’s wounds go.

She’s the only woman he’s ever loved, and Malcolm is ready to put his own heart at risk for a chance at mending hers.


Author Bio of Meka James:

I’m a southern gal. A born and raised Georgia Peach as it were. Most people find it somewhat amazing that I’m actually from Georgia. Not sure why, a lot of people live in the state they were born. I’m happily married to a man that is probably my polar opposite, but we work. We work well enough to have four kids. One girl, whom I affectionately call The Girl and 3 boys. The Boy a.k.a. Man Child these days (they got their names before the younger two came along), Curly Top, a.k.a. Thing 1, and Munchkin a.k.a. Thing 2. No they are not twins, but close in age.

We are a family of animal lovers. We have three dogs. Pixie, a Weimaraner, Loki, a Weim/Pit mix, and Thor a German Shepherd. All from rescues because that’s how we roll. We also have a pet turtle named Leo, and The Hubs and kids have a snake (I take no ownership of that).

Social Media of Meka James:

Hey, Meka, thanks for being a guest on my blog today. Good luck with sales, and I can’t wait to read your wonderful romance novel. I really loved Fiendish, and I’m sure I’ll love Not Broken too.

Keep smiling,

Yawatta Hosby

Book Spotlight–Legacy of Mist and Shadow

6573605LegacyThe Storyteller of Feyron invites you to join her as she shares tales of lore and adventure from the various historical ages of the magical Realm of Feyron.

“The Realm of Feyron has always been. It is the origin of all things magical, the axis point where all the worlds meet…”

The Beginning

The idea for Feyron started with a map, a place for her daughter to tell stories and live out storytelling role-playing adventures with her friends. The lore grew around the map, for every world needs lore if you are going to “live” there. The idea for a series, Tales of Feyron, grew out of the lore, for if you’re going to invent a world, you may as well play there too. The stories are continuing to grow through the various historical ages of Feyron and have just started to ripple outwards to the Worlds Beyond touched by magic. Legacy of Mist and Shadow is the first tale to venture to one of those worlds.

The series, Tales from Feyron, is narrated by a Storyteller who begins her tales in the middle of things, so to speak, with the historical period known as The Age of Awakenings. The first book, The Dreamweaver’s Journey, follows the first Dreamweaver to come of age in over three hundred years on a quest across the four Realms of Light within Feyron. The second book, The Guardian Child’s Return, follows a group of young adventurers beyond the Realms of Light to a place that few knew could even be reached. The newest tale, Legacy of Mist and Shadow, begins to hint at the past during the Age of Fading and explore the Worlds Beyond that are connected to Feyron.

Legacy of Mist and Shadow

Pre-order available October 1, 2014

Live for purchase and shipment December 20, 2014


Barnes and Noble:



The Box of Melodies was left with Clan Caris by Lady Oyisha, daughter of the mists, for care and keeping. A series of visions revealing the last desperate moments of a forgotten clan – the loss of their gateway to Feyron and the escape of a lone traveler holding the box – spurs a handful of adventuresome youth on a trek through the Lesser Forest where they inadvertently cause a ripple through the mists with unintended consequences.

A few of the youth find themselves on an unexpected journey to a World Beyond, lost in mist and shadow, where misunderstanding and suspicion lead to danger and darkness. Forgotten histories are discovered, clan secrets are revealed, and old alliances are remembered as the families of the lost seek to discover where the youth have been drawn by memories within the Mists of Time.


Through blurred vision, the exhausted girl could just make out the soft glow of the white marble within the jewel-toned alcove. She crawled across the forest floor, every breath a searing pain as she forced herself to move when all she wanted was to drift away, to forget the horror of this day, and rest. She pulled herself up the cold stone, hardly even able to balance on  her knees, until she could just reach across the flat top. Slowly she pulled the cloth bound around her chest and pushed a parcel onto the pedestal, the twisted cloth falling away to reveal a pale, wooden box.

Orabelle sat in the growing pool, the water spreading even farther from the once forgotten spring. Her eyes were misty white and the blue of her water magic nearly reached her elbows as she continued to call the water forth as though she were the little naiad in the vision Neria had called before. Shyamal and Arwyn sat, arms still linked, nearly engulfed by the mists. Neither of them noticed the water beneath the mists creeping towards the alcove, the pool slowly covering Zilya’s feet as she stood in the exact spot where the girl in the projected vision clung to the marble gifting shrine.

Elwynne had been slowly edging forward until he was well past Shyamal and Arwyn. Enthralled by the projecting vision, he felt like he could almost touch the girl. She looked so familiar, like he knew her, but between being all wet and deathly pale from nearly drowning and the odd, shadowy nature of the vision, it was hard for him to make out who she looked like. If she would just crawl away from the shadows, then he could see her better without disturbing Zilya as she shared her magics with Neria.

Oisin stood with his back pressed to the great oak. Something about the solidness of the oak brought him comfort. It was real, and present, and not part of the mists. If he had stopped to think on it, he may have wondered if the oak had witnessed these events when they occurred before, but he had little training in the magics beyond those of clan Caris, having only attended summer academy for the first time last season, and the littlest sparks that make up all of nature were not yet known to him. Something in the back of his mind kept poking him until he was covered in goosebumps and shivering. There was something wrong with these mists. They seemed to flow in from everywhere, but there was nothing to generate them.

‘The mist, it shouldn’t be here at all,’ he thought.

Diana L. Wicker’s Author Bio

Diana is an indie author living in the balmy climate of the US south with family, two dogs, two cats, and a cantakerous rabbit. She enjoys reading, sewing (clothing, costuming, and experimental toy-making), and RPG games. (She grew up with the old school paper/pencil style of gaming, but has transitioned happily to the highly interactive world of video games.) And, as if she had more time to spare, she has recently invested in her first Asian ball jointed doll.



Book Spotlight: William Hage’s Counterphobia



Please welcome my special guest, William Hage, the author of Counterphobia: A Collection of Horror. He’d like to introduce his collection of short stories. I had the pleasure of reading it, and it was very spooky and full of suspense! I kept looking over my shoulder as I read. My book review will be posted soon.


COUNTERPHOBIA: The pursuit of situations and instances in direct relation to an individual’s fear for the purpose of overcoming this fear, or to find pleasure or excitement in it. Symptoms of counterphobia while subjecting oneself to these fears can include trembling or shaking, shortness of breath, and even panic attacks. You were warned.

WELCOME HOME tells the tale of John Lester, a man who inherits his old family home–and with it a dark secret.

CHUCKLES THE CLOWN delves into Jake’s fear of clowns and gives him even more reason to be afraid of them.

NO ONE LIVES FOREVER follows Jacob as he narrowly avoids a fatal accident though finds out there’s more to it than he thought.

Face your fears as you read through these stories and more in this menagerie of works that includes a little something for all kinds of horror fans.


Welcome Home


John Lester stood in front of the dying house, two plain bags of groceries in his arms and the strap of his travel bag slung over his shoulder. He had not been to this place since he was nineteen, not since his father–Henry Philip Lester–sent him away. Henry had plans for his son and when John abandoned those plans to become a writer, Henry apathetically rejected him.

John always hated the house; when he was young he felt as though it was alive, with a personality of its very own. It was a living, breathing thing and John could swear that its cold eyes were staring at him, even at this moment. He looked down the dirt road the house set on. Trees reached down to the path seeming like they were just on the verge of grabbing it and pulling it away, but otherwise there was nothing in sight. As far as John could remember, the closet house was at least a mile and a half away. This was perfect for his father’s business.

Professionally, Henry was a doctor, but to John he was more like a madman from some old horror movie. His specialty was the insane and as far as he knew, his father had done nothing significant in the field. Henry’s work was limited to the confines of the house. Patients would come and go; some stayed for days, others only a night.

John’s memories of his father’s work were still foggy. He tried to block out most of what happened in this place. He did remember the screams, though. Screams that came from everywhere in the house, screams that were faceless and tormented. John was never able to investigate, being padlocked in his room at night.

John realized that he had been staring at the house for nearly twenty minutes now, and for nearly twenty minutes the house stared back.

The time for procrastination is over. Slowly he made his way onto the porch.

It was still beyond John’s reasoning why the house was left to him when his father died the month before. As he reached the door, he ran his fingers over it briefly. It was rough with years of dirt and grime. The key slid into the hole with ease and the lock clicked.

The entryway of the house was exactly the way John remembered it. There was now a thick layer of dust and furnishings were more worn, but everything was still in its place. When his mother was alive the house never possessed even a speck of dust. A picture of her still hung in the entryway.

John wiped away the dust and looked sorrowfully at the picture. Eleanor, his mother, looked back. Thick black curls of hair filled the area surrounding her head. The picture was taken when she was ill, so her skin looked more pale than usual. Her eyes seemed so black that John could not remember what color they actually were. It took him a moment to remember that they were brown beneath the darkness. He moved on to the next photograph, wiping the dust away and the visage of his father emerged. Dirty blonde hair was pushed back, a few stray strands falling over his thin, almost frail, features. There was stubble around his face that gave the impression that he was not concerned with his image. He had never noticed before that looking at a picture of his father was like looking in to a mirror.

John entered the old familiar living room, littered with furniture that would probably classify as antiques by now. He tossed his bag onto the floral-decorated couch and a cloud of years’ worth of dust flew into the air in return. Groceries in arm, he made his way to the kitchen, stepping in just far enough to flick the light switch up. The bulb overhead buzzed and flickered for a moment, deciding whether it wanted to turn on or not.

“At least they didn’t cut off the electricity yet,” John muttered.

He dumped the groceries onto the kitchen counter. Though his extent of groceries consisted of numerous packs of ramen noodles and bags of chips. College cuisine. John called it. He checked to make sure the gas stove was still working before going back into the living room. John lowered himself into an aged recliner in the corner of the room, unconcerned with the dust that would undoubtedly cover his back. He leaned his head back into the cushion and closed his eyes, letting sleep take him.

The sound of heavy footsteps from upstairs jerked John awake. The living room was completely dark.

Was I dreaming? I had to be. His thoughts were interrupted as the sound of the footsteps resumed, walking across the floor above him. Could one of my father’s old patients be squatting?

John walked back into the entryway and stood at the base of the stairs. This time a slow creaking sound came from up in the darkness. He flicked the light switch at the base of the staircase, illuminating the hallway upstairs. Each step made a creaking sound as he ascended them. The house was in desperate need of a handyman, something which John was not. He looked around as he reached the top of the stairs, realizing the outside of the house was deceiving. It was much larger on the inside. The hallway made a large U-shape around the staircase with six rooms, three on each side.

John made his way down the right side, directly above the living room. This is where the footsteps would have come from.

He opened the first door, which led to his parents’ bedroom. It was preserved just the way it was when his mother had passed. After Eleanor’s death, Henry had begun sleeping in one of the guest rooms. The canopy over the queen-sized bed sagged with layers of dust that had gathered on top. He took note of everything that remained; two old oaken nightstands, a tall oval mirror on the wall, even the antique dresser with pictures of himself as a boy on top. Once John was satisfied the room was empty, he closed the door behind him and walked to the next room. He swung the door open, stepping into his father’s library.

Every wall was lined with homemade bookcases that were filled with old texts that John had never been allowed to touch. The room was otherwise sparsely furnished. In one corner sat an oversized leather reading chair, the kind that you would swear would devour you if you sat in it. A tall brass lamp stood next to the chair. The only other thing in the room was a large oak writing desk where his father would pen his research. At least that’s what he called it. Shutting the door on his way out, John skulked towards the final room, knowing that if someone had been walking about him they would have to be in this room. The footsteps never made it to the other side of the hall. He slowly cracked the door, just enough so that he could reach the light switch.

“Damn it, stop being an idiot,” John scolded himself. “There’s no one here but you. Just open the damn door.”

After collecting his senses, he flung the door open. John stood and stared in shock and relief. The room was empty. There was no crazed mental patient waiting to chop him into pieces with an axe. In fact, there was nothing at all in the room. Not a stick of furniture. Nothing but a closet.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “Don’t forget to check the closet, John. They always hide in the closet.”

He walked through the empty room and over to the closet. Reaching out to the knob, his hand stopped short for a moment, hesitating. John shook his head and gripped it determinedly.

What are you, a child? There are no monsters in the closet. You may write about that shit, but they aren’t really there.

John took a deep breath and jerked the closet door open. He took a step back when he saw the contents. A metal plate was bolted to the back wall of the closet, chained shackles attached to it. Scratches covered the back of the door. Some were tinted a faint red, as if someone had been trying to claw through the door. There were five words scratched into the wood of the door: Sanity is not a choice. John slammed the door closed.

What the hell happened in this house? Was my father chaining the patients in the closet? Even if they were insane, they didn’t deserve that.

John stood and stared at the closet door, trying to piece together what had been going on in this house when he was not around. Or if it had been going on even when he was around. He tried to shake it off and went back downstairs, forgetting about the footsteps he had heard earlier. Not wanting to stay in his old bedroom upstairs, John opted to sleep on the couch for the night.

Sleep did not come to him easily this time. He could not stop thinking about the chains and scratches on the door. Sanity is not a choice. John repeated the phrase over and over in his head until his eyelids felt heavy and his mind began to wander on its own. Just as sleep was consuming his body, he thought he heard the footsteps above him again but he was too tired and too far gone to worry about it.

* * * *

Hearing the most agonizing scream of someone’s life is not like in the movies. John could almost feel the pain from his voice furiously penetrating the walls. It might have been the acoustics of the house, but John found it impossible to tell where exactly the screaming was originating. He bolted out of bed and rushed to the door. Turning the knob, he pulled on the door but it would not budge. It was only at that moment it occurred to him that he was in his old bedroom, locked in just the way his father had done every night. John slowly began to question what he was doing in the room, remembering that he had gone to sleep on the couch. The shades were drawn, letting virtually no light into the room. Just as John was about to turn on the light, another scream reverberated through the house. It sounded to him like the disembodied voice was trying to say something, but he could not make it out. The only message that was properly conveyed was pain.

* * * *

The sunlight burnt through John’s eyelids, waking him instantly. Sitting up, he surveyed the room and groaned. His back ached from sleeping contorted on the couch. He ran over the events of the night, questioning his own mind as to whether it was a dream or a memory. John stood up and made his way to the kitchen, stretching as he walked. In the kitchen, he started opening random cabinets until he found an old, cheap can of coffee. Popping the lid open, he took in a deep whiff and winced.

“Great. Stale coffee,” he said. “Guess it’s better than nothing.”

He filled the coffee maker with water and tossed a couple of scoops of the foul-smelling grounds into the basket. John sat at the table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Once it was done, he poured himself a cup and walked out the front door. It was still early in the morning and the air was cool and stiff. He seated himself on the porch steps, setting the coffee cup down to pull out a cigarette and light it.

John looked up the dirt road to see a tan Ford Taurus making its way down, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. The car slowed to a stop in front of him. He could not make out the driver until the cloud of dust settled. The dark-haired woman behind the wheel just stared at John for a moment.

“Hey, neighbor,” she called as she rolled down the window.

“Hi,” John replied.

“I live in the house up the road.” She pointed back the way she had come.

He nodded and introduced himself. “I’m John. John Lester.”

The  woman observed him for a moment, almost as if she was judging him before she responded. “You’re Henry’s son?”

“Yeah, I am. Did you know him?”

“Not really. He kept to himself mostly. Didn’t really seem like he got many visitors, or even associated with anyone from what I saw.”

John scoffed. “Yeah that sounds like him.”

The woman just smiled and nodded. A moment of silence passed before she spoke again. “Listen, I’m having some work done in my house, so it isn’t too hospitable at the moment. I could bring over something for dinner later. Consider it a welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sure my husband would love to meet you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The house is really a mess.” John glanced back at the house briefly. He turned back to face the woman. “It’s been neglected for a pretty long time.”

“As long as we have a place to sit and eat, that doesn’t matter. It would be the neighborly thing to do. You know, to get to know each other.” The woman paused then smiled at him knowingly. “You don’t want to become a recluse like your father do you?”

“Okay, you’ve talked me into it.”

“Good. My husband and I will come by around six.” She started to roll the window back up.

“Wait,” John stopped her. “I didn’t even get your name.”

“Lisa.” She smiled. “See you at six.”

Lisa rolled up the window and drove off, kicking dust back at John. He coughed into his hand, waiting until she was out of sight, and then went back into the house. His first thought was to go back into the kitchen to fetch another cup of coffee. He wanted to spend some time exploring the house today and tried to decide where to start. The thought of starting with the basement crossed his mind, but he opted to begin with his father’s study instead. John took his coffee with him as he went up the creaking stairs and through the U-shaded hallway to Henry’s study.

Once inside, John scanned over the books on the shelves that lined the walls of his father’s study. Many of them were old medical books, filled with ancient practices he was sure were long abandoned. He noticed a few books on the occult scattered in with the others. Though, he could not figure out why they would be here. His father was in no way a religious man, so he assumed that they must have been research. John considered that maybe his father believed that it was part of what made the insane. His fingers dragged along the spines of the books, leaving clean trails in the dust on the bindings. He made his way over to the old writing desk, sitting by itself on the other side of the room. Setting his coffee down on the desk, he wiped away the dust on the chair before he sat down.

The desk was an item that had been passed down through his family for generations. John had no idea how old it was exactly, he only knew that it predated his great-grandfather. As a boy, he was not even supposed to enter the study. His parents’ excuse was because of the value of the desk to the family. Looking it over, John saw that there was only a single drawer in the middle. Despite the age of the desk, the drawer opened with ease. The contents were limited to a leather bound journal that must have been Henry’s.

John picked it up and examined it. The cover was worn with many small imperfections and gouges running through the aged leather. The pages were rough on all sides as if they were hand-torn and stitched to the leather on the exterior of the binding. The clasp was just a simple metal stud with a small ball on the end that the back cover folded over. John opened the journal and saw that the pages were off-white. Whether they were designed that way or aged, he was not really sure.

The first few pages had scribbles of various medical procedures, hand-drawn images filling the gaps and margins. They were mostly diagrams of the brain, labeled thoroughly and extensively. John took note of a picture that resembled an icepick in one margin, though it was messily labeled as a ‘leucotome’ with a brief description of its use in a lobotomy procedure hand-written next to it. Nothing really caught his interest until John turned the page to see a note his father had written.

December 15th,

The narrow-minded cretins at the hospital could not grasp the concept of my work. I proposed to them that, through a slight variation on the already established trans-orbital lobotomy coupled with a series of procedures, I could cure insanity. I have yet to be able to determine which procedures would work best with the lobotomy. The most obvious to try would be electro-shock treatments or sensory deprivation. Unfortunately, these are still just theories since the hospital, as of today, has terminated my position in an attempt to halt my work. However, I will not let these people stop my research from continuing. I will carry it out on my own, in my lab, until the results are successful. Sanity is not a choice. A cure is required, just as if it was cancer.

Just the simple paragraph scrawled by his father years ago explained some of what might have been going on in the house when he was a child. It would explain the patients that came and went, maybe even the screams that he heard late at night. John questioned what his father could have been doing to them to cause such horrific sounds to permeate the house. It also raised the question if his father’s work was ever actually successful. The secrecy of Henry’s work overwhelmed and intrigued John. He abandoned his coffee and moved to the leather chair in the corner, sitting back as he turned to the next page.

Subject 1-Unknown

I found my first subject purely by accident. A drifter was walking along the road outside the house and in just a few moments of speaking to him I knew he was possessed by the disease. I welcomed him into my home and brought him down into the basement where my laboratory was set up. He sat on a milk crate and never saw me behind him, never thought to look back. The injection would do no permanent damage. It was purely to render him unconscious so I could prepare for the procedure. I restrained the patient on the table by the wrists and ankles. I lifted the eyelid and placed the edge of the leucotome just under the top of the eye socket. The small mallet was only used to gently hammer the instrument into the brain. My technique was not quite developed at the time and the result was less than desired. It was apparent almost immediately that the procedure was a failure. The patient was still alive, but was of no use to my research at this point. With little else to work with in my unequipped work space, I was forced to put the end of the leucotome into the patient’s ear and hammer it in with the mallet. The patient screamed only for a moment, until the instrument penetrated fully into his ear. It was then that the pain stopped and death took over. It would have been impossible to explain to anyone, even my wife, what had transpired. I buried the patient in the far corner of the basement, in the soil beyond the concrete.




Keep smiling,

Yawatta Hosby

Something’s Amiss First Book Spotlight!!!

I would like to thank the talented, best-selling author Sharon C. Cooper for letting me be a guest on her blog today. When I first began blogging, she was one of the first to be nice and supportive if I had any questions. Not only is she successful and humble, but she also wants to see others make it in the publishing industry. It’s cool that she contacts writers to make sure they stay on their writing path and don’t give up.

Anyone who follows my blog knows that I published my 2nd book, Something’s Amiss, this month. Sharon C. Cooper’s blog is the first to give my women’s fiction novella a book spotlight!!! If anyone wants to check it out, here’s the link:  Something’s Amiss.

Keep smiling,

Yawatta Hosby

Another Book Spotlight for One By One

Angelique was nice enough to offer featuring my book on her Why I Can’t Stop Reading blog since she couldn’t do a book review. It was refreshing to hear that after many no’s and straight up no responses. Here’s the book spotlight if anyone’s interested: Promo–One By One Written By Yawatta Hosby.

I’m still looking for book reviews for my mystery thriller, some have even referred to it as horror. If anyone would like to do a book review, I can email you a free copy. Just let me know at Author.Yawatta.Hosby(AT)aol(DOT)com.

Keep smiling,

Yawatta Hosby