Cover Reveal: HUNTER by Renee Donne

Hunter cover reveal banner

Anaiah Press is proud to present the cover reveal for YA novel HUNTER by Renee Donne.

Moving across the country isn’t Hunter’s ideal start to her Junior year of high school. She has no friends to hang out with, no beaches to lounge on, and she’s living just a few miles from the secluded hiking trail where her father died when she was a baby.

Living in Wyoming isn’t all bad, though, thanks to Logan, the handsome veterinary assistant at the animal clinic where she lands an after school job. And he seems just as interested in her as she is in him.

As Hunter begins to settle into her new home, she learns more about the circumstances surrounding her father’s tragic death, and it may not have been the accident everyone believes. Something dangerous lurks in the woods, and Hunter might be the next victim.

Release Date: November 4, 2014

And now for the cover…

Hunter cover

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Renee DonneAbout the Author

Renee Donne is a native Floridian with a penchant for writing books with a western theme. In her head she’s a world traveler and an amateur chef. In real life, she’s a hometown girl with an affinity for fine wine and good friends. Her favorite place to write is sitting on her veranda, overlooking the beach.



Friday Fictioneers: The Legend of the Fireborn


PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


The Legend of the Fireborn

“Have you heard the legend of the Fireborn?” Kennet speaks over the flame in his hand.

The man eyes the fire hungrily. He’s shivered too long without it.

Kennet smiles as the flame crawls up and around, caressing his arm like a kitten. “They say the strongest of the Fireborn were conceived within earth’s hottest flames and birthed in the depths of Mount Valcoeur, where fire melts earth to liquid.”

“Can I have it?” The man quakes with anticipation, his gaze fixed on Kennet’s fire.

Kennet shrugs, heat emanating from his body. “You’ll have to ask your princess.”

Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 

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Short Story Special: A Pearl in the Hand

ACK! It’s been a crazy week, I’ve paid little mind to our usual Friday Fictioneers, and my laundry… If I don’t do something, I may have a homemade housework horror story to tell. So, here’s a little something for you to (hopefully) enjoy while I’m washing the stinky cheese off the table so I can fold clothes that will only need to be washed again in a few days, if they make it that long. I think I’d rather be at the sea…

A Pearl in the Hand

The oyster slips through my fumbling fingers, but I am only half aware of its descent. In the distance, where the ocean floor drops again, a wide-eyed girl smiles at me. Her braids, dozens of them, move with the currents that sway her gracefully undulating body. My gaze rests on the curve of her waist, where dark skin gives way to turquoise scales. I open my mouth to call out to her, and water rushes in.

The sea becomes a blur of blue and gray, white and tan. Strong hands press against my cheeks, then wrap around my ribcage. I rise to the surface, propelled by strength not my own. I would have drowned below without regret, if only I could have spoken to her.

Air fills my lungs as a hand strikes my cheek.

“Zeke!” Mama’s voice is higher than usual, her hazel eyes frantic with worry. She slaps me again. “What were you doing down there, boy? Would you make me grow old in grief?”

I look over her bare shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fish girl. I ache for proof of what my eyes beheld.

“Do you understand me, Ezekiel?” I hear in Mama’s tone fear has given way to anger. “Into the boat. You’re not fit to dive today. Tomorrow or the next day, maybe. Today, you stay on shore.”

She pushes me toward the small boat we use to gather our oysters. Ezra holds out a hand to help me into the vessel. I stop, my hand on the edge of the boat, and look back once more over the vast expanse of the sea.

“Did you see her, Mama? Did you see the fish girl?”

Mama shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Fish girl? Bah! I’ve raised you better than to believe such nonsense.”

I take my brother’s hand and wriggle my body over the edge of the boat. He rows toward shore, studying me intently.

“You know those are just child’s tales,” he says once Mama has plunged beneath the lolling waves. His muscles bulge as he moves the oars through the water. “The fish girls, they aren’t real, just tricks of the light.”

I have nothing to say that evening and retire early. I awaken in darkness, startled by some undefined noise. I strain my ears, waiting for the sound to repeat itself, but all I hear is the quiet lapping of the waves upon the shore. I sit up on my mat and hug my knees to my chest. I scan the horizon and wonder if the fish girl was, as Ezra suggested, just a trick of the light, after all. But there in the shallows, to the west of a strip of silver moonlight, a figure rises from the sea. As she props herself up on her arms, her tail emerges from the water, only to drop again with a gentle splash, and I know my fish girl is no trick of light.

Friday Fictioneers: Behind the Wheels

The beauty of flash fiction – and I recommend every writer give it a shot – is that you aren’t tied to your story. You can whip something out, and it doesn’t matter if you’ve fully developed every aspect of the story or if it’s a voice you could sustain – or would even want to sustain. It allows you to play with words and stories in ways you wouldn’t normally do without the pressure of wondering if it’s good enough. Flash fiction is FUN.

If you’d like to join in, please click on the link below the story!


PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright-Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright-Roger Bultot


Behind the Wheels

It’s hard to say how it all started. Little stuff, you know, like a blade of grass in a sidewalk crack. Not like vines wrapping around your body and choking the life out of you.

But now it’s like – and I hope you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor – it’s like I’m driving along and all the sudden I realize my steering wheel’s just a dummy. She’s been steering all along, crazy creature with white flowers in her hair.

I think I’ll hit the gas. See how she handles the truck at 110 m.p.h.


Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 

Read or Join here:

Friday Fictioneers Double Header: Where Stories Dwell & Secret Places

As sometimes happens, today’s prompt took me in two directions. Read, enjoy, comment away… And write your own if you feel inspired!

Edited to add: WordPress just told me this is my 100th post. Thank you to all who have liked and commented along the way! Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you all I have a handy-dandy little Facebook Author Page now. So, yeah, go check out Author Lisa Dunn and wait with me for the publication of GRIT OF BERTH AND STONE and other fun stuff!

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright - Jan Wayne Fields

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

Where Stories Dwell

“Edna Mallory and her handsome beaus live in here.” Grandma slides the manuscript she’d been editing into the top left-hand drawer. “Over here, Margo Hutchinson’s clever detective captures a different breed of man. This one houses Howard.” She leans in close and whispers, “Silly boys still don’t fancy girls writing sci-fi.”

“What about that one?” I point to the large drawer at the bottom of the desk.

“Don’t you mess with that one.” Her eyes are stern. “It contains stories not yet written. Scary beasts all of them.”

She shuffles into the kitchen, and my fingers brush the drawer.

As it slides open, worlds erupt.

Secret Places

You say I have a secret garden where rose petals wipe away the tears you’ll never see.

But who are you to judge?

Like an antique desk with long-lost pulls, you will not open to my will. My nails are chipped and broken, but there are drawers that will not budge.

So forgive me if I have a secret garden where rose petals wipe away the tears you’ll never see.

(Yep, it’s a little tribute to the Boss:

Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 

Read or Join here: 

Friday Fictioneers: That House on Brambleberry Drive


Björn 6

That House on Brambleberry Drive

I grew up in the valley in a bramble-covered house.

“It’s nature,” Mama said when we buried three stillborn kittens. “Sometimes stark, but beautiful no less.”

From your tidy lawn in Mountain Heights, you condemned my father’s free-range children.

But I’ve seen you tug at your buttoned collar, heard you sigh as your shoes slide off. I’ve felt your terror of enclosing walls.

So take my hand, love. I’ll show you where the wild berries thrive, where the human spirit comes alive.

Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 

Read or Join here:  

A few notes:

First, if you know me personally, you know burying things in our backyard is no novelty. Thank the huntress cat for that, but it’s really not my idea of fun. Really.

Also, I have nothing against nice lawns, but our backyard is a place of exploration, creation, and well… whatever the kids imagine. We had a four foot deep hole and a wooden “teepee” back there for a good six months this year. Our kids and our home are pretty free-range. So you can take some aspects of this story as semi-autobiographical.

On the other hand, if you’ve read my soon-to-be published novel (or if you read it when it comes out in March), please know that while I enjoy a good bowl of berries, I don’t have any special attachment to them. As a writer, I choose many details – especially those related to nature – for their purported symbolism. Beyond a vague notion of fertility, however, I have no idea what multitude of things “wild berries” might symbolize, and frankly, I’m a little scared to delve too deeply for fear of finding I’ve inadvertently written some rather provocative pieces. Berries just happen to be convenient…




Of Earth and Sky and Endless Gratitude

Why, someone might ask, do I love my sister so? In addition to being a pretty awesome human being and saving me from countless literary tragedies, when I asked for a story idea a few months ago, she offered the idea of “a stable boy who’s really a prince leaves his glove on a princess’s saddle.” I don’t know how she did it – how she knew, as she always does, just the right idea to trigger an exciting plot line acted out by characters I love at first meeting, but within days, I had a whole fantastic story mapped out and set aside to write when other projects are complete. Until then, endless gratitude to my Wise and Wonderful Sister and a sample for the rest of you…



Of Earth and Sky

I find my only solace on Gavriel’s back. It is a cheap solace, for even as I dream of flying, I know my feet are as bound to earth as my lungs are to air. However far I ride from the castle, I know I shall return to that prison. I’ve nowhere else to go, since Father sent Erion away. “A prince, yes, but hardly a suitable one. A princess of Earth with her head in the clouds… I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous, Isla.” He laughed while I blinked back tears. DSC_0227_3 I rein Gavriel in and look down on the castle in the valley.

A caravan of red and gold approaches the gates. King Kennet, Born of Fire, arrives to claim his bride, no doubt. Father will be as angry as Kennet if I am too late to receive him, and angry kings of Earth and Fire bode well for none. I raise my face to the ever-loving sky, as if to bid all hope farewell, then press my legs into Gavriel’s sides. We descend into the valley.

In the stable yard, an unfamiliar groom waits to take Gavriel’s lead. I dismount several paces from him.

“You’ve come with Kennet, I suppose.” I want to spit the name from my mouth, cleanse it from my mind.

The stupid boy says nothing, won’t even meet my eye, only fiddles with his tattered sleeve. He places a hand on Gavriel’s saddle.

“I can tend my own horse, thank you. Tell your master not all Earth bows to Fire.” A foolish thing to say, but Kennet already knows I’ve no fondness for him.

The stable boy turns to go as I lead Gavriel to his stall. As I unlatch the saddle’s girth, I spy a piece of cloth in the seat. I lift it slowly. Silky white and pale blue, like the endless sky of a perfect day, the glove flitters in the gentle breeze that sweeps through the stable. I put it to my nose and inhale the scent of rain, the scent of Erion, Prince of the Sky, Rider of Winds.

My heart beats hard in my chest as I look about the stable. The stupid boy is coming back. With every step, his hair blows by some wind that seems to fall on him alone. He stops outside Gavriel’s stall and this time, he meets my eye.

“Princess Isla of Earth, I believe you’ve found my glove.”

“Erion!” Cool, clean air swirls about me, chasing away the scents of manure and hay as I step around Gavriel and out of the stall. The wind increases as I wrap my arms around Erion’s neck. My feet no longer touch the earth. He laughs, and his breath feels like summer on my ear.

“I told you nothing in Earth could keep me from you,” he says.

We soar over the valley, his arm wrapped loosely around my waist. High above, Erion’s kingdom of clouds awaits. He laughs, and I blink back tears, this time of joy.