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Terrain.org fiction in this issue:
Song of the Turkey Vulture
by GE Tallant, with Audio
2011 Fiction Contest Winner
Cara knew the secrets: a certain tilt to the vine, distance from the mother plant, an early need for phosphorus. She hand-pollinated in May; her fruit was set by June. Now it was October and two dozen giant pumpkins waited in her fields, as surprising and tympanic as pregnant bellies. Two dozen was record and most of them were sold. Designers drove all the way from Atlanta to buy her pumpkins. She’d had one on the gold-domed capitol’s steps, another on the lawn of the governor’s mansion.

Driveaway
by Erica Olsen
2011 Fiction Contest Finalist
This was in San Francisco in 1999. I’d left Salt Lake without my belongings. At the Catholic thrift shops on Sutter I’d found some shirts and pants in my size, and a pair of shoes that were still shaped like someone else’s feet. Only later did it occur to me that these clothes had probably belonged to some young man who had died, and I was walking around the city dressed as his ghost.

Controlled Burn
by K. L. Barron
2011 Fiction Contest Finalist
The first time Pearl saw the prairie, it was on fire. It was late at night and she was driving west on Highway 40 as fast as she could through Kansas when she saw bright orange bands of flames sweeping across the hills on either side of the highway and pulled onto the shoulder to watch. She rolled down the windows and smelled the seductive odor of smoke, heard the dry grass being consumed by the roar of the heat, the velocity controlled entirely by the wind.

Kenley's Watch
by Malka Davis
2011 Fiction Contest Finalist
“I’m not in trouble — am I?” The sweat on Penelope’s body had long since evaporated, leaving a sticky residue on her skin that gave her the feeling of having run headlong into an enormous spider web. Detectives Holowinko and Mansfield exchanged blank expressions that she interpreted as the self-evident nature of her innocence. If not innocence, then blamelessness. At 46 she was still naïve enough to believe that only a guilty person needed a lawyer.

Diné Bikeyah (Navajo Reservation)
by Lorie Adair
My memory weaves it this way Shi’yazhi: morning mist burning off the land, the sun warming MacDougal’s back and his horse picking through goat head thorns on his way to our place. He passed by cooking fires that were a mingle of mesquite and cedar, of corn mush heating in a pot. He was riding out to a low mesa east of my in-law’s land where there was an outcropping of rock not at all remarkable.

Neighboring on the Air
by Caroline Patterson
But what Daisy envied most about Rose was her ease. Rose sat at the microphone and recipes, news, and advertisements seemed to flow from her. How did she keep all that in her head, Daisy wondered. How did she move so smoothly from cakes to coupons, from weddings to club news? Daisy could hardly remember what her children had for breakfast, much less the slogan for the Hamilton Merc.

Ditch Lilies
by Werner A. Low
He confessed that he’d also tried to bring in some purple lady slippers, and a couple clumps of wood violets that were actually — he loved the irony in this — cadmium yellow, but neither of them had made it, either, and he’d come to think that maybe that was just as well. He knew where all the wildflowers were in the Reservation, and when they would be out — for example, that the hepatica and blood root flowered early, before the canopy leafed them into shade.
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