Not like THAT, she says.

‌ ‌ Lean forward.

‌ ‌ Scrunch your knees.

‌ ‌ Tuck your head.

ท้องฟ้า/Thong Fah

Every morning since I’d been in Phuket, my mom and I had woken up to staggeringly bright sun strewn across the bedroom and dead animals outside. A crushed snail smeared across the walkway tile. A garden snake overheated on the asphalt edge of the road to the beach. But my mom and I were getting along so well. Everything else was so idyllic. At first we didn’t talk about it.

"Toad Mountain" is the winner of the 2026 Louis Begley Prize, judged by Andrew Krivák.

I hold in my hand something green that didn’t exist before men made the atomic bomb. It’s an alien rock of sorts, not fully of this world. Mystic and destructive as its birth was, this stone was still created from the first blast. Trinitite: at one point, the government put it behind bars. At one point, anyone could grab a piece. This anthropogenic technofossil is the oldest atomic mutation, a vestige of the holy trinity, a token of the first nuclear bomb.

Dear Miranda,

I often feel that with every day a multitude of days come between us, promising that for every hour unspent with you, months will follow. As such, I know you will likely not see me here; we will never cross the Weeks bridge arm-in-arm like Elizabeth and Jane, as two honest people. What’s more, ***’s party made it apparent, I realize you don’t know much of who I am, other than the 12 years we lived together—half of which are lost to the childhood imaginal irreality that confuses dream and waking life. I, however, remember the day you were born. Am I a stranger? How do you remember me, when I was 18 and you were 12? I don’t wish to be remembered, for even then I was not myself as I am now. Are you yourself? Forgive my questions, I don’t remember how to speak to you. Perhaps then, I will only tell you of the things you will miss as the days breed years.

Kiara Barrow and Rebecca Panovka graduated from Harvard College and are both alumni of the Harvard Advocate; Barrow—former President, and Panovka—Fiction Board member. Following their graduation in 2016, the two were inspired to start The Drift after noticing the shortcomings of leftist discourse following the 2016 election.

As its name implies, The Drift responds to the times and reacts to them. Since its launch in 2020, the magazine has garnered significant national recognition and a dedicated readership. The magazine has been featured in publications such as the New York Times, Nylon, and Harvard Magazine. But even as they grow out of their darling status, The Drift remains committed to being an intellectual arm for critically engaged inquiry around culture, literature, and politics.

Put the horizon back on its hinges.
Provoke a fiddler crab into a porcelain-clawed
war for control of the moon. Light inches
toward lighter fluid. Resist the urge to prod
the miles of cattle fence that grow tiny red hands.
Don’t pattern the salt flats with tire tracks.
You aren’t in a position to make demands
of the desert. Look: a blue-lidded man reacts
to his own fossil walking out of his life.
Don’t look: stingrays swimming up and down
the flooded highway. A lizard midwife
with no source tale is waiting to drown
you. Cut your breaks. When you run out of air,
the desert will drive you almost anywhere.

Nella toilette al piano interrato,
dove sto urinando, c’è
una mosca sul pavimento.
Ubriaca, incattivita, affamata di luce e
affamata e basta.
Potrebbe uscire
non trova la strada
non sa che deve passare l’antibagno
risalire le scale
girare l’angolo
dirigersi verso la porta automatica
o forse lo sa
e non ha voglia, o forze, per farlo.
Esco
mi lavo le mani
mi guardo le spalle e lo sterno
così sottili nell’estate che mi macina
e che non sa che io sto macinando lei.
Potrei portarla fuori, quella mosca.
Ma non lo farò.