Categories
micro fiction micro monday

The Mother Tree by Georgene Smith Goodin

The Mother Tree | Georgene Smith Goodin

On heat-burdened afternoons, Mama spread a woven blanket under the cottonwood suckling the breast of Lanker’s Hill, the spongy wood of its boughs drooping towards the creek. I napped there, the gurgling water and rustling curtain of leaves more somniferous than any lullaby. After Joseph was born, he napped there, too, until Mama’s strength waned too much to climb that gentle slope.

Daddy planted four suckers from that cottonwood in our yard to capture the roof run-off – how those thirsty trees could drink – but they were really for Mama, an arboreal family echoing ours. They grew ten feet a year, and I balanced across my favorite’s fragile limbs, spreading my weight so as not to split them.

During the years-long drought, Mama saved those trees even though watering was forbidden. At dusk, she dragged out the bright green hose, set it to slowly drip all night. She insisted on doing it herself and I followed her, carrying her IV bag because its pole couldn’t glide across the mat of dead grass our backyard had become. That watering was the closest she got to prayer.

Thunder announced the drought’s end while I stirred the thin soup that was all Mama could stomach. My father raced outside when we heard the crack, mud sucking at his bare feet. I went to tell Mama our trees hadn’t taken the hit but her dry, papery skin was cool, her warmth having slipped away while I stood sentry at the stove.

I went to Lanker’s Hill at dawn, walked along the now thrumming creek. The cottonwood’s crown was in disarray, branches downed and scattered by wind. The bark on the trunk curled back in a diamond-shaped gash but the soft, virgin wood beneath was undamaged. I laid my hand there and swore I felt a pulse. 

A watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
A woman with glasses smiling by a river, wearing a light-colored patterned coat.

Georgene Smith Goodin’s work has appeared in numerous publications and has won the “Mash Stories” flash fiction competition. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, the cartoonist Robert Goodin, and their four children. Follow her on Bluesky, @gsmithgoodin.bsky.social.


Categories
interviews

Author Q&A with Annie Rachele Lanzillotto


Gioia di vivere with Annie Rachele Lanzillotto

April 30, 2026

A smiling woman wearing a blue hat and scarf, standing in front of a scenic view of the ocean and hills on a clear day.

Annie Rachele Lanzillotto is an American memoirist, poet, and performance artist whose stage presence has been called riveting and volcanic. She was born in the Bronx. Her books include: Dyke Rubicons (Quelle Press chapbooks), Whaddyacall the Wind? (Bordighera Press), Hard Candy: Caregiving, Mourning, and Stage Light; and Pitch Roll Yaw, (Guernica World Editions), L is for Lion: An Italian Bronx Butch Freedom Memoir (SUNY Press; finalist for LAMBDA Literary Award), and Schistsong (Bordighera Press).

Her short creative nonfiction essay, A Baby Named Freedom, appears in Issue #23.

Tell us a bit about yourself.

There’s a me/you ness in language that divides us. I / you and on and on.  These boundaries dissolve in altered states — I’ve had a lot of deep illness, and have been on post-operative medications that blur the distinctions of you/I. I have ushered loved ones through these altered states. In post-op recovery, we hit milestones of coming back into focus, into the stride of the world, into the distinctions of me/you/they.

It’s springtime. Pink season. Peach blossoms just outside the window. Grandma Rose tossed peach pits out the window, spit onto the earth, after she ate a peach. She wouldn’t throw a pit away in the trash. That didn’t make sense to her. She grew up in peasant culture, peasant wisdom, working the land as a child in the heel of the boot, Italy. Her literacy was of the earth and leaves and the cycle of life. It was strange for her to see me reading and writing all my hour and playing softball. These endeavors didn’t make sense to her; you couldn’t eat them. I wasn’t helping the family survive.  All children worked in her day. More children were more hands to work the land. 

Her first peach tree sprouted up after she died in 2001, at 100 1/2 years old. Now the third generation of peach trees are here, right outside the window. I call these peach trees my grandmother. Hello Grandma Rose, thank you for the pink blossoms.

I hope I become a tree after I die and bring someone blossoms then sweet fruit to bite into to remember how delicious life is.

An incredible story. The essence of her lives on in the trees and her lived experiece persists through rememberance and shring. Thank you!

Turning to your essay, A Baby Named Freedom What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the revision process or the final version of your essay?

In revising this essay, I went back to describe the physicality of the moment where the man confronted me in the café. That moment could have gone in many directions. I could have gotten defensive and cursed him out. I asked Shyla, the editor of The Good Life Review, how she read that moment. We decided I could add a moment of physicality. I examine at these public interactions where strangers argue, fight, cast microaggressions on one another.  Every day walking the streets of Manhattan I experience many of these moments. My superpower is to immediately peel back all the layers between the you/I ness of these encounters and laser in to connect, cross the vast oceans of space between us.

The circumstances around different parts of the essay are compelling and timely, with gun control and the general tension in the US, but you wove in other details, for example, the feeling of not being in control of your own body as a child. How did you decide what other details or aspects of your life to include?

In terms of the U.S.A. and gun violence, and this moment we are in culturally, I think if everyone recognized the rage within and if we created cultural ways to let the air out of the pressure cooker… Think primal screams at Cornell U, balcony singing during the pandemic on Italian balconies, banging pots and pans at 7pm in NYC during the pandemic, dancing around the fire, group singing, protesting, stomping, crying… I admire two-year-olds who throw tantrums. We all have that inside us. If we bring back tarantella dance trance, maybe we’d stop machine gunning in public…

We love learning something new! Tarantella, for those not familiar, is Southern Italian folk dance characterized by whirling movements, quick steps, and flirtatious gestures between two people set in time to music with a upbeat tempo played with a mandolin, a guitar, an accordion, and tambourines. And yes, if there were more dancing and singing going on, there would most certainly be less rage.

Are there any special projects, favorite pieces, or books you’d like to promote?

What do you think when you hear, “the good life?”

When I saw the title “The Good Life” many points of light sparkled up at me. Dante’s “the delectable mountain” in Canto 1 of the Inferno. La vita bella. Gioia di vivere.  What is the good life for me as a writer? Is it strange to spend so many hours alone inside the cathedral of thought? I don’t know other ways to live. For me, life is work, and I am always on a mission. Reading has given me my best understanding of my inner life. I hope my writing expands readers sense of their inner life. I go back to reading James Joyce’s “Araby” in Dubliners. The echo of the soul in that vast space of the bazaar. The quest for connection, for love to land.



Thank you, Annie, for trusting us with a slice of your life and for sharing your voice with us, through your story and your actual voice, which we love-love! We appreciate your time and willingness to participate in this Q&A. Whatever distant shore you find yourself on, we hope you always have time to sing a song, be outside, do something kind for someone less fortunate, and ruminate about the past. Cheers to the joys of living!

An illustration of a honey bee in orange and yellow watercolor style on a black circular background.

Bonus audio of Annie reading A Baby Named Freedom

Categories
micro monday poetry

Rain in October by Barbara Schmitz


Rain in October | Barbara Schmitz

In the holy holy holy
            hush now time
autumn sky lets herself
                                   cry
for all that was
for all that was taken
and all that will not come again


Artistic watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
An elderly woman with short white hair, wearing a silver blouse and a long necklace, stands smiling in a home setting surrounded by indoor plants and a vase of colorful flowers.

Barbara Schmitz taught writing and literature at Northeast College for thirty years, initiating the Visiting Writer Series. She has six books of poetry (two that won the Nebraska Center for the Book Award) and a spiritual memoir. She is a recipient of an Individual Writer Award from the Nebraska Arts Council. Husband Bob and she live on Highway 81.

Categories
micro monday poetry

Homestead by Brad Anderson


Homestead | Brad Anderson

My great-grandfather was a homesteader.
President Chester Arthur signed his deed
in eighteen eighty-three.
By that time he had lived there five years,
carved a small farm out of open prairie
and started a young family.
I am proud of how he moved from Denmark
to the Great Plains of the United States.
How with hard work and sweat
he made something out of nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.
It was land taken from the Pawnee
either by war or broken treaty or outright lying.
A fact we conveniently misremember
or forget entirely.
Colonize is another name for conquest,
for taking something that was not given.
What makes us think we can colonize the stars?
Don’t we think the current residents might object?
Are we the invasive species that will destroy their ecosystem?

I have happy memories of my grandfather’s farm
not far from the original homestead.
Memories not complicated by the absence
of the Pawnee or the buffalo they hunted.
Memories of family gatherings,
of aunts, and uncles, cousins and food.
Grateful for our bounty, for our good fortune.
Unaware of the ghosts on the land around us,
what was lost for our gain,
what was forgotten…
for our happiness.

Artistic watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
A smiling man wearing glasses and a plaid shirt, sitting outdoors with greenery in the background.

Brad Anderson started writing poetry as a means of survival during his late wife, LuAnne’s, journey through Alzheimer’s. Poetry helped him deal with her loss. Brad’s poetry has been published in Voices From The Plains, The Gilded Weathervane, and The Sugar House Review. His forthcoming chapbook, Water, Flour, Salt, and Time, from FarmGirl Press, will be released in July. Brad lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, and enjoys volunteering at Larksong Writers Place.

Historical land grant certificate from the United States, detailing the allocation of land in Nebraska, signed by officials and featuring official seals.
Categories
interviews

Author Q&A with Wasima Khan


Wasima Khan: Unpacking Stories of Privilege and Safety

April 15, 2026

A young woman wearing a white headscarf and a dark striped blazer, standing outdoors with trees in the background.

Wasima Khan is a Pakistani-Dutch writer, poet, and jurist from The Hague, the Netherlands. She won the 2025 Willow Springs Surrealist Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in About Place Journal, Fourteen Hills, Sky Island Journal, Santa Fe Literary Review, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere. Her flash fiction, As If Nothing Is Burning, appears in Issue #23.

Tell us about yourself.

I am a daughter of Pakistani migrants, born and raised in The Hague, a small coastal city in the Netherlands. Here, I find solace in gazing out at the sea, imagining what lies beyond the horizon. Yet growing up as part of an ethnic minority in this country hasn’t always been easy. 

Before turning to creative writing, I studied law and earned two Master’s degrees. That academic achievement did not spare me from explicit Islamophobia while working as a law lecturer. Later, as a legislative lawyer drafting laws for the Dutch government, I saw policy being shaped by anti-immigrant politics and exclusionary assumptions. When I entered journalism in the autumn of 2023, I became disillusioned with the – sometimes conscious, sometimes unconscious – white supremacist undercurrents in Western reporting on Palestine. Even my own work on the occupation and settlements in the West Bank was partially filtered and censored to avoid unsettling certain audiences. Ultimately, that was something I could not accept.

In fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry, I can tell my own stories, in my own way. Through them, I can seek to offer a deeper understanding than the one I encountered in my own life.

What compelled you to write the story appearing in this issue?

I wrote this piece to highlight the often-unnoticed privilege of everyday safety in the West, set against the backdrop of genocidal violence elsewhere. It is also an attempt to show that, ultimately, we always have a choice in how we use that privilege.

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the revision process or the final version of it?

While writing the story, I found it became a personal exercise in empathy. I do not fully agree with the protagonist, and I actually identify more with their more proactive friend, Amal. Still, I can understand the protagonist’s way of life; one that is, in fact, shared by many in the real world.

I deliberately chose to write the story in the second-person point of view. It’s a perspective rarely used in fiction, and it can be tricky, but here it served the story I wanted to tell. I avoided the first-person point of view because I didn’t want the piece to be mistaken for non-fiction, while the third person felt too distant. Instead, I wanted to slip directly into the reader’s mind. 

At what point in your life did you begin writing and working on fiction?

I’ve been writing for as long as I could hold a pen, though not always creatively. With a background in law, I previously authored award-winning essays on human rights and even compiled a law dictionary. Despite these accomplishments, I only began to call myself a writer – and a poet – last year. In 2025, I finally turned to fiction, driven by a desire to tell stories that not only engage the mind, but, I hope, also move the heart.

It helps that I came to fiction later in life. I bring with me a wealth of lived experience and a deeper understanding of people, which I can now weave into my work. 

You mention being a poet. Tell us about that or other genres that interest you.

I write poems, primarily in free verse. Poetry is the perfect form for exploring minimalism, ambiguity, and the beauty of language. Surrealist poetry, in particular, holds a special place in my heart for the way it allows me to unleash my imagination to the fullest. It takes me back to my childhood, when I would daydream about distant journeys and other worlds.

I also write creative non-fiction. I haven’t let go of my love for essays, but now I reflect on and share my own lived experiences. I have a personal piece forthcoming in Redivider, transatlantic in scope, which explores the impact of 9/11 on both my life and Muslim communities in the Netherlands and the United States. 

When or why did you decide to start publishing your work?

Last year, I made my creative writing debut with the politically charged poem “The Document” in About Place Journal.

As someone with Pakistani roots, I belong to an ethnic minority in the West, which is why I see representation as essential. I view publishing as an opportunity to amplify underrepresented voices. In doing so, I hope to help broaden and enrich the literary canon. I’m deeply appreciative of the work The Good Life Review is doing in a similar vein, helping to foster an inclusive literary community.

What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)?

Writing is a powerful way to cultivate empathy and understanding. It allows me to step into other people’s lives and worlds, and I hope to bring readers along on that journey. 

At the same time, it is a way for me to reclaim agency over my own life and experiences. Too often, I have been confronted with Western biases – simplistic narratives about me, Muslim women, or Muslims more broadly – stories in which I barely recognize myself. In my own work, I aim to foreground nuance and emotional complexity as a way of challenging those assumptions.

I also don’t take the ability to read and write for granted. My mother is illiterate; growing up, she didn’t have the same opportunities I did to pursue an education, let alone attend university. For me, reading and writing are a way of honoring the sacrifices she made so that I could have a better life.

What have been the biggest influences in your writing?

There are literary icons I deeply admire, and it is no coincidence that many of them are Black writers such as Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde, James Baldwin and Ta-Nehisi Coates. They have shown me how powerful it is to remain faithful to one’s own perspective and vision, even when it is marginalized by patriarchal structures or a white-centered majority. They continue to inspire me and remind me of the importance of sharing underrepresented perspectives and ways of seeing the world.

In the Netherlands, we are still far from where we need to be in terms of literary diversity, equity, and inclusion. In the American literary community, my voice has so far been more readily received, which has, in turn, inspired me to begin writing transatlantic pieces. I look forward to continuing to contribute my transatlantic perspective.

Are there any special projects, favorite pieces, or books you’d like to promote?

I’m proud of two award-winning pieces I wrote over the past year. My poem “Stranger Fruits Grew Here” won the 2025 Willow Springs Surrealist Poetry Prize, and my flash fiction piece “Leaving” received first place in the 2026 Blue Frog Flash Fiction Prize. You never quite know how or whether your writing will resonate, so the judges’ positive feedback was both humbling and reassuring. It has certainly encouraged me to continue chasing writerly excellence. Both pieces, along with other work, can be found on my website: www.wasimakhan.com 

What do you think when you hear, “the good life?”

Being yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else. That is the greatest accomplishment, as Ralph Waldo Emerson would say.



Thank you, Wasima, for trusting us with your story, for sharing your poem (which is fabulous!), and for taking on tough issues! We appreciate your time and participation in this Q&A, and we wish you the best with writing and all life’s endeavors!

An illustration of a honey bee in orange and yellow watercolor style on a black circular background.
Categories
micro monday poetry

Love Fish to Wander by Jack Phillips


Love Fish to Wander (footnoted one-line haiku)  | Jack Phillips


Pisces1 loves the night to wander2 and my soul3 the whole fish.4

A poetic text exploring themes of Pisces symbolism, celestial connections, and the essence of love through astrological imagery.
Artistic watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
Side profile of a man with curly hair and a beard, wearing a blue headband and jacket, surrounded by a natural landscape with fallen leaves.

Jack Phillips is a naturalist, poet, nature writer, and founder of The Naturalist School, a nonprofit organization devoted to wild creativity and poetics of place. He is a Pushcart nominee, a poetry editor for Magpie Zine, and his poetry has appeared in The Dewdrop, Amethyst Review, Wild Roof Journal, Canary, EcoTheo Review, and others. He lives in the Missouri-Kicakatuus watershed and teaches ecopsychology at Creighton University School of Medicine. 

Categories
announcements

Discover all the magic TGLR’s Spring 2026 Issue Has to Offer

April 11, 2026

Close-up of white magnolia flowers on a branch against a soft background, featuring the title 'thegoodlife review' and issue information for Spring 2026.



Dear Lit Mag Enthusiasts and Tulip Festival Afficionados,

Welcome to spring and the latest edition of TGLR. Yes, friends, today is the day… The big reveal of Issue #23!! Winter here in Nebraska was uncharacteristically warm and mostly void of snow, but the return of spring has brought the rain and with it, a refreshing drenching of new work by talented writers and artists we matched with via our reading platform. We love all these pieces, and think you will too!!

We’re excited to feature poems by Svetlana Litvinchuk, I Echo, Kenton K. Yee, JC Talamantez, and Steve Minnich, and a spoken poem by Angela Meredith.

In short creative nonfiction, we have essays by Annie Rachele Lanzillotto, Dylan Streb, and Olivia London, and for shorter work, we’ve got flash essays by Ayoung Kim and repeat contributor, Ginger Tolman.

Flash fiction features pieces by Wasima Khan, Mary Ellen Gabriel, Christy Hartman, and Christopher R.A. Adams, and longer fiction by R.K.B. and Shayna Brown. All are worth taking the time to read and enjoy!

Of course, the issue would not be complete without artwork. The cover of the issue is a photograph by Siying (Rella) Wang, and the writing is complemented with pieces by Cynthia Yatchman, David Capps, Antonio Garcia III, Tendai Rinos Mwanaka, and Ayush Pradhan. More about each artist and their work is available on the Issue 23 Art page. 

With that, we are delighted to release Issue #23 ~ Spring 2026 for your reading and viewing pleasure.

As always, thank you for supporting independent journals and believing in the arts!

Cheers to Slow Sunrises and Birdsong,
~Shyla and The Good Life Review Team

Issue #23 Editorial Team: M.A. Boswell, Ashley Espinoza, Tana Buoy, Patrick O’Dell, Carina Faz, Amy Crawford, Lea Pounds, Annie Barker, Erin Challenor, Jill Veltkamp, Cid Galicia, Terry Belew, Michelle Pierce Battle, Cat Dixon, Stepha Vesper, Tacheny Perry, and Shyla Shehan

Issue #23 Readers: Jamie Wendt, Toni Allen, Zach Vesper, Julie Johanning, Brittany Turek, Miranda Jansen, Madeline Torbenson, Mitra Vajjala, Julia Sample, Ashley DeVrieze, Christine Nessler, Allison Weiler, Aida Eure-Chooran, Susan Loveland, and interns Madi Palmer and Cody Murphy.

A watercolor illustration of a bee in shades of yellow and orange on a dark background.
Categories
micro monday poetry

Witch’s Butter by Clif Mason

Witch’s Butter | Clif Mason

Yellow brain fungus curls & coils
on wind-toppled, black-dappled,
decaying white birch boles. Look closer.
These luscious, translucent lemon
pudding folds do not feast on the tree itself,
but slowly consume the mycelium
of the rosy crust fungus
directly engorging the rotting birch.
Quiet fête: What eats is eaten in return.

Artistic watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
Portrait of a man with glasses and a beard, wearing a dark suit jacket over a black and white striped shirt, smiling against a light gray background.

Clif Mason is the author of two full-length poetry collections, AS JAGUARS DREAMED ON THE EARTH’S DARK FACE (a magical realist novel in verse, Cathexis Northwest Press) and KNOCKING THE STARS SENSELESS (Stephen F. Austin State University Press), as well as three chapbooks. His work has appeared in Rattle, Southern Poetry Review, The Classical Outlook, Poet Lore, and Orbis International Literary Journal (UK), among many others.

Categories
announcements

Free Subs for our Summer 2026 Issue

Free subs through the end of March for BIPOC.

Promotional graphic announcing free subscriptions for a summer issue, specifically for Black, Indigenous, and other people of color, available until March 31st or until 75 subscriptions are reached.
(Click to access the magic portal)

Guidelines are available on our submission page and the form to send work is available on Submittable (be sure to select the fee-free option, unless you want to give us moneys, which is OK too).

This opportunity will end on March 31st or when we reach 75 submissions, whichever comes first.

A vibrant promotional graphic announcing free submissions, celebrating spring and summer, with a background that evokes a creative atmosphere.

As a reminder, we nominate for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best New Poets, Pen America Awards, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and… We are a paying market! ($60 per piece published in the seasonal issue, $25 per piece published in Micro Monday.

Your work will be handled with care and read by at least two (typically three or more) members of our editorial team.

A watercolor illustration of a bee in shades of yellow and orange on a dark background.
Categories
micro monday poetry

The Softness I Owe by Joemario Umana

The Softness I Owe | Joemario Umana

—after Michael Imossan

Because, Michael, when you said you must gift all your tenderness
to the women who planted flowers in your body, I understood.
Because I carry, too, the debt of tenderness to the women in my life.
Unlike you, every man I’ve known has lingered,
bone-deep in presence. They handed down what time had taught
them, and time, through them, keeps teaching.
But where they tried molding a wall, where they tried turning me
into the opposite of tender, the women made me
a garden. Where they taught me to shut the door, flowers
pressed through the hinges, bloomed and held it wide open.
Look, I know how to hold a butterfly and not tear its wings.
I know how to water a flower without drowning it. I know how
to cradle ache and not mistake it for the end. Once,
I almost lost it, my hands curled into the shape
of a tangerine, to summon red out of a man
who called me fruity and laughed. But softness arrived
on time and rescued me, my anger peeled back
into fingers. Not everything needs to be responded
with violence. This, I know, because now, my rage smells
like lavender when it comes. I owe this to the women,
to the supple beings of nature, this softness of mine.
Look at me, velvet as nature. Look at me, not hardened
but held.

Artistic watercolor illustration of a bee on a black circular background.
About the Author:
A young man with short hair, wearing a blue and white checkered shirt, poses against a backdrop of vertical wooden sticks.

Joemario Umana, Swan XVII, is a Nigerian creative writer and performance poet who considers himself a wildflower. A Fellow of the SprinNG Writing Fellowship (2023), he is the co-winner of the Folorunsho Editor Poetry Prize (2025) and the second-place winner of the Rhonda Gail Williford Poetry Prize (2025). He made it into the finalist pool of the Brooklyn Poets Fellowship (2026). He tweets @JoemarioU38615